FIC: The Hired Man, PG-13 -- Wesley, Cordelia
Title: The Hired Man
Rating: PG-13
Description: You know that scene in AtS S3, after Wesley did that thing that caused all the problems, and then Cordelia went and talked to him about what the hell he was thinking? Don't strain yourself, there wasn't one. Honk if you think there should have been.
Wordcount: 3,990
Timeframe: Season 3, set between "Double or Nothing" and "The Price"; after Cordelia gets back from Mexico.
Written for: winter_of_wes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm not actually sure Wesley was capable of this much speech at this point in canon, but I trust he would have been if they needed him to. (I fanwank, therefore I am).
Thanks to versaphile for graphics, inlovewithnight for a readover, and Robert Frost for the title.
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”
“I should have called it, something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
-Robert Frost, "Death of the Hired Man
Wesley hadn't answered his phone the first thirty-seven times Cordelia tried and now he wasn't answering his door. She thought about getting his landlord. She thought about calling 9-1-1. She contemplated lockpicks and battering rams, and meanwhile she kept up a steady banging. "Wesley." Bang bang. "It's me." Bang bang. And, though she shouldn't have had to say it, "Cordelia. Open the hell -"
The door jerked open, and she shook her fist at thin air. Wesley stood back from the door and kept his head down, face in the shadows. "Did you come here -" His voice came out in a low rumble. He had to cough before repeating, "Did you come to berate me or to threaten my life?"
"I came here to bring you a present." Cordelia pushed past him, shoving a large object into his hand. "And what the hell is berate?"
"And, you just answered my question." His voice still growled, and belatedly Cordelia realized the obvious. He wasn't trying to sound angry at her; it was just that whatever that bitch had done to him, she had fucked up his throat so he could barely talk. But he rasped out, "Thank you," making it almost a question, and took the offered gift. He raised his eyes, finally, showing dark circles and several days' growth of beard. In the dim room, the bandage at his neck formed a distinct patch of white. He looked at the thing in his hand, and his mouth curled into a frown as he said, "What the bloody hell is this?"
"It's a frog playing the banjo." Cordelia lowered herself onto the arm of his couch, half-settling there, as though she anticipated an invitation that she knew he might not give. He turned the ten-inch figure gingerly upright. "It's a real frog. Or - it used to be. Before they freeze-dried or stuffed it or whatever."
"Yes," he said cautiously. "I see that only -" Squinting at her, "Is it meant to have some mystical property?"
"Groo picked it out."
"Ahh." Wesley set it on the coffee table and cracked his knuckles in front of him. "That explains it all, then."
"He said, and I quote -" She heard herself, without intending it, slip into the Groosalugg's overly formal cadences. "'It is tall and handsome. Very much like Wesley.'" Wes gave the thing a suspicious glare, not quite sure if he was being mocked, and Cordelia rose to her new boyfriend's defense, "Well, in Pylea, green skin is considered - you know, attractive."
"Do I --?" Wesley looked down at the back of his hand, then shook his head. "Never mind."
While he was distracted by the hideous souvenir, Cordelia slipped down onto the seat of the couch. Wesley looked at her, and she thought he almost smiled. "Come in," he said. "Sit down. Would you like -" He raised a hand to his throat. "Well, I need a glass of water, anyway."
She raised her fingers in a V to signal "two." As Wesley moved to the kitchen, she called after him, "I actually bought you a ceremonial dagger from the Mayan pyramids at Chichen Itza. It just seemed like poor taste, considering your circumstances."
Wesley froze with his hand on the faucet, and she caught a slight tremble in his voice. "What do you know about my circumstances?"
"Just what Fr -- what everybody told me."
"And that would be --?" Wesley walked toward her, holding out one glass, lifting the other to his dry lips. Cordelia saw him wince in pain as he swallowed.
"The Readers' Digest edition? There was a prophecy, you were worried Angel would hurt the baby. You took him away without telling anyone, some girl who worked for Holtz attacked you, and Holtz ended up taking Connor through a portal."
Wesley nodded, drank the rest of his water, and sat across from her, but showed no inclination to speak.
"Well?" she prompted. "Waiting for your version?"
"Ahh. Yes. Well . There was a prophecy. I was worried Angel would hurt the baby. I took him away without telling anyone, I was -" He swallowed. "Attacked, and Holtz ended up taking Connor through a portal."
Silence fell again. "And then Angel -" Cordelia began hesitantly.
"Yes." Now Wesley turned his eyes away. "And then Angel."
The look on Wesley's face gave Cordelia all the confirmation she needed. Angel wouldn't talk about Wesley at all, and Gunn was hardly better. Cordelia had been clinging to the slender hope that Fred's sincere but occasionally hysterical report of events at the hospital had been exaggerated. Apparently not. "Well," she breathed in deeply. "You and Angel both left one part out of your story."
Wes looked up in surprise. "What?"
"You know the part where they uninvented the telephone?" She got to her feet, her body agitated with nervous energy as she fought for control of her words. "Here we are, supposed to be the oldest and best friends of everybody, supposed to be this -" She turned on her heel and glared at him - "Family. And I'm a few hours away in Mexico, all right, but neither one of you wanted to interrupt my freaking vacation?"
He let out a sharp gasp of laughter, a strangled desperate sound she had never heard from him before.
"This is funny? Remember how I'm vision girl -" She looked at the ceiling. "And, hey, thanks, powers for helping out with this one, as in, not." Turning back to Wes, she said, "Suddenly I'm the fragile little honeymooner who can't be interrupted by either of my best friends?"
"Is that what you think? That I worried about your vacation?" He shook his head, buried his face in his hands, and murmured, "Cordelia." Then he raised his eyes. "I couldn't have been happier that you were gone. I had to do this thing alone. Do you know how much harder that would have been with you here?"
Cordelia felt a sick feeling rising in her throat. "Wesley," she said. "Fred and Gunn are one thing. But you're saying you would have left me out of this?"
"I couldn't exactly include you, could I?" He touched his neck again and she could see the pain, but the need to speak overcame it. "If you had to choose between me and Angel -- how could I know you'd choose me?"
"Choose between?" Cordelia repeated. "What's this 'between' crap? This was something we should have all worked out together. Remember how pissed off you were at Gunn when his old gang went all Dirty Harry? You got all rant-y about how we need to trust each other instead of going it alone. Well, you were right, but it applies to you too."
"This was different."
"Because it was you?"
"Because - a Watcher knows, at some point in his life, he may be forced to make a difficult decision that others -"
"I don't believe it!" she cut in. "You really do think you're better than the rest of us."
"I didn't say I am, but my training -"
"Your training?" Cordelia stopped mid-pace, put a hand on one hip and stared at him. "So you're more qualified to make a decision than Gunn is, because he only fought vampires since he was in diapers, and you went to school for twenty years and read about them."
He drew in a sharp breath, and Cordelia knew she'd hit a mark. Something he probably hadn't even realized. And oh, Cordy, it's so comforting to be right isn't it? That much easier to kick a guy while he's down. But Cordelia didn't have it in her to apologize for telling the truth.
"I believed the bloody prophecy," he finally said, quietly. "I didn't know if I'd be dealing with Angelus or - I just didn't know. I had to plan for a worst-case scenario."
"Worst-case scenario?" she repeated. "And that would be - what? Some bitch mutilates you, Angel goes homicidal, and Connor's in a hell dimension with our archenemy? That kind of worst-case?"
The uncanny laughter bubbled up in him again, a sound that made her wish he would scream instead. When Wesley finally spoke, his voice moved in a familiar rhythm that told her he was quoting something she had never heard of. "The worst is not," he recited, "So long as we can say 'This is the worst.'"
"Can you speak English?"
"It's Shakespeare," he replied, in a withering tone, so very old-school know-it-all Wesley that Cordelia's response came as instinct.
"Speak American, then. Just don't make me have to go home and Google this conversation to find out what it means."
Wesley started to snap back; then their eyes locked, his response froze on his lips, and they both started to laugh -- The laughter of relief, and this time Wesley wasn't scaring her.
"All right." She sat on the sofa again, crossed her legs, and picked up the glass of water. "Now we've just got to figure out how to fix this. I know, I should have been to see you before, but as soon as I got back it was complete chaos, what with Gunn selling his soul to a bookie, and Fred having a Lonelyhearts freakout - " Wesley's head snapped up and Cordelia hastily said, "Gunn's fine. We won his soul back or - we stole it, I'm still kind of confused -"
"They broke up? Fred and Gunn?"
Cordelia's hand tightened on the tumbler, her arm began to tremble, and, before she even realized she was angry, the glass flew across the room and shattered against the opposite wall. "Will you get your head out of your ass? Or Fred's ass? Or whatever part of her anatomy you've decided to insert it in, and focus?"
His head pivoted to watch water spread over the blue wallpaper, then turned slowly back to her. "What?" he said softly.
"Focus!" She wondered which one of them was going nuts.
"On - what?" he repeated. "Cordelia -" He rose slowly to his feet and turned his back to her. "You really don't understand what's happening here. There's nothing to fix."
"Nothing?" she answered, and, the heat of the moment cancelled out her earlier reluctance to say the vampire's name. "Wes, you just told me Angel tried to kill you."
"Yes!" He whirled on her. "His son is gone, and in the hands of an enemy, and whatever my intentions may have been, it was my fault. This is not something you can fix with a simple application of schoolgirl pep and American can-do spirit or -" He started to choke on his own words again. Cordelia instinctively moved toward him, and he raised an arm to block her approach. "It's over."
"Wesley -" She breathed in deeply. "I'm not gonna lie. When I heard about this, I was angry at you too. I -" Meeting his eyes. "Still am. It's going to take me a while to get over it. But I know you were trying to help." She moved closer as she spoke. "And eventually, Angel -"
"That's nice toilet water you're wearing," he interrupted.
"What?" she demanded.
"Cologne. Perfume. Whatever. Very - powerful."
She lifted her arm to sniff. "I guess," she said, doubtfully.
He moved away again. "You planning to bathe in it?"
"I'm sticking with water for now." She rolled her eyes. "Wes? Focus?"
"Oh, please, Cordelia, like I don't know the game. Back when Angel took to announcing to the entire staff that he could use his vampire senses to smell my entire sex life? I was close to Angel, of course, but a man likes a little privacy. I did some experiments. Scents, herbs, et cetera." He shook his head. "I have a flask in the back that I can give you, this time, but do you honestly think you can keep coming here without Angel knowing?"
"I'll let him know, then. He can deal."
"No! You won't. Angel needs trust the people around him implicitly. There cannot be any question of divided loyalties, now more than ever."
"He trusted you."
"And I buggered that to hell. That's exactly why he needs to believe -- needs someone to be there and -" Wesley's voice caught, and he looked away. "He can't have any doubts about the people around him. You have to choose one of us, Cordelia, and I don't even want it to be me."
"I don't accept that."
"I'm not giving you a choice. I don't want you here."
"But Wesley - I am here." Cordelia heard a plea in her own voice. She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't for him to push her away. People just didn’t do that to Cordelia Chase, and when tried, she sure as hell didn't let them.
Slowly, Wesley's chest began to shake. He staggered back, sat down on the sofa, and covered his eyes with his hands. The sobs came out, shuddering and choking him, and Cordelia eased down next to him. "See, I knew -- You don't want to be alone. No one wants to be alone. it's all right." She put an arm over his shoulder and pulled him close, letting him cry against her. "I'm here, Wesley, it's not going to be easy, but - I'm here, and we'll work something out. You know we always do."
He raised his face to show the red streaks of tears.
"I'm here," she repeated.
"Yes," said Wesley, "You are. You are, aren't you?" Wesley raised his hand to the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss.
Cordelia let his lips touch hers, took a moment to register their warmth, then pulled aside. "Wes, I wasn't -"
His hand took her chin and brought her back. "I know." He kissed her again, started to open his mouth over hers.
She turned her head. "Wesley, I'm -" She could taste the tears on his face; she was almost ready to cry herself. "I'm seeing -- "
"Groosalugg. I know." He started to move her shoulder into the back of the couch. Not exactly pushing her, but certainly not respecting personal space. He smelled like tears. Tears and whiskey - strong - why hadn't she noticed that before?
She put a hand on his chest, pushing gently to increase the space between them. "Wesley."
His response was entirely nonverbal, something of a grunt and hands hard on her shoulders, holding her against the back of the couch. He pressed his mouth to hers, again, sucked her lip in between his teeth.
And when she started to make a noise of protest, he bit down, hard.
She slapped his face and scrambled to her feet, knocking his chest with one knee. He fell onto the cushion and lay on his back, looking up at her as though dazed or far away, under glass. His shoulders shook again, this time with that frightening laugh. "God, Cordy, Angel was right. You really are a better fighter since you got some training in."
"What the fuck is going through your head?" She sucked her lip in, trying to see if he'd drawn blood. She tasted salt, but it must have been the tears.
"What indeed?" He folded his hands behind his head, and the hollow laugh echoed through the room. "Funny you should ask. Right before you came here, I was thinking about this thing that happened when I was doing that -" His hand rose to his throat again. A flash of pain come over his face, was just as quickly gone. "That rogue nonsense. I was on the road in Reno, Nevada, in a thoroughly disreputable nightclub of some sort -- Ah yes." He raised hands in the air as though spelling out the words of a sign. "Kiki's Cactus Saloon. I was there in Madame Kiki's and got the notion in my head, as men will, that I would like to have some company. Of the female persuasion. Some girl who would just lie down with me and let me pretend it meant something."
"Just lie down with you?" Cordelia crossed her arms and rocked back on her feet.
"Yes, and by 'lie down,' of course I mean, 'fuck.' Forgive my attempt at euphemism. It doesn't really suit the moment."
"Does this come to a point that has to do with your little fit of vampire envy?"
"I had a little bit of money. Not a lot, but I'd just done a job, and I had cash in hand. Thought I'd spoil myself. I had a motorcycle, I felt good. And there were girls in this place, obviously working. I saw them go with men - old, ugly, scary looking men. And it's not as though the girls were exceptionally attractive, but I'd had a bit to drink. It seemed like a way to spend an evening. But every time I talked to one of these women, they acted as if they didn't know what I was on about. I showed them cash, way more than I should have, because I was an idiot. And it was like I had the fucking plague. No idea what was going on. Finally, one of these young ladies had the good grace - I believe her name was - Candy? Taffy? -- definitely some sort of product made with sugar. She took me aside and she clued me in -"
Cordelia drummed her fingers on her arm as he spoke, wondering what the hell he was getting at, if he was losing his mind. "They thought you were a cop?"
"They thought I was dangerous. Miss - Tawny? Is that a food? She told me - " Wesley put what he might have meant to be an approximation of a New York accent. "'Guy looks like you, needs to pay too much money for it? Whatever he wants, it's not good news.'" He let out a raspy laugh. "The girls were taking bets on if I was a serial killer. And, considering the amount of artillery I had strapped to the back of that bike, it would have been a little hard to argue." He sat up and looked at her, as though this proved something.
"Wow, Wes, that was a great story. What the fuck is going through your head?"
"I'm answering. Have some patience. Just as you got here, I was contemplating." He raised a hand to the white bandage on his throat. "How does a man with a large, unsightly knife wound on his neck goes about hiring a whore? On the one hand, you might think it would make me look dangerous, but then if my friend Taffy is to be believed - at least there's a plausible explanation for why I'd need to pay." He raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?"
She put a hand to her forehead and said, quietly, "Wes." Anger surged through her body; she almost lost control of whatever muscles were letting her stand upright. She didn't entirely trust herself to say more.
"Do you know any good whores? I understand it's the usual fallback for unsuccessful actresses. Of course - if you do want to stay around, you might save me the trouble of looking." His eyes flickered coolly up and down her. "Save a little money, too. As I've recently lost my job, and I have an unholy bitch of a medical bill."
"Wesley." She breathed deeply. "I know what you're doing. You're just trying to piss me off so that I'll leave."
Wesley swallowed and another coughing fit seized him. He lifted the empty glass to his mouth, then took it away and turned it upside down. He finally rasped, "Is it working?" His voice carried a faint tremor, and Cordelia didn't know if she wanted to hug him or kick him or vomit or cry. So instead she walked forward, snatched the glass out of his hand, and went to the kitchen. "Ice?" she called.
"No thank you."
"Do you have some pain pills or something?"
"Over the sink."
She brought the prescription bottle and a glass of lukewarm water, and watched him drop two pills into his hand.
"You're taking those according to doctor's orders, right? Not, I don't know, washing them down with a quart of Bushmills."
"Of course not." He swallowed the capsules with water and wiped his mouth. "I'm strictly a Scotch man. Never touch Irish whiskey." She sighed. He set down the glass. "I'll be all right. But Cordelia, as I think you've seen. There's only one kind of comfort I can take from another human being right now, and I don't imagine you want to give it. Believe me," he said quickly, "It's all right. But you can do a helluva lot more good to Angel." Her eyes flew to him, and he said hastily, "I mean. Being a friend. Listening. Proving he can trust you. All the things I don't -- can't -"
She reached out to take his hand and squeeze his palm in hers. "You must feel -"
"No." He pulled his hand away. "You can't think that way. Angel's are the only feelings you care about now."
"Wes --"
"I'm serious," he said. "For once in your bloody life, listen to me. He needs you. He can't afford divided loyalties. So do me one favor. If anybody - say, I don’t know, that cute little girl from Texas, or the man she didn't break up with - asks you. You'll tell them the same thing."
She stood up and sighed.
"Cordelia?"
"Whatever you say."
He gave a weak smile in return. "For once."
"And what's next for Wesley?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I've been playing with the idea of going home."
Cordelia looked at him in surprise. "Where's that?"
When he laughed, now, there was almost a smile in it, and he spoke in the quoting voice again. "The place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. See also, the thing you don't have to deserve." Cordelia stared and he added, "See Frost, comma, Robert. American poet. 'Death of the Hired Man.' To save your googling fingers.'"
"Ahh," she said quietly. "But do they? I mean, your people back in England. Do they have to take you in?"
"My family? The Council? I don't know," he admitted. "I doubt they'll throw me a parade but if I go back and cry, 'the vampire tried to kill me, the way you always said he would.' Well, then, they'll probably let me work quietly in the archive until I'm old enough to put out to pasture. I might have to wear a sign that says 'Roger Wyndam-Pryce's Idiot Son,' but -"
"You're not going back," said Cordelia.
"Hell no. I'll take my chances with homicidal vampires." To her look of alarm, he said. "If I stay out of Angel's way, I think I'll be - as safe as a rogue demon hunter can reasonaby expect."
"So it's back to that?"
"There's enough wicked fighting to go around in this town. I always wanted to run my own outfit. Now I may actually have a shot at knowing what I'm doing." He raised his eyes to her. "I'll make it. And you'll take care of Angel. You still have your mission. Don't give up on that just because I fucked up."
"My mission," she repeated. The word sounded hollow. "Now I have a mission. We used to have a family."
"No," he answered softly. "We were never a family. That was just something you and I made up, because we didn't like the ones we came from. I was just the hired man." He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, which brushed warm on her skin. "Now get out of here, Cordelia Chase. And go take care of your mission."
END
Rating: PG-13
Description: You know that scene in AtS S3, after Wesley did that thing that caused all the problems, and then Cordelia went and talked to him about what the hell he was thinking? Don't strain yourself, there wasn't one. Honk if you think there should have been.
Wordcount: 3,990
Timeframe: Season 3, set between "Double or Nothing" and "The Price"; after Cordelia gets back from Mexico.
Written for: winter_of_wes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm not actually sure Wesley was capable of this much speech at this point in canon, but I trust he would have been if they needed him to. (I fanwank, therefore I am).
Thanks to versaphile for graphics, inlovewithnight for a readover, and Robert Frost for the title.
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”
“I should have called it, something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
-Robert Frost, "Death of the Hired Man
Wesley hadn't answered his phone the first thirty-seven times Cordelia tried and now he wasn't answering his door. She thought about getting his landlord. She thought about calling 9-1-1. She contemplated lockpicks and battering rams, and meanwhile she kept up a steady banging. "Wesley." Bang bang. "It's me." Bang bang. And, though she shouldn't have had to say it, "Cordelia. Open the hell -"
The door jerked open, and she shook her fist at thin air. Wesley stood back from the door and kept his head down, face in the shadows. "Did you come here -" His voice came out in a low rumble. He had to cough before repeating, "Did you come to berate me or to threaten my life?"
"I came here to bring you a present." Cordelia pushed past him, shoving a large object into his hand. "And what the hell is berate?"
"And, you just answered my question." His voice still growled, and belatedly Cordelia realized the obvious. He wasn't trying to sound angry at her; it was just that whatever that bitch had done to him, she had fucked up his throat so he could barely talk. But he rasped out, "Thank you," making it almost a question, and took the offered gift. He raised his eyes, finally, showing dark circles and several days' growth of beard. In the dim room, the bandage at his neck formed a distinct patch of white. He looked at the thing in his hand, and his mouth curled into a frown as he said, "What the bloody hell is this?"
"It's a frog playing the banjo." Cordelia lowered herself onto the arm of his couch, half-settling there, as though she anticipated an invitation that she knew he might not give. He turned the ten-inch figure gingerly upright. "It's a real frog. Or - it used to be. Before they freeze-dried or stuffed it or whatever."
"Yes," he said cautiously. "I see that only -" Squinting at her, "Is it meant to have some mystical property?"
"Groo picked it out."
"Ahh." Wesley set it on the coffee table and cracked his knuckles in front of him. "That explains it all, then."
"He said, and I quote -" She heard herself, without intending it, slip into the Groosalugg's overly formal cadences. "'It is tall and handsome. Very much like Wesley.'" Wes gave the thing a suspicious glare, not quite sure if he was being mocked, and Cordelia rose to her new boyfriend's defense, "Well, in Pylea, green skin is considered - you know, attractive."
"Do I --?" Wesley looked down at the back of his hand, then shook his head. "Never mind."
While he was distracted by the hideous souvenir, Cordelia slipped down onto the seat of the couch. Wesley looked at her, and she thought he almost smiled. "Come in," he said. "Sit down. Would you like -" He raised a hand to his throat. "Well, I need a glass of water, anyway."
She raised her fingers in a V to signal "two." As Wesley moved to the kitchen, she called after him, "I actually bought you a ceremonial dagger from the Mayan pyramids at Chichen Itza. It just seemed like poor taste, considering your circumstances."
Wesley froze with his hand on the faucet, and she caught a slight tremble in his voice. "What do you know about my circumstances?"
"Just what Fr -- what everybody told me."
"And that would be --?" Wesley walked toward her, holding out one glass, lifting the other to his dry lips. Cordelia saw him wince in pain as he swallowed.
"The Readers' Digest edition? There was a prophecy, you were worried Angel would hurt the baby. You took him away without telling anyone, some girl who worked for Holtz attacked you, and Holtz ended up taking Connor through a portal."
Wesley nodded, drank the rest of his water, and sat across from her, but showed no inclination to speak.
"Well?" she prompted. "Waiting for your version?"
"Ahh. Yes. Well . There was a prophecy. I was worried Angel would hurt the baby. I took him away without telling anyone, I was -" He swallowed. "Attacked, and Holtz ended up taking Connor through a portal."
Silence fell again. "And then Angel -" Cordelia began hesitantly.
"Yes." Now Wesley turned his eyes away. "And then Angel."
The look on Wesley's face gave Cordelia all the confirmation she needed. Angel wouldn't talk about Wesley at all, and Gunn was hardly better. Cordelia had been clinging to the slender hope that Fred's sincere but occasionally hysterical report of events at the hospital had been exaggerated. Apparently not. "Well," she breathed in deeply. "You and Angel both left one part out of your story."
Wes looked up in surprise. "What?"
"You know the part where they uninvented the telephone?" She got to her feet, her body agitated with nervous energy as she fought for control of her words. "Here we are, supposed to be the oldest and best friends of everybody, supposed to be this -" She turned on her heel and glared at him - "Family. And I'm a few hours away in Mexico, all right, but neither one of you wanted to interrupt my freaking vacation?"
He let out a sharp gasp of laughter, a strangled desperate sound she had never heard from him before.
"This is funny? Remember how I'm vision girl -" She looked at the ceiling. "And, hey, thanks, powers for helping out with this one, as in, not." Turning back to Wes, she said, "Suddenly I'm the fragile little honeymooner who can't be interrupted by either of my best friends?"
"Is that what you think? That I worried about your vacation?" He shook his head, buried his face in his hands, and murmured, "Cordelia." Then he raised his eyes. "I couldn't have been happier that you were gone. I had to do this thing alone. Do you know how much harder that would have been with you here?"
Cordelia felt a sick feeling rising in her throat. "Wesley," she said. "Fred and Gunn are one thing. But you're saying you would have left me out of this?"
"I couldn't exactly include you, could I?" He touched his neck again and she could see the pain, but the need to speak overcame it. "If you had to choose between me and Angel -- how could I know you'd choose me?"
"Choose between?" Cordelia repeated. "What's this 'between' crap? This was something we should have all worked out together. Remember how pissed off you were at Gunn when his old gang went all Dirty Harry? You got all rant-y about how we need to trust each other instead of going it alone. Well, you were right, but it applies to you too."
"This was different."
"Because it was you?"
"Because - a Watcher knows, at some point in his life, he may be forced to make a difficult decision that others -"
"I don't believe it!" she cut in. "You really do think you're better than the rest of us."
"I didn't say I am, but my training -"
"Your training?" Cordelia stopped mid-pace, put a hand on one hip and stared at him. "So you're more qualified to make a decision than Gunn is, because he only fought vampires since he was in diapers, and you went to school for twenty years and read about them."
He drew in a sharp breath, and Cordelia knew she'd hit a mark. Something he probably hadn't even realized. And oh, Cordy, it's so comforting to be right isn't it? That much easier to kick a guy while he's down. But Cordelia didn't have it in her to apologize for telling the truth.
"I believed the bloody prophecy," he finally said, quietly. "I didn't know if I'd be dealing with Angelus or - I just didn't know. I had to plan for a worst-case scenario."
"Worst-case scenario?" she repeated. "And that would be - what? Some bitch mutilates you, Angel goes homicidal, and Connor's in a hell dimension with our archenemy? That kind of worst-case?"
The uncanny laughter bubbled up in him again, a sound that made her wish he would scream instead. When Wesley finally spoke, his voice moved in a familiar rhythm that told her he was quoting something she had never heard of. "The worst is not," he recited, "So long as we can say 'This is the worst.'"
"Can you speak English?"
"It's Shakespeare," he replied, in a withering tone, so very old-school know-it-all Wesley that Cordelia's response came as instinct.
"Speak American, then. Just don't make me have to go home and Google this conversation to find out what it means."
Wesley started to snap back; then their eyes locked, his response froze on his lips, and they both started to laugh -- The laughter of relief, and this time Wesley wasn't scaring her.
"All right." She sat on the sofa again, crossed her legs, and picked up the glass of water. "Now we've just got to figure out how to fix this. I know, I should have been to see you before, but as soon as I got back it was complete chaos, what with Gunn selling his soul to a bookie, and Fred having a Lonelyhearts freakout - " Wesley's head snapped up and Cordelia hastily said, "Gunn's fine. We won his soul back or - we stole it, I'm still kind of confused -"
"They broke up? Fred and Gunn?"
Cordelia's hand tightened on the tumbler, her arm began to tremble, and, before she even realized she was angry, the glass flew across the room and shattered against the opposite wall. "Will you get your head out of your ass? Or Fred's ass? Or whatever part of her anatomy you've decided to insert it in, and focus?"
His head pivoted to watch water spread over the blue wallpaper, then turned slowly back to her. "What?" he said softly.
"Focus!" She wondered which one of them was going nuts.
"On - what?" he repeated. "Cordelia -" He rose slowly to his feet and turned his back to her. "You really don't understand what's happening here. There's nothing to fix."
"Nothing?" she answered, and, the heat of the moment cancelled out her earlier reluctance to say the vampire's name. "Wes, you just told me Angel tried to kill you."
"Yes!" He whirled on her. "His son is gone, and in the hands of an enemy, and whatever my intentions may have been, it was my fault. This is not something you can fix with a simple application of schoolgirl pep and American can-do spirit or -" He started to choke on his own words again. Cordelia instinctively moved toward him, and he raised an arm to block her approach. "It's over."
"Wesley -" She breathed in deeply. "I'm not gonna lie. When I heard about this, I was angry at you too. I -" Meeting his eyes. "Still am. It's going to take me a while to get over it. But I know you were trying to help." She moved closer as she spoke. "And eventually, Angel -"
"That's nice toilet water you're wearing," he interrupted.
"What?" she demanded.
"Cologne. Perfume. Whatever. Very - powerful."
She lifted her arm to sniff. "I guess," she said, doubtfully.
He moved away again. "You planning to bathe in it?"
"I'm sticking with water for now." She rolled her eyes. "Wes? Focus?"
"Oh, please, Cordelia, like I don't know the game. Back when Angel took to announcing to the entire staff that he could use his vampire senses to smell my entire sex life? I was close to Angel, of course, but a man likes a little privacy. I did some experiments. Scents, herbs, et cetera." He shook his head. "I have a flask in the back that I can give you, this time, but do you honestly think you can keep coming here without Angel knowing?"
"I'll let him know, then. He can deal."
"No! You won't. Angel needs trust the people around him implicitly. There cannot be any question of divided loyalties, now more than ever."
"He trusted you."
"And I buggered that to hell. That's exactly why he needs to believe -- needs someone to be there and -" Wesley's voice caught, and he looked away. "He can't have any doubts about the people around him. You have to choose one of us, Cordelia, and I don't even want it to be me."
"I don't accept that."
"I'm not giving you a choice. I don't want you here."
"But Wesley - I am here." Cordelia heard a plea in her own voice. She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't for him to push her away. People just didn’t do that to Cordelia Chase, and when tried, she sure as hell didn't let them.
Slowly, Wesley's chest began to shake. He staggered back, sat down on the sofa, and covered his eyes with his hands. The sobs came out, shuddering and choking him, and Cordelia eased down next to him. "See, I knew -- You don't want to be alone. No one wants to be alone. it's all right." She put an arm over his shoulder and pulled him close, letting him cry against her. "I'm here, Wesley, it's not going to be easy, but - I'm here, and we'll work something out. You know we always do."
He raised his face to show the red streaks of tears.
"I'm here," she repeated.
"Yes," said Wesley, "You are. You are, aren't you?" Wesley raised his hand to the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss.
Cordelia let his lips touch hers, took a moment to register their warmth, then pulled aside. "Wes, I wasn't -"
His hand took her chin and brought her back. "I know." He kissed her again, started to open his mouth over hers.
She turned her head. "Wesley, I'm -" She could taste the tears on his face; she was almost ready to cry herself. "I'm seeing -- "
"Groosalugg. I know." He started to move her shoulder into the back of the couch. Not exactly pushing her, but certainly not respecting personal space. He smelled like tears. Tears and whiskey - strong - why hadn't she noticed that before?
She put a hand on his chest, pushing gently to increase the space between them. "Wesley."
His response was entirely nonverbal, something of a grunt and hands hard on her shoulders, holding her against the back of the couch. He pressed his mouth to hers, again, sucked her lip in between his teeth.
And when she started to make a noise of protest, he bit down, hard.
She slapped his face and scrambled to her feet, knocking his chest with one knee. He fell onto the cushion and lay on his back, looking up at her as though dazed or far away, under glass. His shoulders shook again, this time with that frightening laugh. "God, Cordy, Angel was right. You really are a better fighter since you got some training in."
"What the fuck is going through your head?" She sucked her lip in, trying to see if he'd drawn blood. She tasted salt, but it must have been the tears.
"What indeed?" He folded his hands behind his head, and the hollow laugh echoed through the room. "Funny you should ask. Right before you came here, I was thinking about this thing that happened when I was doing that -" His hand rose to his throat again. A flash of pain come over his face, was just as quickly gone. "That rogue nonsense. I was on the road in Reno, Nevada, in a thoroughly disreputable nightclub of some sort -- Ah yes." He raised hands in the air as though spelling out the words of a sign. "Kiki's Cactus Saloon. I was there in Madame Kiki's and got the notion in my head, as men will, that I would like to have some company. Of the female persuasion. Some girl who would just lie down with me and let me pretend it meant something."
"Just lie down with you?" Cordelia crossed her arms and rocked back on her feet.
"Yes, and by 'lie down,' of course I mean, 'fuck.' Forgive my attempt at euphemism. It doesn't really suit the moment."
"Does this come to a point that has to do with your little fit of vampire envy?"
"I had a little bit of money. Not a lot, but I'd just done a job, and I had cash in hand. Thought I'd spoil myself. I had a motorcycle, I felt good. And there were girls in this place, obviously working. I saw them go with men - old, ugly, scary looking men. And it's not as though the girls were exceptionally attractive, but I'd had a bit to drink. It seemed like a way to spend an evening. But every time I talked to one of these women, they acted as if they didn't know what I was on about. I showed them cash, way more than I should have, because I was an idiot. And it was like I had the fucking plague. No idea what was going on. Finally, one of these young ladies had the good grace - I believe her name was - Candy? Taffy? -- definitely some sort of product made with sugar. She took me aside and she clued me in -"
Cordelia drummed her fingers on her arm as he spoke, wondering what the hell he was getting at, if he was losing his mind. "They thought you were a cop?"
"They thought I was dangerous. Miss - Tawny? Is that a food? She told me - " Wesley put what he might have meant to be an approximation of a New York accent. "'Guy looks like you, needs to pay too much money for it? Whatever he wants, it's not good news.'" He let out a raspy laugh. "The girls were taking bets on if I was a serial killer. And, considering the amount of artillery I had strapped to the back of that bike, it would have been a little hard to argue." He sat up and looked at her, as though this proved something.
"Wow, Wes, that was a great story. What the fuck is going through your head?"
"I'm answering. Have some patience. Just as you got here, I was contemplating." He raised a hand to the white bandage on his throat. "How does a man with a large, unsightly knife wound on his neck goes about hiring a whore? On the one hand, you might think it would make me look dangerous, but then if my friend Taffy is to be believed - at least there's a plausible explanation for why I'd need to pay." He raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?"
She put a hand to her forehead and said, quietly, "Wes." Anger surged through her body; she almost lost control of whatever muscles were letting her stand upright. She didn't entirely trust herself to say more.
"Do you know any good whores? I understand it's the usual fallback for unsuccessful actresses. Of course - if you do want to stay around, you might save me the trouble of looking." His eyes flickered coolly up and down her. "Save a little money, too. As I've recently lost my job, and I have an unholy bitch of a medical bill."
"Wesley." She breathed deeply. "I know what you're doing. You're just trying to piss me off so that I'll leave."
Wesley swallowed and another coughing fit seized him. He lifted the empty glass to his mouth, then took it away and turned it upside down. He finally rasped, "Is it working?" His voice carried a faint tremor, and Cordelia didn't know if she wanted to hug him or kick him or vomit or cry. So instead she walked forward, snatched the glass out of his hand, and went to the kitchen. "Ice?" she called.
"No thank you."
"Do you have some pain pills or something?"
"Over the sink."
She brought the prescription bottle and a glass of lukewarm water, and watched him drop two pills into his hand.
"You're taking those according to doctor's orders, right? Not, I don't know, washing them down with a quart of Bushmills."
"Of course not." He swallowed the capsules with water and wiped his mouth. "I'm strictly a Scotch man. Never touch Irish whiskey." She sighed. He set down the glass. "I'll be all right. But Cordelia, as I think you've seen. There's only one kind of comfort I can take from another human being right now, and I don't imagine you want to give it. Believe me," he said quickly, "It's all right. But you can do a helluva lot more good to Angel." Her eyes flew to him, and he said hastily, "I mean. Being a friend. Listening. Proving he can trust you. All the things I don't -- can't -"
She reached out to take his hand and squeeze his palm in hers. "You must feel -"
"No." He pulled his hand away. "You can't think that way. Angel's are the only feelings you care about now."
"Wes --"
"I'm serious," he said. "For once in your bloody life, listen to me. He needs you. He can't afford divided loyalties. So do me one favor. If anybody - say, I don’t know, that cute little girl from Texas, or the man she didn't break up with - asks you. You'll tell them the same thing."
She stood up and sighed.
"Cordelia?"
"Whatever you say."
He gave a weak smile in return. "For once."
"And what's next for Wesley?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I've been playing with the idea of going home."
Cordelia looked at him in surprise. "Where's that?"
When he laughed, now, there was almost a smile in it, and he spoke in the quoting voice again. "The place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. See also, the thing you don't have to deserve." Cordelia stared and he added, "See Frost, comma, Robert. American poet. 'Death of the Hired Man.' To save your googling fingers.'"
"Ahh," she said quietly. "But do they? I mean, your people back in England. Do they have to take you in?"
"My family? The Council? I don't know," he admitted. "I doubt they'll throw me a parade but if I go back and cry, 'the vampire tried to kill me, the way you always said he would.' Well, then, they'll probably let me work quietly in the archive until I'm old enough to put out to pasture. I might have to wear a sign that says 'Roger Wyndam-Pryce's Idiot Son,' but -"
"You're not going back," said Cordelia.
"Hell no. I'll take my chances with homicidal vampires." To her look of alarm, he said. "If I stay out of Angel's way, I think I'll be - as safe as a rogue demon hunter can reasonaby expect."
"So it's back to that?"
"There's enough wicked fighting to go around in this town. I always wanted to run my own outfit. Now I may actually have a shot at knowing what I'm doing." He raised his eyes to her. "I'll make it. And you'll take care of Angel. You still have your mission. Don't give up on that just because I fucked up."
"My mission," she repeated. The word sounded hollow. "Now I have a mission. We used to have a family."
"No," he answered softly. "We were never a family. That was just something you and I made up, because we didn't like the ones we came from. I was just the hired man." He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, which brushed warm on her skin. "Now get out of here, Cordelia Chase. And go take care of your mission."
END