__The Stolen Season__
Blue Zen
She came to visit him in the hospital, during their
stolen season. She would wait until the ward had
cleared of friends and relatives then make her way
slowly down the green linoleum, her 6 inch heels
tucked under one arm.
He was in a private room, tucked away at the back of
the ward, hidden between a canteen and the gents
toilet.
Just before she made her entrance, she would look
around furtively then dive into the restroom to check
her make-up and slip on her shoes. A few seconds
later, she would enter Wesley's room, smelling of
perfume and hospital soap.
“Cordelia.” His voice was amazing. A real, live
English gentleman. He spoke softly and made her name
sound exactly the way it should: proud, majestic,
beautiful.
She strode to his bedside. “Miss me?” she asked,
smiling as he struggled to free his pyjama sleeve from
the bed's tilting mechanism. Even when clumsy, he was
graceful – now that required breeding.
“Of course.” He was trying not to stare but every
time she walked in that ocean grey door, he couldn't
help himself. Wesley was sure that each visit was a
fluke – that she'd just come out of guilt or vague
concern – and that this time was probably her last.
She sat next to him, on one of the three plastic
chairs that dotted the room. “Giles hasn't been able
to contact the Council.”
He nodded, dumbly. Would she lose all respect for him
if he broke down and admitted that he had spoken with
the Watchers and they'd sent only enough money for his
private hospital room, asking Wesley to find his own
airfare home?
He looked at Cordelia, sitting by his side and,
suddenly, being stranded in America seemed a wonderful
thing. “Well, it's good of Mr Giles to speak on my
behalf but, really, it's not necessary.”
“He sends his…” she was about to say 'love', out of
habit.
Wesley shook his head. “Don't worry about it,
Cordelia. I know I'm something of a figure of fun to
Buffy and, well, Mr Giles. I'm just glad that they
haven't ran me out of town.”
“That's pencilled in for next week.”
It hung in the air for a moment. They both smiled.
He was eight years her senior. At that moment, he
felt like an awkward fifteen year old. “Thank you for
coming,” he commented, then panicked in case she took
that as a dismissal.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, gesturing towards the
plaster cast that was making his wrist itch and sweat.
The embarrassing thing was that all his injuries were
caused by trampling. Wesley was sure that, when the
doctor removed the plaster in six to eight weeks,
there would be a perfect size 10 footprint across his
wrist.
He looked at it. “Not really, they give me something
for the pain.”
“Oh.”
Wesley looked glumly at the clock. Six minutes and
they had lapsed into this uncomfortable silence. He
looked at her, wondered if she was thinking about the
kiss.
She was staring at her nails, hoping that he wasn't
still thinking about that kiss. He was so hung up on
what had happened last time – a time, she kept
reminding herself, that they were both under immense
pressure. So what if he was like a schoolboy in one
respect? She could always teach him.
If he ever made another move.
Could she hear him swallow? He was suddenly aware of
his breathing, of the rustle as he moved beneath the
blankets, of the hospital bracelet that scraped up and
down his free wrist.
“I'd better be going, Giles wants us all in the
library by – ” she stopped herself, checking her
words. “We're meeting at his apartment at seven.”
“Oh.” He didn't mean to sound disappointed.
She brushed an errant hair from her eyes. “I'll see
you soon,” she said, bending to pick up her handbag.
“Cordelia.” It sounded like a different name now. A
different name from a different voice. The English
gentleman was suddenly just a man, a man in pain that
wanted to hear her voice for a few minutes more, to
have her close. His hand, bound by its clumsy cast,
brushed at her hair and gently pulled her head over
his. “I want to stay here, in Sunnydale. I just
wanted to know if there was a place for me… here.”
She was inches from him. He could see the flecks of
green in her eyes, as they scanned his face.
“Wesley…” she started. He looked so worried, like he
was terrified she would tell him that he should move
on or, worse, go back to England. “Just kiss me.”
And he did.
The Stolen Season
by blue zen
Cordelia had lost her umbrella. It must have rolled
under Wesley's bed after her bag fell to the floor.
So, when she entered Giles' apartment, Cordy was
dishevelled and dripping. She stood by the door,
water pooling at her feet. It was half past seven,
according to her battered Gucci watch, the last
remnant of her wealth.
Her hair hung around her face in damp clumps and,
catching a glimpse of herself in the living room
mirror, Cordy noticed that her face was slipping. So
much for cheap make-up, she thought, running up the
stairs to Giles' bathroom.
She was in Giles' bedroom in a few steps. The shower
was running in the bathroom so she turned to leave.
She bumped into him as he fumbled with his robe,
knocking the glasses out of his hands.
As he bent down to retrieve them, Giles squinted up at
her. “Cordelia? We were worried. In fact, Buffy's
probably checking your house at this moment.”
“I was at the hospital,” she said, quietly.
He turned from her, pretending to adjust the tie
around his waist. “So, how is our favourite invalid?”
he said, flippantly.
“Wesley's good.” She remarked, looking around the
older man's bedroom. Dark colours, tasteful
furniture. “He's asked me to look into renting an
apartment.”
“Oh, well, that's…” he turned back, his face
unreadable. “That's nice, Cordelia.”
Her name was back to being regal. She smiled and
ignored the hairs at the back of her neck. “I'd
better get going.”
“Yes, don't let me keep you,” he stated and
disappeared into the bathroom, enveloped by a cloud of
steam.
She nodded to herself, and made her way down the
stairs, picking up her coat and bag and opening the
door. When she was back in the storm, with an
umbrella poached from Giles' coat stand, Cordelia
allowed herself a grin.
Title: The Stolen Season
Author: blue zen (nutter_the_fourth@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Cordelia/Wesley, hints of Cordelia/Giles
Summary: Set after Graduation Day Part 2 (end of
Season Three), Wesley and Cordelia have a brief
interlude. A little angst, a little humour and a
whole summer of Wesley ;).
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Two:
They discharged him two days later, when the money
from the Watcher's Council ran out.
He was wheeled down corridor after grey corridor by a
male nurse that wouldn't look out of place on the
Marine Corps, then deposited outside in the sunlight
with a bag and a reminder to come back in a month or
two to have the cast removed.
Wesley looked down at his tiny travel case. It seemed
smaller than he remembered.
Cars pulled up every few seconds and taxis honked
expectantly at the main door, but he stood there, in
the blinding sun, waiting for her. At length, a
battered, grey Rover pulled alongside him and Cordelia
popped open the passenger side door.
“Isn't this Mr Giles' car?” Wesley asked, peering
inside.
She smiled. “I borrowed it for the morning.”
“Perhaps I should get a taxi,” he said, stepping back
from the open door.
Cordy cast her eyes skywards. “Wesley, he knows I have
it, he knows why I have it and he's fine about it.”
“Well,” he manoeuvred himself into the front seat,
then had difficulty putting his case on the floor. “I
must remember to thank him.”
The door closed and, eventually, they were moving.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye, smiled
at the way he stared at everything they passed, as if
seeing it anew.
When they passed the remnants of Sunnydale High, he
twisted around, his eyes wide. “Dear God.”
She glanced back, catching a glimpse of the blackened
“Sunnydale High Welcomes All” sign. “We survived,
though.”
He was facing forward again. “Yes, we did.”
“And we're moving on - you've got a new job to think
of and I've got an apartment to decorate,” she said,
matter-of-factly. “Have you thought about a budget
yet?”
Wesley had invented the new job out of some feeling of
masculine inadequacy, and, as for a budget, he was
lucky he could afford the decaying apartment towards
which he was being driven. His mother had sent a
small sum to tide him over and the promise to sell her
jewels if he desperately needed anything else. The
Watcher had replaced the receiver, his eyes filled
with tears of shame, and went back to his hospital
bed, helpless and lost.
Cordelia seemed to have missed his sudden melancholy
or, perhaps, she attributed his sudden silence to
seeing the school in its ruined state. She was
talking about colour schemes and distressed fabrics,
her voice fell of excitement.
He just nodded, watching as shops and parks slipped
by.
“That's it – over there,” she pointed to a small, two
storey building a hundred yards away.
Home, he thought, glumly. The apartment he had
secured was, in truth, more of a storeroom for the
restaurant below. It had a bedroom, a small lounge
and a bathroom, all three decorated with brown
wallpaper etched with fading orange flowers.
As Wesley started removing dust sheets and empty
boxes, he heard Cordelia muttering “potential,
potential” to herself.
“Well, we'll need to get some paint,” she stated.
He decided to tell her about the money situation. The
thought was lost somewhere between his brain and his
mouth. “Of course.”
“Something bright, but not clinical. Nothing blue or
grey or green.”
“Yes, God forbid.” He was grinning now. Laughing at
the absurdity of the whole thing: a twenty-six year
old, highly educated failure, living in a dank pit
which would soon be a tastefully decorated by the
Homecoming Queen but not in blue or grey or green or
any other colour that may be considered manly.
“Well, if I'm going to live here, it'll have some
feminine touches.”
That floored him.
They had been in a very shaky relationship for all of
three days - co-habitation was not what he had
expected. Then he looked at her and realised. She
was hiding her eyes, hoping he won't notice the unshed
tears. This apartment was all she could afford. In
fact, all she could manage was half.
“Of course,” he wiped his dusty hands on his trousers
and held her close. “We'll have fresh flowers and a
new carpet and expensive china,” he kissed the top of
her head, feeling her sob into his shoulder, “for our
endless dinner parties.”
She was smiling now, through the tears. “And
silverware and new curtains and a four poster bed.”
He frowned and led her into the bedroom, which was
more of a closet. “I think we have a problem in that
respect.”
Three:
Where is the devil when I have a soul to sell? Wesley
thought, flicking through the 'Help Wanted' section of
the Sunnydale Enquirer. Perhaps he could teach a
summer course at UC Sunnydale. Maybe he could work
two shifts at the Double Meat Palace and write a
novel.
He closed his eyes. It was strange to be unemployed.
Wesley still felt like a Watcher, he was born to be a
member of the Council. Yes, they had taken away his
financial support, repossessed his diaries,
emasculated him, but he would run back to them in a
second if they asked. And that made him angry.
A schoolboy, lacking integrity. A thin veneer of
arrogance hiding the fact that he was cheap pine. How
he wished they would call, tell him that all was
forgiven – he could return to the fold.
“I'm back,” Cordy called, pushing the door open with
her elbow.
He hid the jobs section under the couch and helped her
carry the over-loaded cardboard tray into the lounge.
The fact that the apartment didn't have a kitchen –
just a small gas hob and a mini-bar stashed at one
side of the room – hadn't occurred to the couple until
a few hours earlier, when Cordelia had offered to make
tea.
'Kettle' was added to the ever growing list of things
they needed, yet couldn't afford.
“That aftershave is very…. overpowering,” she
commented, shuffling cartons and cups around the
make-shift table they had constructed.
He blushed, wondering if he should confess that he
became impatient with the 'airing rooms out' process
and had just sprinkled the sofa and bed liberally with
Old Spice. “It's better than mould and scent of rat,”
he stated, extracting a fortune cookie from a pile of
napkins.
She took it away from him. “That's for after the
meal.”
He apologised then fussed a bit with his chopsticks.
Cordelia handed him a fork.
He stopped, cast aside his plate and cutlery, then
rested his head on his hands. “You must think I'm an
idiot. All I've done here is dither and… and lie.” He
was close to tears, “I have no job. What's more - I
have no qualifications in the real world. Until a few
months ago, I was a well respected, solvent man…” his
voice disappeared into sobs.
Cordelia looked at him for a moment. Slowly, shakily,
she got to her feet. “You have no money?”
He raised his eyes from his hands for a second, trying
to read her expression. She hated him, she must. “No,
I have nothing.”
“Well…” It was a long word, drawn out, full of
thought. “I can go full-time at the clothes shop -
that'll tide us over for a while. If worst comes to
worst, I can sell my watch and all those designer
shoes I'm never going to wear again.” She looked down
at him. “I'm going to make this work, Wesley, if it
kills me.”
He was full of awe. As she sat back down by his side,
as she kissed him and kept him close, he knew she was
special. This was Cordelia, more than a beautiful,
smart women. She was strong and caring, warm and
gentle. She was, from that moment on, his champion
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Four:
The sun was setting, making the brown and orange walls
bleed. Cordelia had drawn up a list of local
businesses, helped Wesley embellish his way to a
perfect r?sum?, and taken a bath. All in the space of
an hour.
He was feeling a little slow. Dull with crying, his
head seemed to be full of packing beans. Still, she
had riled him into action – running to the other side
of town to borrow Willow's laptop, sitting beside him,
notebook in her hand, while he listed every summer job
he had since the age of fourteen.
Now, they both looked at the screen, Cordelia's head
resting on his shoulder, trying to figure out what
could be done with a degree in Modern and Medieval
Languages from Cambridge University and ten years of
crossbow training.
“I could rob banks,” he ventured, after a lengthy
pause.
She smiled. “What about teaching? You'd be a great
teacher.”
“You think so?”
Yes, she did. But, then again, she was biased – she
was in love. “You could teach summer school,” she
said. “But I think you need a teaching qualification
from a US school.”
“And we can't afford that.”
She shook her head. “Also, if anyone in this room was
going to go to college, it would be me. You already
have an education… useless as it is,” she smiled.
He shrugged, causing her head to slide down his arm.
As she adjusted position, he said, “And Donald Trump
has a degree in Fashion Studies.”
“He might.”
“He majored in print fabrics,” she said, closing her
eyes. “Apparently, he was very good at spotting fake
Versace.”
“Then you'd better keep him away from your wardrobe.”
She hit him, gently.
“Ow,” he feigned injury. “Remember, I'm wounded.”
“Wesley, someone stood on you,” she said softly.
He was quiet for a moment. She opened her eyes and
looked up at him, worried that she'd gone too far.
“Yes, but they were bloody heavy,” Wesley smiled.
Five:
Wesley was just about to broach the subject of
sleeping arrangements when the apartment's buzzer
rang. The two disentangled themselves and Cordelia
opened the door to Willow, who was followed by a
rather reluctant Giles.
“We brought you a few things,” the redhead explained,
placing a heavy rucksack on the sofa next to Wes.
Giles followed suit, with an even larger bag.
“Cordelia said that the apartment was a little basic –
which it is – but it's very nice. I like the brown
with the, uh, brown.”
Giles nodded silently to Wesley. The younger Watcher
looked away.
Cordelia thanked them with hugs before ushering the
two out. “You'll have to come back when the place is
cleaned up. I know, we'll throw a dinner party!”
Wesley smiled dryly and closed the door. He waited a
few seconds, “A dinner party?”
Cordy looked shocked, “You weren't lying about that as
well?”
He was leaning in to kiss her but she was distracted
by the two bags their guests had left. She broke
away. “It's like Christmas.”
She unzipped the smaller one, pulling out a kettle and
a sealed box of cutlery. There were pots and other
assorted kitchenware.
In the larger bag, there was a hamper of food, a
bottle of wine, a throw rug, a couple of sheets and
bedspreads. All still sealed. At the very bottom, a
small, hand-written note. “Cordelia - if anything
doesn't suit, I'll exchange it. Best of luck with the
new apartment. Giles.”
“God, Giles must have spent a fortune,” she said, not
noticing that Wesley had left the room.
Her eyes were filling with tears. “I have the best
friends in the world.”
She hugged one of the sheets, thinking about Giles and
how he always managed to save her - with a kind word,
a smile or several hundred dollars worth of bed linen.
It was then she realised she was alone.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Six:
Wesley was in the bedroom: he had buried his face in
the grey sheets, hoping Cordelia would wait until
morning before starting to surround them with Giles'
charity. The older man would be seen in everything
now. Every surface would sport an object from his
rival, his better.
He thought about the look on her face when she thanked
Giles. The radiance and joy.
“We need to talk about this,” she said, standing over
him, one hand on her hip.
“Not tonight,” he rolled onto his back then struggled
into a sitting position, trying not to place too much
weight on his injured arm. “I'm going to bed.”
He was walking past her and into the lounge before she
realised what he was doing. “Wesley, you don't need to
sleep on the couch…” she trailed off, amazed that now
he was suddenly face to face with her. “Wow, that was
fast.”
“Cordelia.” A word full of need and quiet hope. “I
don't want to rush anything.”
“Well, if you're not comfortable –”
“It'd probably be better if I slept on the couch – for
tonight, at least.” He kissed her goodnight, a soft,
regretful kiss that made her want to scream with
frustration.
Where was the misguided passion she'd experienced
during their first misadventure in the library? Maybe
he didn't find her attractive any more - the thought
taunted her throughout the night, while Wesley lay
awake on the lumpy couch, haunted by familiar feelings
of inadequacy.
Seven:
Giles had only one picture of Cordelia. It had
appeared on the Sunnydale High Web-page, a doomed
collaboration between Jonathon and a few of his
contemporaries.
In the grainy photo, she was at the front of a row of
girls, smiling and holding a plaque. There was no
caption, no meaning, just half a dozen smiling
schoolgirls.
The site was never completed nor updated. It just
hung there in the ether, decaying.
Eight:
There was screaming.
Cordelia sat bolt upright, heart pounding in her
chest. “Wesley?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep.
“Wesley?”
He appeared in the doorway, struggling into a shirt.
“I heard it too,” he stated, stifling a yawn.
The silence was deafening. “It was a little girl,”
Cordy said, slipping out from under the covers.
Wesley averted his eyes while she dressed. “Shall I
call Mr Giles and ask for assistance?”
“Giles, Wesley. Just Giles,” she said, slipping on a
pair of sneakers.
The two of them were locking the apartment door and
heading down the stairs before they realised what they
were doing. Wes handed her his crossbow. “Aim for
the heart.”
“Check,” she muttered.
Now they were out on the street. A half-dressed
Englishman and Sunnydale's premier cheerleader, ready
to do battle.
“Hello?” Cordelia called, turning around and around.
Wesley checked the mouths of nearby alleys, clutching
the small throwing axe he had picked up on his way
out. “There's no-one here,” he stated, frowning. “She
seemed so close.”
“She was close, Wesley.”
He wiped the sweat from his eyes. The night was hot
and already his clean, white shirt was sticking to his
back. He was about to suggest that they circle the
block when she put her finger to her lips and pointed
towards a parked car at the other side of the road.
The Watcher followed her gaze and, sure enough, there
was a small white foot protruding from behind the
car's back wheel.
He gestured for her to walk around the back and he
started towards the front of the car, axe by his side.
It was a little girl, her blonde hair matted slightly
with blood. Her eyes widened when she saw Wesley
approach and she tried to speak, words muffled by the
rough hand across her face.
“Let the child go,” the Watcher said, eyes fixed on
the vampire's hands.
“I'll break her neck,” the creature threatened,
hauling the child to her feet and tightening his grip
around her throat. “Now leave.”
Wesley made a mistake – his gaze broke and wandered to
Cordelia. The vampire spun around so he could see the
two of them. He was like a frightening animal, backed
up against the car.
“Slayer?” the vampire asked, his voice shaking
slightly.
Cordy and Wes exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Cordelia
said. “I'm the Slayer.”
The vampire dropped the child and kicked the cross-bow
from her hand in one fluid movement. “I have waited
for this moment,” he said, catching Cordelia off guard
and spinning her around so she was now his hostage.
Wesley blanched. 'Let her go,' now seemed somewhat
redundant.
“You can watch, friend,” the creature drawled, smiling
at Wes. “Or you can run.”
The Watcher was shaking. He felt like dropping to his
knees and vomiting. Bile rose in his throat.
“Cordelia,” he managed to croak. “Close your eyes.”
“Wesley?” Her voice was filled with fear. The vampire
started to sweep hair from her neck. She closed her
eyes. “You're friend's not going to save you,” he
breathed into her ear. “I can smell his fear.”
Teeth scraped against her skin, ready to draw blood.
Something brushed her cheek and she fell backwards to
the ground.
When Cordy opened her eyes, Wesley was retrieving his
throwing axe from the vampire's skull. He looked down
at it, nausea welling up as he saw strands of her hair
on the blade.
He staked the vampire, who was staring vacantly into
space, another kind of dead, then lifted Cordelia to
her feet. She walked a few shaky steps and then fell
into his arms.
Wesley helped her into their building. “I should have
done this yesterday,” he said, unlocking the door to
their apartment and carrying her inside.
“There's a lot of things we should have done
yesterday,” she said, slipping from his arms onto the
floor.
His shirt was clinging to him, rough against his skin.
He didn't notice – he was completely focused on
Cordelia. On her eyes, on her lips. He moved towards
her, sure of his movements for the first time. His
hand moved from her shoulder to the small of her back
and he used this purchase to pull her closer.
She looked at him, thanking God for vampires and humid
nights, then lost herself in the kiss.
* * *