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darker_wesley: Haunted
Nov. 4th, 2005 12:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lonelybritWritten for the prompt 'Haunted' over at darker_wesley. For once *gasp* there is no pairing, least I don't think so. It's just Wesley, and maybe a bit of angst. Ahem.
Title: Haunted
Author: lonelybrit
Rating: PG-13
Content: Wesley works through some issues. Set between end of Season 3, beginning of Season 4.
He’d heard people say that at least when you’ve hit rock bottom, there’s only one way left to go. As he listens to Lilah leave, he thinks how wrong people are. Down here everything is crushed and dark, you can’t see beyond the next minute, let alone a way out.
The next day and he’s tired of the company of ghosts from his past life. The knife Angel gave him is put away, the answerphone cleared, photos shelved. But when he looks in the mirror he realises he is most tired and haunted by himself.
The night outside is warm and close. If there are people, dangers, around him, he’s beyond bothering to notice or care. All he hears is the silence inside.
It feels like someone else who winds up in that bar. He watches the demons and odd human through the fog of smoke. When he sees a young girl, bones sharp and skin pale, disappear with a vampire through a curtained doorway, it’s someone else who follows. Someone else who watches them move in the shadows, her cradled against a creature who should be tearing her throat out. His conscious mind takes in the evidence with cold detachment, the only clear thought in his head being ‘Orpheus’.
“Hey, you, this-”
The voice barely registers, but the hand on shoulder invades his space. A sharp shrug, backhand, and he spares the speaker the briefest of looks. “This doesn’t concern you.” The disregard makes his own voice lighter, colder, and he hears the demon shuffle uncertainly.
“Well, look here, a new face.”
Another vampire detaches itself from the gloom, draws someone else further into the room. She runs cold fingertips up the sensitive skin of the forearm, sleeve pushed back to the elbow. He’s lost his taste for metals and looks elsewhere when the needle catches the light. Maybe he should be thinking of England, or vengeance, except he stopped thinking about things a while back. The stink of the room presses down on him, the air full of fumes and sounds he won’t pay heed to. He’s not here; he doesn’t know where he is. But it still stings when she presses her mouth against this other person’s skin, a dull ache that pulls warmth from him.
And then finally he can breathe, see clearly. The night air is still warm, heavy with the damp smell of grass.
“I can’t believe you would do that to yourself.”
The voice is intolerably full of self-belief and scorn. He turns to look more closely at his companion.
He doesn’t know him, even though this is who has been haunting him most. The man who stands there, arms folded across his chest. His hair’s dark, a little long, tufted ends softening the rigid lines of a body that radiates disapproval. The stranger’s lips thin to a mere line, blue eyes scathing behind clear glasses that are no doubt kept impeccably clean at all times. Everything about him is clean and proper; dark trousers well pressed, green shirt uncreased with the top button open in a careful compromise between smart and casual.
“Actually I did this for myself, though I doubt you could even begin to understand my reasoning.”
“Reasoning?” the stranger snorts. “Funny, I’d have called it wallowing in self-pity, but oh I forgot. I wouldn’t know anything, you and I have nothing in common.”
“Not any more,” he says flatly.
“You honestly believe it’s that simple?” Suddenly the stranger is moving forwards, is right before him. “In case it slipped your notice, we’re both of us still here. If you think it’s a simple case of squash Jiminy Cricket-”
The knife is cold in his hand and the blade slides so easily across that throat. He feels calm, a bitter satisfaction, and small relief that the stranger falls without a sound.
“There’s nothing simple about this,” he murmurs to himself.
Wesley’s mind is more clear than it has been in weeks when he leaves the bar. The world looks bleak, dark. He sees all the despair and loss of hope. He sees how easily and needlessly life is snuffed out. He knows it is all so very much worth fighting for.
When he opens his apartment door, he smiles at the simple emptiness and solitude that greets him. Ghosts all gone.
Lilah returns, of course. She notices the change and no doubt takes credit. He still finds it hard to care much about that side of life. They carry on, he carries on. He washes and dresses and returns things to a new state of order. It’s with something close to defiance that he does his first proper shave.
And then, one night, Fred calls to say Angel and Cordelia are missing. Out the corner of his eye he catches the flash of glasses, arms folded in the shadows. He puts the phone down and listens to the ghosts whisper.
Fin.
darker_wesley. For once *gasp* there is no pairing, least I don't think so. It's just Wesley, and maybe a bit of angst. Ahem.Title: Haunted
Author: lonelybrit
Rating: PG-13
Content: Wesley works through some issues. Set between end of Season 3, beginning of Season 4.
He’d heard people say that at least when you’ve hit rock bottom, there’s only one way left to go. As he listens to Lilah leave, he thinks how wrong people are. Down here everything is crushed and dark, you can’t see beyond the next minute, let alone a way out.
The next day and he’s tired of the company of ghosts from his past life. The knife Angel gave him is put away, the answerphone cleared, photos shelved. But when he looks in the mirror he realises he is most tired and haunted by himself.
The night outside is warm and close. If there are people, dangers, around him, he’s beyond bothering to notice or care. All he hears is the silence inside.
It feels like someone else who winds up in that bar. He watches the demons and odd human through the fog of smoke. When he sees a young girl, bones sharp and skin pale, disappear with a vampire through a curtained doorway, it’s someone else who follows. Someone else who watches them move in the shadows, her cradled against a creature who should be tearing her throat out. His conscious mind takes in the evidence with cold detachment, the only clear thought in his head being ‘Orpheus’.
“Hey, you, this-”
The voice barely registers, but the hand on shoulder invades his space. A sharp shrug, backhand, and he spares the speaker the briefest of looks. “This doesn’t concern you.” The disregard makes his own voice lighter, colder, and he hears the demon shuffle uncertainly.
“Well, look here, a new face.”
Another vampire detaches itself from the gloom, draws someone else further into the room. She runs cold fingertips up the sensitive skin of the forearm, sleeve pushed back to the elbow. He’s lost his taste for metals and looks elsewhere when the needle catches the light. Maybe he should be thinking of England, or vengeance, except he stopped thinking about things a while back. The stink of the room presses down on him, the air full of fumes and sounds he won’t pay heed to. He’s not here; he doesn’t know where he is. But it still stings when she presses her mouth against this other person’s skin, a dull ache that pulls warmth from him.
And then finally he can breathe, see clearly. The night air is still warm, heavy with the damp smell of grass.
“I can’t believe you would do that to yourself.”
The voice is intolerably full of self-belief and scorn. He turns to look more closely at his companion.
He doesn’t know him, even though this is who has been haunting him most. The man who stands there, arms folded across his chest. His hair’s dark, a little long, tufted ends softening the rigid lines of a body that radiates disapproval. The stranger’s lips thin to a mere line, blue eyes scathing behind clear glasses that are no doubt kept impeccably clean at all times. Everything about him is clean and proper; dark trousers well pressed, green shirt uncreased with the top button open in a careful compromise between smart and casual.
“Actually I did this for myself, though I doubt you could even begin to understand my reasoning.”
“Reasoning?” the stranger snorts. “Funny, I’d have called it wallowing in self-pity, but oh I forgot. I wouldn’t know anything, you and I have nothing in common.”
“Not any more,” he says flatly.
“You honestly believe it’s that simple?” Suddenly the stranger is moving forwards, is right before him. “In case it slipped your notice, we’re both of us still here. If you think it’s a simple case of squash Jiminy Cricket-”
The knife is cold in his hand and the blade slides so easily across that throat. He feels calm, a bitter satisfaction, and small relief that the stranger falls without a sound.
“There’s nothing simple about this,” he murmurs to himself.
Wesley’s mind is more clear than it has been in weeks when he leaves the bar. The world looks bleak, dark. He sees all the despair and loss of hope. He sees how easily and needlessly life is snuffed out. He knows it is all so very much worth fighting for.
When he opens his apartment door, he smiles at the simple emptiness and solitude that greets him. Ghosts all gone.
Lilah returns, of course. She notices the change and no doubt takes credit. He still finds it hard to care much about that side of life. They carry on, he carries on. He washes and dresses and returns things to a new state of order. It’s with something close to defiance that he does his first proper shave.
And then, one night, Fred calls to say Angel and Cordelia are missing. Out the corner of his eye he catches the flash of glasses, arms folded in the shadows. He puts the phone down and listens to the ghosts whisper.
Fin.
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 05:03 pm (UTC)I love this. The perfect way it slips into canon between S3 and 4, and I just know this is what happened. The Orpheus making him hallucinate the other version of himself, his Jiminy Cricket, spectacles all polished and arms folded.
And then he comes out on the other side, but the ghost of the good man is still around. And then it ties so well to deep down. You've outdone yourself this time, honey.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 05:10 pm (UTC)Brrrrrr.
Good stuff.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 07:32 pm (UTC)"And then, one night, Fred calls to say Angel and Cordelia are missing. Out the corner of his eye he catches the flash of glasses, arms folded in the shadows. He puts the phone down and listens to the ghosts whisper."
I am speechless. I'm trying to think of something better to say other than "Damn, that's some good writing!"
For about a second I thought it was Doyle that "rescued" Wes from the orpheus den.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 07:42 pm (UTC)It’s with something close to defiance that he does his first proper shave.
yes. just. yes.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 08:00 pm (UTC)Fantastic work!
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 10:24 pm (UTC)Poor Wesley.
Very well done - loved this.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 06:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 11:54 am (UTC)Absolutely, exquisitely done.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 06:14 pm (UTC)I wouldn't be surprised if Wes did at some point wish that he could just let it all go, forget the whole fighting deal, draw a line. But some things go too deep, and at the end of day he wound up scouring the ocean floor for Angel. *happy angsty sigh* Thank you, I'm really glad you liked this one :)
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Date: 2005-11-04 08:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 04:20 am (UTC)I loved this, because it’s very true.
he thinks how wrong people are. Down here everything is crushed and dark, you can’t see beyond the next minute, let alone a way out.
You’ve really captured the desperation of how he must’ve been feeling so well.
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Date: 2005-11-05 12:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 12:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 04:57 pm (UTC)Thank you for your lovely feedback! I've always wondered about Wes and the orpheus incident, just how much he really did know about it. I can imagine him being supremely unsympathetic to people such as that poor junkie he met there with Faith. They let themselves wallow, he suffered a slit throat but still managed to pick himself up in the end. Wes has more than a little of Roger in him, I think, and quite a delicious dark streak :)