The beauty of the rain is how it falls...
Jul. 4th, 2004 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceBecause the zine these were originally for isn't being produced any more. And, hey, if I have them, then I may as well annoy you guys with them *grin*
Title: Moments In Time: Oceans
Author: Claire
Pairing: None yet, although I'm all about the Angel/Wesley
Rating: PG
Creeping along the corridor, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce brings the crossbow to rest against his leg. He's followed this demon across what seems like the breadth of America, and now he's closing in he has no intention of letting it slip through his fingers again. Never mind that the thoughts running through his head are nothing to do with the demon he's hunting. Never mind that all he can think of is that this is the closest he's been to Sunnydale since he left. The closest he's been to the scene of his greatest failure since he fled after the Ascension. He's buried himself in the hunt ever since. And he's good at it, has captured and killed more demons in the past few months than he ever did working for the Council. A shiver runs through him at the thought of the Council. He remembers lying in a hospital bed after the Mayor had attacked the graduating class of Sunnydale High. Remembers fighting alongside a Slayer who had done nothing but flout his authority from the moment he arrived. Remembers sneaking out of his bed on several nights to another ward, a ward where said greatest failure lay comatose, her dark hair fanned out against the pillow of the crisp hospital bed. Remembers holding her hand and talking to her softly. And then he remembers the night the Council visited. Quentin Travers and his flunkies surrounding the bed, not even giving him the dignity of facing them on his feet.
Leaning against the wall, Wesley tries to shake the thoughts out of his head. He knows why he's thinking about this now, and it's not just the nearness of LA to Sunnydale. A good part of it has to do with the man in the room he's about to enter; one of a group of people he thought he'd never see again, wished he'd never see again. But he saw him head into the room, and now Wesley has to follow. Taking a deep breath, he lifts the crossbow and walks into the room to face his past. "Hello, Angel."
And Angel stands there, hands in his pockets, completely unaware of the blood rushing through Wesley's head. Unaware of the fear and uncertainty exploding in Wesley's body. "Wesley."
"I wager you thought, you'd never see me again." And know I thought I'd never see you, any of you. But he doesn't say it. Doesn't admit that in the dead of night he cursed the group from Sunnydale. He knows he made a bad impression when he first arrived, knows he should have worked closer with Rupert Giles, no matter what the Council told him. Knows he should have gone with his instincts. Maybe then he wouldn't have lost two Slayers. Maybe then he could have salvaged something from an unworkable situation.
"To tell you the truth I hadn't given it much thought one way or the other."
No, he doesn't suppose he did. After all, it wasn't Angel who lay awake at night going over every little event in his head, over every word, every action. Pouring over anything he could think of to try and see why he failed so badly
"What are you-?"
But Wesley's not in the mood to answer questions. Has spent months being unable to answer his own, so why should he answer anyone else's? He motions with the crossbow he still has pointed at Angel's heart. "I'm the one asking the questions here. I think it only fair to warn you, any sudden movement and I'd be forced to-" Only he wouldn't be forced to do anything. Not with his crossbow lying on the floor and Angel's hand at his throat. Blinking heavily, he tries to stop the tears from rising. Even away from Sunnydale, he fails around these people. "Right, you had a question?" Maybe if he answers, Angel will let him go. Let him flee back to his bike, so he can ride as far away from LA as possible. And if he gets out of here, LA'll just be another location on his list of places to avoid.
The smile Angel just manages to suppress nearly has Wesley demanding to know what's so bloody funny, but he's knows it's unwise to piss off a vampire, so keeps silent.
"Interesting look for you. Motorcycle? The Watchers Council trying out a new image?"
Wesley walks further into the room, surreptitiously trying to get more distance between him and Angel. "In point of fact I no longer work for the Council." And he's surprised that his voice comes out without a hitch. "I came to the conclusion that I was of greater value to the cause working autonomously." Even though the words nearly make him laugh as soon as he says them. Value to the cause? He has no value, people have told him it often enough. Buffy, the Council, his father, the ghosts he has to fight are far worse than any demon will ever be.
And even though he didn't say it, Angel hears the unspoken words. "They fired you."
Fired? Well, that's one word for it, he supposes.
//Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, you are a stain on the history of this organisation...//
//You are to be removed from us, never again to be contacted by, or have contact with any member of the Watchers.
But my family?
With *any* member...//
//The Council has borne the brunt of your failure for the last time...//
But he's not about to let Angel know that, not about to let anyone know what they said to him that night. "Hardly. With Buffy unwilling to follow Council orders there
was simply no opportunity to function as Watcher. And that's why I became a rogue demon hunter."
"You're a demon hunter?"
Is that really so difficult to believe? Buffy may have believed his only ability was to scream like a girl, but contrary to popular belief, the Council train their people well. After all, what use is a Watcher who can't help their Slayer? But he's not about to point out that the Watchers undergo training just as rigorous as the paces they put their Slayers through. After all, it's late, he's been on the road for days chasing this demon, and Angel's condescending tone is the last thing Wesley needs right now. "*Rogue* demon hunter! And I'm on the trail of a particularly nasty bugger right now. So, I suggest you stay out of my way." Stay *well* out of the way, or he'll be tempted to use the stake he tucked in the back of his trousers before he left the bike.
"Easy, tiger."
Wesley's hand twitches towards the stake.
"I think you might be making a mistake. If we're talking about the same demon here, he seems pretty harmless to me."
Harmless? Yes, but then again, Wesley reminds himself, they are talking on the terms of the Scourge of Europe. The Bubonic Plague was harmless compared to Angelus. "He's left a trail of corpses, human and demon, all mutilated."
And that little piece of information gets Angel's attention. "Mutilated?"
"Each of the victims possessed some unique power telepathy, poison tongues, healing hands. Whatever the physical source of their power it was ripped, gouged, torn from their corpses." He still has nightmares about the girl he found with her chest cut open and some of her organs removed, arriving too late to save her, but in time to offer her vengeance. He'd used all the hot water from the motel room up trying to rid himself of the blood he could still see on his hands after he'd held her as she died.
Angel looks thoughtful for a moment. "He's collecting powers."
That much Wesley could have told him, it was blatantly obvious after the second victim. "For what purpose I can only guess. The fiend has cut a swath across half the continent. I almost caught up with it in Phoenix. Got a pretty fair look, too." But it was a choice between pursuing it and comforting a young woman who knew she was dying. Given the options, there was really no choice, and so Wesley had removed his jacket and pulled the girl into his lap, talking to her and stroking her hair.
"Kind of short, ruddy complexion?" Angel's words pull him out of the memory.
Wesley shakes his head. He doesn't know where Angel got the description from, but it couldn't be further from the truth. "Short? No, on the contrary, quite enormous and powerful. More of a yellow-green. And it seems lately to be secreting some sort of viscous, yellow fluid."
Angel's eyes narrow and he points to Wesley's jacket. "Like that?"
Looking at the yellow fluid on his jacket, Wesley is just about to admit that that's exactly what it looks like, when another blob of the liquid hits him. His breath catching in his throat, Wesley looks up, shouting as the demon that's clinging to the ceiling drops to land between them. Lunging for the crossbow that Angel batted out of his hands, Wesley yells as the demon smacks him across the face, sending him flying across the room. His head hitting the wall, Wesley tries to shake away the red daze that threatens to envelope him, trying to focus in as Angel goes against the demon. Crawling across the room, Wesley's fingers close on his crossbow and he raises it, pointing it at the combatants. They're moving too fast for him to get a lock on the demon, and he doesn't want to hit Angel by accident.
Don't you?
Ignoring his subconscious, Wesley waits until the demon strikes Angel to the ground and makes a break for the door. Feeling the kickback as the bolt shoots out of the bow, Wesley watches with satisfaction as it slides into the demon's chest. Screaming, the demon turns and jumps out of a window, leaving Wesley and Angel alone.
Pushing himself to his feet, Angel staggers over to where Wesley is kneeling.
Looking at the hand Angel is holding out, Wesley debates whether or not to just leave. The demon is injured, it should be easier to track it now, but something in Angel's face makes him reach out. Wrapping his warm fingers around Angel's cool ones, he allows the vampire to help him to his feet. Maybe just this once he can accept help. After all, it'll be quicker to find the demon with two people looking. And the sooner it's found and killed, the sooner he can leave LA, be back on the road and away from Angel.
End MIT: Oceans
Title: Moments In Time: Oceans
Author: Claire
Pairing: None yet, although I'm all about the Angel/Wesley
Rating: PG
Creeping along the corridor, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce brings the crossbow to rest against his leg. He's followed this demon across what seems like the breadth of America, and now he's closing in he has no intention of letting it slip through his fingers again. Never mind that the thoughts running through his head are nothing to do with the demon he's hunting. Never mind that all he can think of is that this is the closest he's been to Sunnydale since he left. The closest he's been to the scene of his greatest failure since he fled after the Ascension. He's buried himself in the hunt ever since. And he's good at it, has captured and killed more demons in the past few months than he ever did working for the Council. A shiver runs through him at the thought of the Council. He remembers lying in a hospital bed after the Mayor had attacked the graduating class of Sunnydale High. Remembers fighting alongside a Slayer who had done nothing but flout his authority from the moment he arrived. Remembers sneaking out of his bed on several nights to another ward, a ward where said greatest failure lay comatose, her dark hair fanned out against the pillow of the crisp hospital bed. Remembers holding her hand and talking to her softly. And then he remembers the night the Council visited. Quentin Travers and his flunkies surrounding the bed, not even giving him the dignity of facing them on his feet.
Leaning against the wall, Wesley tries to shake the thoughts out of his head. He knows why he's thinking about this now, and it's not just the nearness of LA to Sunnydale. A good part of it has to do with the man in the room he's about to enter; one of a group of people he thought he'd never see again, wished he'd never see again. But he saw him head into the room, and now Wesley has to follow. Taking a deep breath, he lifts the crossbow and walks into the room to face his past. "Hello, Angel."
And Angel stands there, hands in his pockets, completely unaware of the blood rushing through Wesley's head. Unaware of the fear and uncertainty exploding in Wesley's body. "Wesley."
"I wager you thought, you'd never see me again." And know I thought I'd never see you, any of you. But he doesn't say it. Doesn't admit that in the dead of night he cursed the group from Sunnydale. He knows he made a bad impression when he first arrived, knows he should have worked closer with Rupert Giles, no matter what the Council told him. Knows he should have gone with his instincts. Maybe then he wouldn't have lost two Slayers. Maybe then he could have salvaged something from an unworkable situation.
"To tell you the truth I hadn't given it much thought one way or the other."
No, he doesn't suppose he did. After all, it wasn't Angel who lay awake at night going over every little event in his head, over every word, every action. Pouring over anything he could think of to try and see why he failed so badly
"What are you-?"
But Wesley's not in the mood to answer questions. Has spent months being unable to answer his own, so why should he answer anyone else's? He motions with the crossbow he still has pointed at Angel's heart. "I'm the one asking the questions here. I think it only fair to warn you, any sudden movement and I'd be forced to-" Only he wouldn't be forced to do anything. Not with his crossbow lying on the floor and Angel's hand at his throat. Blinking heavily, he tries to stop the tears from rising. Even away from Sunnydale, he fails around these people. "Right, you had a question?" Maybe if he answers, Angel will let him go. Let him flee back to his bike, so he can ride as far away from LA as possible. And if he gets out of here, LA'll just be another location on his list of places to avoid.
The smile Angel just manages to suppress nearly has Wesley demanding to know what's so bloody funny, but he's knows it's unwise to piss off a vampire, so keeps silent.
"Interesting look for you. Motorcycle? The Watchers Council trying out a new image?"
Wesley walks further into the room, surreptitiously trying to get more distance between him and Angel. "In point of fact I no longer work for the Council." And he's surprised that his voice comes out without a hitch. "I came to the conclusion that I was of greater value to the cause working autonomously." Even though the words nearly make him laugh as soon as he says them. Value to the cause? He has no value, people have told him it often enough. Buffy, the Council, his father, the ghosts he has to fight are far worse than any demon will ever be.
And even though he didn't say it, Angel hears the unspoken words. "They fired you."
Fired? Well, that's one word for it, he supposes.
//Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, you are a stain on the history of this organisation...//
//You are to be removed from us, never again to be contacted by, or have contact with any member of the Watchers.
But my family?
With *any* member...//
//The Council has borne the brunt of your failure for the last time...//
But he's not about to let Angel know that, not about to let anyone know what they said to him that night. "Hardly. With Buffy unwilling to follow Council orders there
was simply no opportunity to function as Watcher. And that's why I became a rogue demon hunter."
"You're a demon hunter?"
Is that really so difficult to believe? Buffy may have believed his only ability was to scream like a girl, but contrary to popular belief, the Council train their people well. After all, what use is a Watcher who can't help their Slayer? But he's not about to point out that the Watchers undergo training just as rigorous as the paces they put their Slayers through. After all, it's late, he's been on the road for days chasing this demon, and Angel's condescending tone is the last thing Wesley needs right now. "*Rogue* demon hunter! And I'm on the trail of a particularly nasty bugger right now. So, I suggest you stay out of my way." Stay *well* out of the way, or he'll be tempted to use the stake he tucked in the back of his trousers before he left the bike.
"Easy, tiger."
Wesley's hand twitches towards the stake.
"I think you might be making a mistake. If we're talking about the same demon here, he seems pretty harmless to me."
Harmless? Yes, but then again, Wesley reminds himself, they are talking on the terms of the Scourge of Europe. The Bubonic Plague was harmless compared to Angelus. "He's left a trail of corpses, human and demon, all mutilated."
And that little piece of information gets Angel's attention. "Mutilated?"
"Each of the victims possessed some unique power telepathy, poison tongues, healing hands. Whatever the physical source of their power it was ripped, gouged, torn from their corpses." He still has nightmares about the girl he found with her chest cut open and some of her organs removed, arriving too late to save her, but in time to offer her vengeance. He'd used all the hot water from the motel room up trying to rid himself of the blood he could still see on his hands after he'd held her as she died.
Angel looks thoughtful for a moment. "He's collecting powers."
That much Wesley could have told him, it was blatantly obvious after the second victim. "For what purpose I can only guess. The fiend has cut a swath across half the continent. I almost caught up with it in Phoenix. Got a pretty fair look, too." But it was a choice between pursuing it and comforting a young woman who knew she was dying. Given the options, there was really no choice, and so Wesley had removed his jacket and pulled the girl into his lap, talking to her and stroking her hair.
"Kind of short, ruddy complexion?" Angel's words pull him out of the memory.
Wesley shakes his head. He doesn't know where Angel got the description from, but it couldn't be further from the truth. "Short? No, on the contrary, quite enormous and powerful. More of a yellow-green. And it seems lately to be secreting some sort of viscous, yellow fluid."
Angel's eyes narrow and he points to Wesley's jacket. "Like that?"
Looking at the yellow fluid on his jacket, Wesley is just about to admit that that's exactly what it looks like, when another blob of the liquid hits him. His breath catching in his throat, Wesley looks up, shouting as the demon that's clinging to the ceiling drops to land between them. Lunging for the crossbow that Angel batted out of his hands, Wesley yells as the demon smacks him across the face, sending him flying across the room. His head hitting the wall, Wesley tries to shake away the red daze that threatens to envelope him, trying to focus in as Angel goes against the demon. Crawling across the room, Wesley's fingers close on his crossbow and he raises it, pointing it at the combatants. They're moving too fast for him to get a lock on the demon, and he doesn't want to hit Angel by accident.
Don't you?
Ignoring his subconscious, Wesley waits until the demon strikes Angel to the ground and makes a break for the door. Feeling the kickback as the bolt shoots out of the bow, Wesley watches with satisfaction as it slides into the demon's chest. Screaming, the demon turns and jumps out of a window, leaving Wesley and Angel alone.
Pushing himself to his feet, Angel staggers over to where Wesley is kneeling.
Looking at the hand Angel is holding out, Wesley debates whether or not to just leave. The demon is injured, it should be easier to track it now, but something in Angel's face makes him reach out. Wrapping his warm fingers around Angel's cool ones, he allows the vampire to help him to his feet. Maybe just this once he can accept help. After all, it'll be quicker to find the demon with two people looking. And the sooner it's found and killed, the sooner he can leave LA, be back on the road and away from Angel.
End MIT: Oceans
