AtS Fic - Bedtime Stories
Jun. 20th, 2004 02:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: Bedtime Stories
Fandom: Angel
Spoilers: Up to Origin (5.18)
Notes: A short Wes-fic, set after the events of Origin. Thanks to Celli for a quick and encouraging beta.
Feedback: Always appreciated, but *please* keep in mind that I haven't seen past Origin and don't want to be spoiled.
Bedtime Stories
"Once upon a time, in a land far, far away..."
The land in this case is England, and once upon a time is only twenty years ago, but it feels like the right way for Wesley to start his story. This is a story about monsters and heroes, damsels in distress and the treachery of evil. It should start as 'once upon a time, in a land far, far, away.'
Although, Wesley thinks as he swishes the amber liquid around his glass, England isn't far away these days. Everyone around him has travelled to other countries, to other dimensions. England just feels far away, the way your childhood always does.
But no-one's childhood makes for an interesting story, especially not Wesley's. Wesley decides it doesn't matter, and continues narrating his story. He's just skipping a few years in-between. "There was a great hero. With his sidekicks-"
"Sidekicks?" she questions, tilting her head to the side until blue strands of hair fall in front of her face. He thinks of her as 'her', as 'she', because using her name feels like acknowledging Fred is gone, and that's too much when he's this drunk.
"Sidekicks. Team. Followers," he expands, and then smiles as he uses Gunn's word, "Crew."
"Ah," she says and goes back to watching him impassively, crossing her arms over her small form. He always thought of Fred as thin, as willowy, but he only thinks of *her* as deceptively small.
"With his sidekicks, the hero fought evil. He travelled the lands, fighting monsters and demons, protecting those who could not protect themselves." Helping the helpless, Wesley bitterly adds inside his head as he takes another sip.
She watches.
"He was a good and noble hero, and he saved many lives over the years. Unfortunately, his followers were good men," he says, pouring another glass of scotch, "but they were not heroes."
"What is the difference?" she asks, cocking her head to the side like a bird. She is always birdlike, petite and short, sharp movements that make him think of sparrows. He wonders if she misses the huge wings of her original form. "Between good men and heroes, what is the difference?"
"A hero is an ideal. He is good, strong, and courageous. He would sacrifice himself for others, for the greater good, for those he cares about."
"And good men?" She pronounces the words as if they were a foreign language, and to her, they probably are. She knows how to speak but does not understand the connotations that a human mind attaches to mere words. She is learning. Through his drunken ramblings each night, she is learning just how illogical and limited the human mind is.
"Men are inherently flawed. Regardless of what religion you follow, every culture will acknowledge that the common person is flawed."
"I do not disagree." She sneers distastefully. "They are lazy and selfish. Their stupidity is only overshadowed by their greed."
Wesley chuckles, as amused by her contempt as he is by the truth of her words. "Indeed."
"They are demanding, and have no respect," she says, shooting him an annoyed glare.
"But good men try to be good. They are flawed, but they try." Wesley takes another mouthful.
"And a hero is without flaws?"
"Good men are flawed, heroes are not. Heroes do good deeds, and good men try to do good deeds." He nods, mostly to himself. "But their flaws distort the truth and taint their actions. They hurt others and do unconscionable things, all in the name of good."
"Your morality is confusing," she says, and he has to agree. He's sitting here, helping a being that tried to destroy them, that would have if she could, and all he can think is that it's a good thing to do. At least when he is watching her, he is too occupied and too exhausted to do much harm.
In one long swallow, he empties the glass in his hand. "Instead of good men, they become monsters."
She walks around the room, until she stands before him. Standing as she always does, without leaning, without swaying, without needing any support. There are times when he almost envies her, others when he pities her, but most of the time, he just thinks of her as similar to him. They both expected the world to be a certain way and have been utterly disappointed. "You are trying to explain the truth. You are trying to explain your actions to me. Your past."
He ignores the double set of memories colliding inside his skull. "I am trying to tell you a bedtime story."
She frowns. "I am not a child. I have no need for stories."
"Ah," he says, and reaches for the bottle. Wesley pours himself another drink and hopes he'll pass out soon. "My mistake."
The End
Fandom: Angel
Spoilers: Up to Origin (5.18)
Notes: A short Wes-fic, set after the events of Origin. Thanks to Celli for a quick and encouraging beta.
Feedback: Always appreciated, but *please* keep in mind that I haven't seen past Origin and don't want to be spoiled.
Bedtime Stories
"Once upon a time, in a land far, far away..."
The land in this case is England, and once upon a time is only twenty years ago, but it feels like the right way for Wesley to start his story. This is a story about monsters and heroes, damsels in distress and the treachery of evil. It should start as 'once upon a time, in a land far, far, away.'
Although, Wesley thinks as he swishes the amber liquid around his glass, England isn't far away these days. Everyone around him has travelled to other countries, to other dimensions. England just feels far away, the way your childhood always does.
But no-one's childhood makes for an interesting story, especially not Wesley's. Wesley decides it doesn't matter, and continues narrating his story. He's just skipping a few years in-between. "There was a great hero. With his sidekicks-"
"Sidekicks?" she questions, tilting her head to the side until blue strands of hair fall in front of her face. He thinks of her as 'her', as 'she', because using her name feels like acknowledging Fred is gone, and that's too much when he's this drunk.
"Sidekicks. Team. Followers," he expands, and then smiles as he uses Gunn's word, "Crew."
"Ah," she says and goes back to watching him impassively, crossing her arms over her small form. He always thought of Fred as thin, as willowy, but he only thinks of *her* as deceptively small.
"With his sidekicks, the hero fought evil. He travelled the lands, fighting monsters and demons, protecting those who could not protect themselves." Helping the helpless, Wesley bitterly adds inside his head as he takes another sip.
She watches.
"He was a good and noble hero, and he saved many lives over the years. Unfortunately, his followers were good men," he says, pouring another glass of scotch, "but they were not heroes."
"What is the difference?" she asks, cocking her head to the side like a bird. She is always birdlike, petite and short, sharp movements that make him think of sparrows. He wonders if she misses the huge wings of her original form. "Between good men and heroes, what is the difference?"
"A hero is an ideal. He is good, strong, and courageous. He would sacrifice himself for others, for the greater good, for those he cares about."
"And good men?" She pronounces the words as if they were a foreign language, and to her, they probably are. She knows how to speak but does not understand the connotations that a human mind attaches to mere words. She is learning. Through his drunken ramblings each night, she is learning just how illogical and limited the human mind is.
"Men are inherently flawed. Regardless of what religion you follow, every culture will acknowledge that the common person is flawed."
"I do not disagree." She sneers distastefully. "They are lazy and selfish. Their stupidity is only overshadowed by their greed."
Wesley chuckles, as amused by her contempt as he is by the truth of her words. "Indeed."
"They are demanding, and have no respect," she says, shooting him an annoyed glare.
"But good men try to be good. They are flawed, but they try." Wesley takes another mouthful.
"And a hero is without flaws?"
"Good men are flawed, heroes are not. Heroes do good deeds, and good men try to do good deeds." He nods, mostly to himself. "But their flaws distort the truth and taint their actions. They hurt others and do unconscionable things, all in the name of good."
"Your morality is confusing," she says, and he has to agree. He's sitting here, helping a being that tried to destroy them, that would have if she could, and all he can think is that it's a good thing to do. At least when he is watching her, he is too occupied and too exhausted to do much harm.
In one long swallow, he empties the glass in his hand. "Instead of good men, they become monsters."
She walks around the room, until she stands before him. Standing as she always does, without leaning, without swaying, without needing any support. There are times when he almost envies her, others when he pities her, but most of the time, he just thinks of her as similar to him. They both expected the world to be a certain way and have been utterly disappointed. "You are trying to explain the truth. You are trying to explain your actions to me. Your past."
He ignores the double set of memories colliding inside his skull. "I am trying to tell you a bedtime story."
She frowns. "I am not a child. I have no need for stories."
"Ah," he says, and reaches for the bottle. Wesley pours himself another drink and hopes he'll pass out soon. "My mistake."
The End
no subject
Date: 2004-06-19 09:46 pm (UTC)Loves your writing style. :)
G
no subject
Date: 2004-06-19 09:49 pm (UTC)