I write what I write

CHPercolator scribbling - 2 september 2001

Is this all there is?

by Cayendi  (Anita Dapperens)

Pairing: none in this part (the story was to be Angel/Wesley, Giles/Xander)
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: This is a scene from an unfinished Buffy/Angel story (17,000 words to date), set in the summer between season 5 and 6 from Buffy and season 2 and 3 from Angel. It was going to be a Angel/Wesley and Giles/Xander mystery/romance story. Alas somewhere along the way I lost track of it because RL didn't leave me time to write on it. It is unsure whether I'll ever finish it, and I don't have the heart to put it up for adoption (I can't just give my 'baby' away). Nothing of this story has been published, apart from this scene and Solitude
Summary: Wesley contemplates his life.
Disclaimer: Giles, Xander, Wesley, Angel and all other things Angelic/Buffy the Vampire Slayer
are owned by Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy and WB.
Feedback: cayendi@cayendi.nl

 

Tears stream down his face as he sits down in his chair near the window. It has been a week since Angel turned his back on them, and three days since his conversation with Rupert. A week since Angel fired them, fired HIM, and three days since the belief he still held on to was crushed. No day, hour or even minute has gone by since without him wondering whether his father was right all along. Is he really just a waste of space?

"You can’t do anything right," he said on more than one occasion.

Once, in a very bold mood, he told his father he wanted to become a Watcher too. He just laughed at him as he signed his application form, telling him not to expect too much, telling him that he would never meet the Council’s standards, followed by his favourite putdown of course. But Wesley proved his father wrong and saw his dream come true. The Council accepted him as a student, impressed by the results of his entrance examination. The contrast between life at home and life in school couldn’t have been bigger. At school he flourished, learned with ease, loved demonic languages, and actually formed some friendships. At home he became even more timid, every personal victory quickly beaten down, literally, costing him many endless hours locked underneath the stairs. His father’s cold countenance even overshadowed his graduation, but still Wesley kept hoping, and when he finally got a chance to get a Slayer under his wing he once again went to his father.

But it wasn’t until Rupert told him about his findings, three days ago, that he finally understood his father’s sardonic smile and his sarcastic: "Make us proud."

He wipes his eyes with his sleeves in a fruitless attempt to dry them and stop the tears.

It is like being punished, being locked up under the stairs all over again. He should be happy that his failure with Buffy and Faith was, at least partially, exonerated by Rupert’s findings. And he was happy, and thankful, for about two minutes. That was all the time it took him to realise that his father had known all along, had known and revelled in it. The ultimate rejection, and the ultimate proof that he, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is indeed just a waste of space.

Well, he won’t be for much longer.

He grabs the small bottle standing next to a pitcher of water on the floor, and empties the contents in his hand. Water, mind you, nothing alcoholic, just water. He doesn’t want anyone to think he was too drunk to know what he was doing, he knows exactly what he is doing. He has wasted enough space.

Out of the corner of his eyes he notices the envelopes he put on the table for his friends to find. Friends? Is that what they really are? He thought they were, thought they meant something to each other. And they did, until Angel got obsessed with Darla, again. And that was all it took to tear their "happy" little family apart. Well he shouldn’t really forget Drusilla, without her, Darla wouldn’t have been turned again, and ... He has to hand it to Wolfram and Hart, they do know how to get to Angel. He just hopes that Angel will be able to find his way back from the darkness he spent so many years trying to fight, even if he won’t be there to see it.

He turns his head away. He doesn’t want to be reminded, he wants to forget, he just wants to forget ...

"Wesley!"

The pills roll off his hand onto the floor, immediately disappearing in every direction, and the pitcher nearly topples over.

"Wesley, open up!"

He doesn’t care who it is, he is not going to answer. He is not home.

"Wesley?"

Crawling he tries to gather his pills again. After a small fight with his heater his hand comes away bloody, and tentatively he licks the small gash, hoping who ever is outside calling his name didn’t hear him curse.

Suddenly it is quiet outside his door again, and Wesley continues to gather his pills, staying clear from his heater this time. Maybe he should have counted them before. He finally manages to retrieve quite a lot of them, if not all. And if not, these should still do the trick, they should be enough to ...

"WESLEY! I know you’’re in there, now open the bloody door!"

Rupert? Damn! How did he get here? And why?

The questions inside his head pile up, but he still doesn’t make a move towards the door. Nothing will stop him.

He swallows, once, twice. This is it. Tilting his hand, he lets the pills fall into his mouth, swallowing them one after another, more at once, taking swigs of water in between, until they’’re all gone. His hands are shaking as he raises the pitcher again, for a last swig, his vision less sharp. He smiles. When this is over he will feel no more pain, no more sorrow, and he will no longer be a burden to the people around him. They will be free. HE will be free, forever.

Hey! Where did that pitcher go?

His hands are shaking more violently now, but they are no longer holding the pitcher. Did he drop it? He doesn’t remember ...

He needs water, and he needs it now! So he pulls himself up ... and falls back to the floor again.

"Oh, God, Wes. What did you do?"

How come Rupert’s voice is so close all of a sudden?

"Yes, that’s right ... No I don’t know what kind of pills, but he is shaking ... Hold on, let me check."

A cool hand touches his forehead, and he closes his eyes, wondering if the hand belongs to an angel.

"Good ... bye," he manages to whisper as he feels himself slipping away.

 

 

He opens his eyes, but closes them immediately. Bright! The light is too bright. His hands reach up to grab his head, trying to stop the hammering inside, but even the slightest bit of movement seems too much effort, bring too much pain.

Is this all there is?

This is not what he had in mind, this is not ...

"Wesley? ... Nurse, I think he is waking up."

Rupert?

Definitely not what he had in mind.

He opens his eyes again. Still bright. White spots are dancing in front of them, but slowly a darker colour forms itself. Arms grab his, and he feels himself being lifted, seated. But when they let go of him he just sags back, into something soft, pillows probably. He can make out more forms now, they are moving closer to him, and ...

Oh, God, he feels sick. Pain or no pain, he has to get up. Now!

With all his might Wesley hurls himself forward, almost falling off the bed, when something blocks him, or rather holds him.

"Nurse, I think he is going to throw up."

How perceptive of him, Wesley thinks as his stomach contracts, and he starts heaving. Nothing comes. It goes on, and on, and on, leaving him dry-heaving uncontrollably, even though there is nothing to throw up, and it still goes on. He has never felt so sick in his life.

He feels something warm moving over his back as his stomach, finally, slowly relaxes again, and it takes his dazed mind some effort to realise that it is a hand. A hand that is gently rubbing his back, like a mother would do for a sick child, like his mother would do ...

A sob escapes him, but the hand never stops its rubbing motion. A box of tissues appears in front of him, and Wesley takes one and blows his nose, flinching when the sound echoes through the room. Taking another one, he dries his eyes, and then another one to wipe his mouth.

Watching the way the tissues fall to the floor when he lets go of them he whispers: "Why?"

His voice is rough, hoarse and a pain shoots through his throat like he has been eating razor blades.

"That would be my question, but after reading those files more thoroughly I think I can guess," Rupert answers, "I take it you want to know why I came when I did, and why didn’t I leave you alone ... "

Even though unspoken, the words "to die" hang in the air. Not trusting his voice not to crack, Wesley simply nods, prepared to brush aside all the sweet-talk Rupert may use.

"He is not worth your life."

There is honesty in Rupert’s voice, and Wesley’s mouth drops open. Of all the things he thought Rupert would say, he never expected this, and he has no response to this one, no pre-fabricated answer, no sarcastic retort, nothing. He is speechless. And still the hand is soothingly caressing his back, only emphasizing what is quietly dawning on him.

Rupert thinks he is worth something.

Just as he tilts his head up to try and look at Rupert, two sets of hands gently grab him, manoeuvring him back to a more comfortable position on the bed. His eyes immediately seek out Rupert’s, and a feeling of .... He sighs, he doesn’t really know how to describe the warmth that spreads through him as he reads the truth in Rupert’’s eyes. He is worth more, more than this.

"Thank you."

Rupert smiles at him, really smiles, even if the worry doesn’t disappear from his eyes.

"What are friends for?"

Gratified Wesley closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he isn’t just a waste of space. After all, at least one person cared enough not to let him go.

 

The End

 

Buffy and Angel Fiction


• All in a day's work

PG-13 Angel/Wesley


• As far as he knows to go

PG-13 Giles/Xander


• Can't get worse

PG-15


• Solitude

G


• Is this all there is?

PG-13


• Just Passing

NC-17 Giles/Wesley




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