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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: He That Dies Author: LC Pairing: A/Wes Rating: PG-13 Setting: AtS S1-2 Angel is beautiful when he fights. The observation is self-contained, out of nowhere. But still true. Wesley closes his eyes to summon up the images from the evening's confrontation, and finds them waiting for him. He'd been at Angel's left, Cordelia at his right, and they'd moved with a connection borne of countless battles. Late night practice with the battleaxe had paid off; Wesley was more than holding his own. The closest call was when something green and dripping ichor pounced out of the corner of his eye, delivering a rattling blow to his ribs. Wesley's instinctive punch, luckily, landed right in the creature's middle eye, and it staggered back, howling as the writhing crowd swallowed it. Wesley pushed the steady ache from his ribs to the corner of his mind marked 'Later' and swung the battleaxe again. As the rhythm of punches and swings took over, he glanced over at Angel just as the vampire snapped a winged Deneb monster in two pieces and tossed them aside. There hadn't been time then to do anything but record, saving the pictures to be savored later. Angel, punching grabbing slamming kicking. Moving constantly, like a whirlwind of vengeance, he'd cut a swathe through the crowd of demons. Vampiric super-speed is, Wesley knows, a legend, but Angel seems to move with a swiftness that makes the rest of the world stand still. In awe, perhaps. Or maybe it's the violence that is the beauty. Wesley understands the grace of fists, has had it pounded into him often enough that he can ignore the pain behind them and admire their purpose. Nothing he does could ever be so clean as Angel's battle-rage, the blank slate of his eyes attesting to the purity of his intent. Wesley's memories of Sunnydale are dismal and brittle, but the bright flash of amazement at finally seeing a Slayer fight... He remembers that. Buffy's high sharp kicks. Faith's snarling jabs and slams. On the few occasions he witnessed them sparring together, he had to force himself to stand back because they weren't holding back at *all.* Faith, at least, had been; he has proof now of just what she can do when she really lets loose. Proof in the form of jagged jelly-like scars, and nightmares that have tapered off but will never leave him, and a renewed respect for the art of violence. Angel drove them home after the fight. Cordelia stretched out in the back, moaning about the fresh stains on her clothes. Wesley sat beside Angel and noticed, again, the absence of sweat on the other man's body. Of all the strangeness he's had to get used to, this is the most difficult. Not breathing--not smelling of *anything* ever--how still skin felt without blood moving beneath it. These are understandable parts of being, after all, dead. But the fact that Angel doesn't sweat…disturbs Wesley. Reminds him that Angel's not just inconveniently passed away but *inhuman.* What human could fight a hundred different monsters and not even be damp? The hand he'd offered to Wesley after the fight was smooth and dry, like fine linen. Wesley was uncomfortably aware of how clammy his own was, how pungent he must smell to Angel's enhanced senses. Followed by a flash of fury, that Angel could make him *guilty* for that, and those moments seemed to be more and more frequent lately. As Angel drifted further and further into the sleep-deprived and overly irritable world he inhabited these days. Increasingly forgot that his partners were partners, and not toy soldiers. Nevertheless, he accepts the offer of a room for the night when Angel awkwardly makes it. His ribs aren't broken-probably-but they're bruised, and lying down right where he is sounds like a wonderful idea. And anyway, his apartment is…foreboding. The smell of books and artifacts, that used to comfort him, now only reminds him of catacombs. And the peculiar moisture in the tiles that moved in two months ago is settling in and spreading. Competing with the baked-in stench of iodine for control of the bathroom, and it really is unsettling how many bottles he's gone through in the past year. The price of being with Angel, Wesley supposes. And knows he'll pay. --le fin-- endnote: the title, btw, is part of a proverb: "He that dies pays all debts." Feedback |