Wesley fanfic
Author: Dex
Title: Untitled as of now
Fandom: Angel
Character: Wesley Wyndham-Pryce
Summary: My version of the incident that his father is talking to Fred about in season five.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world. This is just me having fun.
Notes: First person present tense? Not something I usually do or like, but am coming to like it. I've been hesitant about posting this, but my beta really liked it, and rereading, so do I. It's also just a snippet. Oh, and G rating. Nothing happens that could be considered naughty in a good way at all, but Wesley's like six or seven...
The sharp sound startled Wesley, who looked up from his studies, pushing aside the large book before he stood. He moved to the window from whence the sound had come, standing on his toes to see over the windowpane in order to see what had cause the disturbance.
A bird lay on the windowsill, twitching, chirping madly before falling silent and still, and the boy stared, unable to take his now-wide eyes off the sight in front of him. He didn't even dare breathe at that point. It was the first thing he'd seen die. Well, the first thing that hadn't been evil.
The thought shocked him into movement, and at first he only rocked back on his feet. It didn't seem quite... fair. No, not at all, he decided, and even at age six, he liked things to be neat, for good things to happen to those who did good, and evil things... he didn't really wish for those at all, but if they were going to happen, it didn't seem right for them to happen to good people.
Of course he could straighten this out, quite quickly, in fact. If only he had the proper resources. His father's study was a restricted area of the house, and rightly so, but this was an unusual circumstance. Surely even his father would understand. After all, if there were no reason to ever use the spells, they would be destroyed, wouldn't they?
He knew it wasn't quite important that the thought of the dead bird - and he mentally tried to sort it by genus at first. He quickly changed tactics. More species had lighter colorings, so he was able to discard them. Of the darkly colored species, most had more deviation in color, and none other than starlings were iridescent. He let out small sound of disgust. He wished to be certain, but he was being groomed as a Watcher. Now, if it had been a demon...
Still, it was no excuse. He would have to brush up on his ornithology. No time to think of it now, however, as he crept up on father's study. He heard no voices, no footsteps, so pushed himself against the door, taking a few moments, to see if his father would move from inside. Nothing, once more.
Wesley tested the doorknob, which turned smoothly, and he made no movement other than to begin pushing in the door, fearing that the sight or sound of even that slow progress would alert one of his parents to his rather scandalous behavior. He’d only been in this room a handful of times, each one a brief visit supervised by his father, who made it quite clear that Wesley was a nuisance, and that if he touched anything, he would undoubtedly call down some torment down on the world.
He moved inside, and tried to ignore the way his stomach tightened, how he felt lightheaded, almost giddy with the pleasure of being here. He liked all the books, the knowledge they contained. They were his destiny, and his birthright, even if father couldn’t see it yet. He cringed at how organized it all was, the spells and books and scrolls and artifacts all categorized and arranged by date. Resurrection spells were dangerous, so they would be placed out of easy reach, Wesley knew. He knew exactly which corner to look in, and that he would need some sort of makeshift stepping stool. A ladder of some sort would have been best, but would be impossible to find in this room, or any nearby quarters.
He only wished his own room were up to these standards, and any rebellious delight he might have taken in being in such a forbidden place was quickly squashed by his sense of inadequacy as he noted all the ways in which he might improve his own system of organization.
“Focus.”
No one was there to hear him talk, so he followed his own order, quickly choosing a chair that was light enough for him to move, and was also tall enough to suit his purposes. He pushed it to the side of the room that held what he believed to be the proper scroll. Of course, he’d only heard his father talking about his library, and collections, to colleagues. He hadn’t actually had an opportunity to study them himself, nor did he have time to do so now.
He would have to look over them with as much expedience as possible, and make an educated guess as to the best manner in which to restore the starling’s life. He stood on the chair, and glanced at the titles on the spines of the books, quickly discarding the majority of them as useless, keeping one of two in mind if nothing better presented itself.
Ah. The scrolls. He opened one, and read the first paragraph, clumsily as he hadn’t quite mastered Latin as well as he’d wished. He rolled it up, tied it securely and put it in it’s proper place. He moved onto the next, pleased at how well this should work. He assumed he would be able to make his way through the rest of the spell carefully copied here, although even as he jumped off the chair, he reviewed what he knew of the dead language that he’d been studying since he could remember. Father had insisted he learn Latin as soon as possible, since it was used in many of the older texts which Wesley would be required to be familiar with before he applied to the Academy.
He had to know enough by know, he decided, not to stumble. He had no idea if there were any time limits on bringing a being back to life, so he would risk leaving the chair out of place, and risk coming back later to move it to its original position.
For now, he hurried back to his room, placing the scroll aside on his desk. He figured proximity to the starling might be important, so he opened the windows, cupping the small bird in both hands, and gently laying it down on the floor. He undid the knot on the tie around the scroll, and unrolled with it with great care. It was both old and valuable, after all.
He skimmed, searching for words he didn’t understand, or more importantly, couldn’t pronounce. Finding nothing, he began at the beginning, reciting, making certain that his enunciation was as precise as possible. Even a slight deviation could twist the spell into something unexpected, or take away the power. Father always said that unless you were certain, you didn’t cast a spell.
Mother never seemed to approve of Wesley learning such lessons at such a young age, but Wesley sat, enraptured, craving the knowledge of all thing esoteric. She allowed such education, but only because Wesley himself pleaded his own case.
Wouldn’t she be surprised? And pleased, no doubt, when he explained he had only done it because the sight of the bird immobile touched him. She would see how he had only cared for the creature, although she might be upset at his disobedience, and more so at the spell he had cast due to the risk factor. His voice faltered, although he simply just his chin out, and continued the recitation. It was worth the peril, as he thought this might finally impress upon father that Wesley was prepared to cast some spells. Small spells, such as this one.
The door flew open, banging against the wall, the motion a blur in Wesley’s peripheral vision. He stuttered one last word, falling silent as he turned to face father, his expression unreadable, although his face was redder than usual, eyes hard as he gazed down at his son.
“Wesley.”
The order was clear. Wesley didn’t drop his gaze as he handed the parchment to father, who took it, rolled it gently, and motioned to the ribbon on the floor next to the starling. Wesley picked it up, holding it out, letting his hand drop as soon as father took it, rebinding the scroll.
He expected a lecture. He expected the usual question, such as how dare you? or do you really think you’re ready for such responsibility? Instead, father motioned at the body of the starling, quickly stepping back, as if it had been contaminated somehow. “Take... that and put it outside, where it belongs.”
“I was only-”
“Where it belongs, Wesley.” There was no missing the disgust in his voice.
Wesley knelt down, and from that position, said softly, “it hit the window.” He cradled the bird against his chest. “I-I-” He paused, withering under father’s stare. “I only wanted to bring it back,” he ended in a whisper.
Title: Untitled as of now
Fandom: Angel
Character: Wesley Wyndham-Pryce
Summary: My version of the incident that his father is talking to Fred about in season five.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world. This is just me having fun.
Notes: First person present tense? Not something I usually do or like, but am coming to like it. I've been hesitant about posting this, but my beta really liked it, and rereading, so do I. It's also just a snippet. Oh, and G rating. Nothing happens that could be considered naughty in a good way at all, but Wesley's like six or seven...
The sharp sound startled Wesley, who looked up from his studies, pushing aside the large book before he stood. He moved to the window from whence the sound had come, standing on his toes to see over the windowpane in order to see what had cause the disturbance.
A bird lay on the windowsill, twitching, chirping madly before falling silent and still, and the boy stared, unable to take his now-wide eyes off the sight in front of him. He didn't even dare breathe at that point. It was the first thing he'd seen die. Well, the first thing that hadn't been evil.
The thought shocked him into movement, and at first he only rocked back on his feet. It didn't seem quite... fair. No, not at all, he decided, and even at age six, he liked things to be neat, for good things to happen to those who did good, and evil things... he didn't really wish for those at all, but if they were going to happen, it didn't seem right for them to happen to good people.
Of course he could straighten this out, quite quickly, in fact. If only he had the proper resources. His father's study was a restricted area of the house, and rightly so, but this was an unusual circumstance. Surely even his father would understand. After all, if there were no reason to ever use the spells, they would be destroyed, wouldn't they?
He knew it wasn't quite important that the thought of the dead bird - and he mentally tried to sort it by genus at first. He quickly changed tactics. More species had lighter colorings, so he was able to discard them. Of the darkly colored species, most had more deviation in color, and none other than starlings were iridescent. He let out small sound of disgust. He wished to be certain, but he was being groomed as a Watcher. Now, if it had been a demon...
Still, it was no excuse. He would have to brush up on his ornithology. No time to think of it now, however, as he crept up on father's study. He heard no voices, no footsteps, so pushed himself against the door, taking a few moments, to see if his father would move from inside. Nothing, once more.
Wesley tested the doorknob, which turned smoothly, and he made no movement other than to begin pushing in the door, fearing that the sight or sound of even that slow progress would alert one of his parents to his rather scandalous behavior. He’d only been in this room a handful of times, each one a brief visit supervised by his father, who made it quite clear that Wesley was a nuisance, and that if he touched anything, he would undoubtedly call down some torment down on the world.
He moved inside, and tried to ignore the way his stomach tightened, how he felt lightheaded, almost giddy with the pleasure of being here. He liked all the books, the knowledge they contained. They were his destiny, and his birthright, even if father couldn’t see it yet. He cringed at how organized it all was, the spells and books and scrolls and artifacts all categorized and arranged by date. Resurrection spells were dangerous, so they would be placed out of easy reach, Wesley knew. He knew exactly which corner to look in, and that he would need some sort of makeshift stepping stool. A ladder of some sort would have been best, but would be impossible to find in this room, or any nearby quarters.
He only wished his own room were up to these standards, and any rebellious delight he might have taken in being in such a forbidden place was quickly squashed by his sense of inadequacy as he noted all the ways in which he might improve his own system of organization.
“Focus.”
No one was there to hear him talk, so he followed his own order, quickly choosing a chair that was light enough for him to move, and was also tall enough to suit his purposes. He pushed it to the side of the room that held what he believed to be the proper scroll. Of course, he’d only heard his father talking about his library, and collections, to colleagues. He hadn’t actually had an opportunity to study them himself, nor did he have time to do so now.
He would have to look over them with as much expedience as possible, and make an educated guess as to the best manner in which to restore the starling’s life. He stood on the chair, and glanced at the titles on the spines of the books, quickly discarding the majority of them as useless, keeping one of two in mind if nothing better presented itself.
Ah. The scrolls. He opened one, and read the first paragraph, clumsily as he hadn’t quite mastered Latin as well as he’d wished. He rolled it up, tied it securely and put it in it’s proper place. He moved onto the next, pleased at how well this should work. He assumed he would be able to make his way through the rest of the spell carefully copied here, although even as he jumped off the chair, he reviewed what he knew of the dead language that he’d been studying since he could remember. Father had insisted he learn Latin as soon as possible, since it was used in many of the older texts which Wesley would be required to be familiar with before he applied to the Academy.
He had to know enough by know, he decided, not to stumble. He had no idea if there were any time limits on bringing a being back to life, so he would risk leaving the chair out of place, and risk coming back later to move it to its original position.
For now, he hurried back to his room, placing the scroll aside on his desk. He figured proximity to the starling might be important, so he opened the windows, cupping the small bird in both hands, and gently laying it down on the floor. He undid the knot on the tie around the scroll, and unrolled with it with great care. It was both old and valuable, after all.
He skimmed, searching for words he didn’t understand, or more importantly, couldn’t pronounce. Finding nothing, he began at the beginning, reciting, making certain that his enunciation was as precise as possible. Even a slight deviation could twist the spell into something unexpected, or take away the power. Father always said that unless you were certain, you didn’t cast a spell.
Mother never seemed to approve of Wesley learning such lessons at such a young age, but Wesley sat, enraptured, craving the knowledge of all thing esoteric. She allowed such education, but only because Wesley himself pleaded his own case.
Wouldn’t she be surprised? And pleased, no doubt, when he explained he had only done it because the sight of the bird immobile touched him. She would see how he had only cared for the creature, although she might be upset at his disobedience, and more so at the spell he had cast due to the risk factor. His voice faltered, although he simply just his chin out, and continued the recitation. It was worth the peril, as he thought this might finally impress upon father that Wesley was prepared to cast some spells. Small spells, such as this one.
The door flew open, banging against the wall, the motion a blur in Wesley’s peripheral vision. He stuttered one last word, falling silent as he turned to face father, his expression unreadable, although his face was redder than usual, eyes hard as he gazed down at his son.
“Wesley.”
The order was clear. Wesley didn’t drop his gaze as he handed the parchment to father, who took it, rolled it gently, and motioned to the ribbon on the floor next to the starling. Wesley picked it up, holding it out, letting his hand drop as soon as father took it, rebinding the scroll.
He expected a lecture. He expected the usual question, such as how dare you? or do you really think you’re ready for such responsibility? Instead, father motioned at the body of the starling, quickly stepping back, as if it had been contaminated somehow. “Take... that and put it outside, where it belongs.”
“I was only-”
“Where it belongs, Wesley.” There was no missing the disgust in his voice.
Wesley knelt down, and from that position, said softly, “it hit the window.” He cradled the bird against his chest. “I-I-” He paused, withering under father’s stare. “I only wanted to bring it back,” he ended in a whisper.