Fic: The Last Man in Los Angeles (AtS, Wes/Gunn)
I just remembered that this was due today. That's the problem with being efficient: you get stuff done early, and then it sits around on your hard drive until you're like, oh, shit, today is February 11.
This is for the Gunn round of maleslashminis, for mireille719, who flattered me very much by choosing me to write for her. She wanted Risk, winter, and Phantom Dennis, and my track record for that kind of prompt continues: they're all here, but some more thoroughly than others.
Title: The Last Man in Los Angeles
Fandom: Angel: The Series
Pairing: Wesley/Gunn
Rating: PG-13 for kissin'.
Word count: about 800
Spoilers/Continuity: an AU season 2, circa "Redefinition."
Summary: In Caritas, Wesley and Gunn play board games and wait for the world to stop ending.
Disclaimers: Angel: The Series is the intellectual property of Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, Greenwolf, and Fox Television. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2007 Mosca, and I wrote it for free. Therefore, this story is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. The followers of chaos out of control.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for the beta. Written for mireille719 in the Gunn round of maleslashminis.
*
Los Angeles is doomed.
Wesley puts his hand to the front window of Caritas. Outside, the sky is greenish-white, and flakes of ash flutter to the ground like torn-up lottery tickets. Thank goodness for small favors, strokes of luck, and the fact that Caritas's protection spell extends to nuclear winter. Good and evil are fighting side by side out there, and by all reports, they're winning. Nobody likes to see an entire city extinguished, especially when that city is home.
In the bar, there are eight humans and three demons. There were other patrons when the army of Besmas demons unleashed their radioactive fury on L.A., but a fair proportion of them were immune to such picayune threats as radiation poisoning. Others left despite the threat; one was Cordelia, off to search for Angel, as if he wouldn't hear about the nuclear holocaust himself. Wesley comforts himself by imagining that Phantom Dennis is taking care of her.
Wesley and Charles have been playing Risk. The Host keeps a few board games in the back for precisely this sort of situation. Wesley insists they're not keeping track of wins and losses, but he knows he wouldn't be insisting that if he weren't down nine games to three. Charles has an uncanny mind for international conquest.
Charles comes up behind him like a cat, stealthy but pleading for attention. "Come on, don't be like that," he says. "This time, I'll let you have South America for free. I won't even try to invade."
"I was thinking we might switch to Scrabble," Wesley says.
"Don't go dragging me into games 'cause you know I can't win," Charles says. "Besides, that Llab demon and Amber the call girl don't look to be letting go of the Scrabble set anytime soon."
"Well, then," Wesley says. "Back to Kamchatka." The leaves of ash are still falling. He presumes that Angel is out there, if he hasn't yet fallen. Angel might have abandoned them to pursue some ill-conceived mission, but that's no reason for Wesley to withhold his concern. When you've no home left, it's a comfort to cheer for the home team.
"We can take a break," Charles says.
"You're an altruist," Wesley says.
He turns around, and Charles is beaming like he's been given an unbarbed compliment. Or like he doesn't really believe he has been, but he'd like to pretend. "You're just saying that 'cause I'm the last good-looking man alive in L.A."
"There are three other men here," Wesley says.
"No accounting for taste," Charles says, waiting for something.
"The Host says the food he's got stored in the back will last upwards of three weeks," Wesley says. "We're going to survive this."
"Nice of you to use the word 'we,'" Charles says.
"Did you really think I'd abandon the only good-looking man in L.A.?" Wesley says.
Charles is silent, shifting his weight. After all they've been through, his answer is yes. If they were different men, or not men at all, it would be time for Wesley to embrace him. But the repressed desire to comfort becomes a desire for another kind of intimacy, and an appreciative pat on the arm becomes Charles's hand lingering electrically at Wesley's elbow.
"Your truck should still run," Wesley says. "We can head east after the ash settles."
"I got an aunt in Cleveland," Charles says.
Bravely, Wesley kisses him. He expects Charles to shy away, but instead, it's a kiss returned. Wesley clarifies, "That's right on a Hellmouth, you know."
"You really do think I'm the last good-looking man in L.A.," Charles says. This kiss is long and slow like winter. The other kind of winter, the one with Christmas and real snow. The kind they have in the Midwest, Wesley imagines. Charles suggests, "Detroit?"
"Unlikely to ever recover from the interdimensional war it hosted in the eighties," Wesley says.
"St. Louis?"
"Run by squabbling factions of a demonic dynasty," Wesley says.
"Chicago?"
"Like L.A., a large enough urban center to harbor all sorts of supernatural activity," Wesley says.
"Then what'd you have in mind?"
"I hadn't thought beyond heading east," Wesley says.
"First time I've known you to go in without a plan," Charles says.
"I thought we'd know our mission when we came to it," Wesley says.
"Our mission," Charles says. He kisses Wesley hard, pressing his back up against the window glass. He tastes like canned vegetables and twenty years of breathing pollution. His skin feels like the only home Wesley has left. "Think the Host would let us use his back room for a few minutes?" Charles says. He kisses Wesley's fingertips like he's about to take him somewhere beautiful.
This is for the Gunn round of maleslashminis, for mireille719, who flattered me very much by choosing me to write for her. She wanted Risk, winter, and Phantom Dennis, and my track record for that kind of prompt continues: they're all here, but some more thoroughly than others.
Title: The Last Man in Los Angeles
Fandom: Angel: The Series
Pairing: Wesley/Gunn
Rating: PG-13 for kissin'.
Word count: about 800
Spoilers/Continuity: an AU season 2, circa "Redefinition."
Summary: In Caritas, Wesley and Gunn play board games and wait for the world to stop ending.
Disclaimers: Angel: The Series is the intellectual property of Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, Greenwolf, and Fox Television. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2007 Mosca, and I wrote it for free. Therefore, this story is protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. The followers of chaos out of control.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for the beta. Written for mireille719 in the Gunn round of maleslashminis.
*
Los Angeles is doomed.
Wesley puts his hand to the front window of Caritas. Outside, the sky is greenish-white, and flakes of ash flutter to the ground like torn-up lottery tickets. Thank goodness for small favors, strokes of luck, and the fact that Caritas's protection spell extends to nuclear winter. Good and evil are fighting side by side out there, and by all reports, they're winning. Nobody likes to see an entire city extinguished, especially when that city is home.
In the bar, there are eight humans and three demons. There were other patrons when the army of Besmas demons unleashed their radioactive fury on L.A., but a fair proportion of them were immune to such picayune threats as radiation poisoning. Others left despite the threat; one was Cordelia, off to search for Angel, as if he wouldn't hear about the nuclear holocaust himself. Wesley comforts himself by imagining that Phantom Dennis is taking care of her.
Wesley and Charles have been playing Risk. The Host keeps a few board games in the back for precisely this sort of situation. Wesley insists they're not keeping track of wins and losses, but he knows he wouldn't be insisting that if he weren't down nine games to three. Charles has an uncanny mind for international conquest.
Charles comes up behind him like a cat, stealthy but pleading for attention. "Come on, don't be like that," he says. "This time, I'll let you have South America for free. I won't even try to invade."
"I was thinking we might switch to Scrabble," Wesley says.
"Don't go dragging me into games 'cause you know I can't win," Charles says. "Besides, that Llab demon and Amber the call girl don't look to be letting go of the Scrabble set anytime soon."
"Well, then," Wesley says. "Back to Kamchatka." The leaves of ash are still falling. He presumes that Angel is out there, if he hasn't yet fallen. Angel might have abandoned them to pursue some ill-conceived mission, but that's no reason for Wesley to withhold his concern. When you've no home left, it's a comfort to cheer for the home team.
"We can take a break," Charles says.
"You're an altruist," Wesley says.
He turns around, and Charles is beaming like he's been given an unbarbed compliment. Or like he doesn't really believe he has been, but he'd like to pretend. "You're just saying that 'cause I'm the last good-looking man alive in L.A."
"There are three other men here," Wesley says.
"No accounting for taste," Charles says, waiting for something.
"The Host says the food he's got stored in the back will last upwards of three weeks," Wesley says. "We're going to survive this."
"Nice of you to use the word 'we,'" Charles says.
"Did you really think I'd abandon the only good-looking man in L.A.?" Wesley says.
Charles is silent, shifting his weight. After all they've been through, his answer is yes. If they were different men, or not men at all, it would be time for Wesley to embrace him. But the repressed desire to comfort becomes a desire for another kind of intimacy, and an appreciative pat on the arm becomes Charles's hand lingering electrically at Wesley's elbow.
"Your truck should still run," Wesley says. "We can head east after the ash settles."
"I got an aunt in Cleveland," Charles says.
Bravely, Wesley kisses him. He expects Charles to shy away, but instead, it's a kiss returned. Wesley clarifies, "That's right on a Hellmouth, you know."
"You really do think I'm the last good-looking man in L.A.," Charles says. This kiss is long and slow like winter. The other kind of winter, the one with Christmas and real snow. The kind they have in the Midwest, Wesley imagines. Charles suggests, "Detroit?"
"Unlikely to ever recover from the interdimensional war it hosted in the eighties," Wesley says.
"St. Louis?"
"Run by squabbling factions of a demonic dynasty," Wesley says.
"Chicago?"
"Like L.A., a large enough urban center to harbor all sorts of supernatural activity," Wesley says.
"Then what'd you have in mind?"
"I hadn't thought beyond heading east," Wesley says.
"First time I've known you to go in without a plan," Charles says.
"I thought we'd know our mission when we came to it," Wesley says.
"Our mission," Charles says. He kisses Wesley hard, pressing his back up against the window glass. He tastes like canned vegetables and twenty years of breathing pollution. His skin feels like the only home Wesley has left. "Think the Host would let us use his back room for a few minutes?" Charles says. He kisses Wesley's fingertips like he's about to take him somewhere beautiful.