Ficlet: Saving You - AU Season 1; AU (my fic) "Skewed" - PG
I wrote a ficlet (AU AtS Season 1) based on the same idea as "Skewed"... Only, what if Wesley and Illyria had time-shifted even further back in time?
Saving You
by nev
rating: PG
disclaimer: the boys belong to Joss Whedon. This was written for fun, not profit.
~~*~~
They were both sitting on the floor, on opposite sides of the basement living room with their backs to the wall. Wesley watched his companion blink through the sweat that had trickled into his eyes, reluctant to lower his gaze for a moment.
“I don’t suppose there’s a simple way to settle this, is there?” Wesley asked politely.
His companion tilted his crossbow a bit.
“I’d have ta say no,” he replied.
Wesley had relinquished his weapons - and laid his hands in his lap in as unthreatening a manner as possible. But he couldn’t fault his companion for holding tight to his own. Wesley had killed the man’s client - a seemingly harmless demon - right in front of him.
“Unless you’ll believe me now when I say I don’t mean to hurt you,” Wesley ventured.
That only earned him a snort.
“The way ya didn’t mean ta hurt him?” Doyle asked, eyes moving - momentarily - to the demon blood still staining the wall Barney had been standing in front of when Wesley had shot him.
Wes decided that honesty was the best policy. “No, actually, I meant to do that,” he responded.
Doyle swallowed, uncomforted by Wesley’s candor.
“But he had killed innocent demons in over seven states, all to steal the source of their powers and sell them on-”
“Some sort of demon Black Market, yeah.” Doyle nodded shakily. A muscle moved in his jaw as he did. “Cause he so fits the killer stereotype. You know… short; kinda clumsy. Polyester suit…”
Wesley couldn’t help but smile at the Irishman’s sarcasm. He could see why Angel and Cordelia felt the loss of this man so keenly even years after his death. He obviously hadn’t savored the physical side of the good fight. But he rose to the occasion whenever one presented itself - with his chin up and his shoulders squared. And his wit ready to take aim in situations where his trigger-finger faltered.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Wesley told him.
It was true enough. Wesley appeared almost the same as he had when he’d first come to LA. Perhaps a bit scruffier now that his older self was living inside his younger body. He’d given up that morning shave and haircut he’d once favored. His clothes fit him more naturally, and he no longer held himself with the air of someone only pretending to be certain of what he was doing.
However, Wesley was anything but certain. He hadn’t meant to shift back into this period of time. Intercepting the Scourge’s beacon had been a fortunate accident. Wesley had been preoccupied with figuring out where and when he’d ended up, and how he’d gotten separated from Illyria. A month later he still had no answers - and was just trying to relive his life the best he could.
With a few improvements here and there. This time around, Wesley hadn’t bothered with the dying Kungai he had wounded before. He went straight for the demon that had abducted Cordelia - or, in this timeline, would have killed Doyle.
It was just too bad that doing so involved having frightened Doyle into believing him to be an enemy. Doyle hadn’t seen the demon sneaking up on him with a knife when Wesley had broken into the apartment to stop him. Doyle had sent Cordelia running from the office above and after Angel, who Wesley was now realizing had been gone an awful long time, no doubt battling that Kungai.
“Do you plan on keeping me here all night, then?” Wesley asked, when Doyle said nothing to his previous comment.
“Til my boss comes back.” Doyle’s expression flickered, momentarily smug. “You can give him the appearances can be deceiving spiel.” The corners of Wesley’s mouth curled up at the Irishman’s imitation of his own English accent.
“Yes. I’m sure that would go over well.” Wesley spotted the clock in Angel’s kitchen, visible just behind and over Doyle’s right shoulder. “But I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of time.”
“What? Late for an Evil Assassins’ tea?”
Now Wesley grinned, noticing Doyle’s irritation - and the shifting of his fingers on the crossbow’s release - as he did.
“Actually, I prefer whiskey. Or a nice double-malt Scotch.” There was no use making claims of his innocence now - when he had to get out of the apartment however he could. What if the Kungai was putting up more of a fight than it had when Wesley had faced it, and Angel needed help? What if Cordelia had gotten in the way and gotten hurt? This time shifting business was a bloody nuisance. Wesley had every idea of what had gone wrong in his life the first time, but no idea what would be right as an alternative. “And right now Angel is fighting a Kungai demon that he may, or may not, be able to overcome.”
Doyle looked shocked. Either by Wesley’s mention of Angel being in trouble, or by his use of Angel’s name, Wesley couldn’t be certain. Either way, it worked as the opening Wesley had needed.
He launched himself a little to the left of Doyle, so that if the man got off a shot it wouldn’t catch him somewhere fatal. Sure enough, a crossbow bolt lodged itself in the wall Wesley had been sitting against, just as Wesley rolled to the ground beside Doyle and lashed out with his foot, kicking Doyle’s crossbow out of his hands.
Wesley moved quickly, straddling the other man before he could rise from the floor, then dodging the punch Doyle aimed at his face.
Wesley felt he could take his chances where Doyle’s experience with weapons, compared to his, was concerned. But he doubted a fist-fight would end well for him. As Doyle was half Bracken, Wesley’s strength was no match for his - and if Doyle let his demon side fully emerge, any fight Wesley engaged him in would immediately be over.
Wesley had distracted Doyle, and he had to keep him distracted. He dodged another punch, then let loose with one of his own, catching Doyle on the jaw.
Then he grabbed the half-demon, with one hand on either side of his face, and kissed him.
Doyle blinked, going still. Wesley leaned back, purposefully putting his weight on the leg he’d unintentionally injured earlier, when Doyle had jumped between him and Barney trying to save the demon, and had gotten caught in the crossfire.
Doyle hissed, and Wesley punched him again.
“I take it…you wouldn’t fancy…going to help him together?” Wesley ground out, through another successful dodge, and one unsuccessful one. Doyle’s fist hit Wesley in the gut, and Wesley groaned at the impact to an imagined old wound.
Doyle rolled them over, but Wesley clamped down on the other man’s legs with his knees, and kept them rolling, so that he ended up on top once again.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure…you’d have our backs…” Doyle replied, catching his breath as Wesley landed a blow to his solar plexus.
“It’s not as if… I’ve no practice…saving you…”
The exchange of blows abruptly ended as Doyle finally regained his bearings. He shook his face, going green and sprouting Bracken spines.
Wesley changed the trajectory of the punch he was in the middle of throwing, losing his balance. This time, Doyle didn’t bother trying to reverse their positions as he did. Instead he flung Wesley from him. Wesley landed a foot away, hard, on his back.
Wesley shook himself and coughed, the wind knocked from him. His hands fluttered, outstretched at his sides - instinctively reaching for weapons that weren’t there.
Doyle stood, returning to his human face.
He wiped away the trickle of blood coming from the lip Wesley had split before Doyle had let out his demon.
“You gonna tell me what that’s supposed ta mean?” Doyle asked.
Wesley suddenly blinked and stilled. His eyes focused on Doyle’s face. When he drew his arms in closer to his body, he brought Doyle’s crossbow with them. It had skittered under Angel’s couch, where Wesley’s fingers had brushed it as he’d landed.
“Perhaps another time,” Wesley said, regretting what he was about to do, but knowing he’d wasted enough time already. “Sorry about this,” he said sincerely. He pointed the crossbow at Doyle.
“Yeah. Me, too,” Doyle said, stiffening his shoulders.
Wesley jerked the crossbow and shot Angel’s chandelier from the basement ceiling. It fell on Doyle’s head and shoulders, knocking the man out and to the ground.
Wesley lowered the crossbow to the floor, grunting as he rose to his feet, one hand supporting his lower back.
He retrieved the shotgun, short sword, and pistols he’d surrendered to Doyle when he’d gone for his crossbow. Then he headed for Barney’s seedy little apartment, hoping he correctly remembered the way there as he did.
[ end? ]
Saving You
by nev
rating: PG
disclaimer: the boys belong to Joss Whedon. This was written for fun, not profit.
~~*~~
They were both sitting on the floor, on opposite sides of the basement living room with their backs to the wall. Wesley watched his companion blink through the sweat that had trickled into his eyes, reluctant to lower his gaze for a moment.
“I don’t suppose there’s a simple way to settle this, is there?” Wesley asked politely.
His companion tilted his crossbow a bit.
“I’d have ta say no,” he replied.
Wesley had relinquished his weapons - and laid his hands in his lap in as unthreatening a manner as possible. But he couldn’t fault his companion for holding tight to his own. Wesley had killed the man’s client - a seemingly harmless demon - right in front of him.
“Unless you’ll believe me now when I say I don’t mean to hurt you,” Wesley ventured.
That only earned him a snort.
“The way ya didn’t mean ta hurt him?” Doyle asked, eyes moving - momentarily - to the demon blood still staining the wall Barney had been standing in front of when Wesley had shot him.
Wes decided that honesty was the best policy. “No, actually, I meant to do that,” he responded.
Doyle swallowed, uncomforted by Wesley’s candor.
“But he had killed innocent demons in over seven states, all to steal the source of their powers and sell them on-”
“Some sort of demon Black Market, yeah.” Doyle nodded shakily. A muscle moved in his jaw as he did. “Cause he so fits the killer stereotype. You know… short; kinda clumsy. Polyester suit…”
Wesley couldn’t help but smile at the Irishman’s sarcasm. He could see why Angel and Cordelia felt the loss of this man so keenly even years after his death. He obviously hadn’t savored the physical side of the good fight. But he rose to the occasion whenever one presented itself - with his chin up and his shoulders squared. And his wit ready to take aim in situations where his trigger-finger faltered.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Wesley told him.
It was true enough. Wesley appeared almost the same as he had when he’d first come to LA. Perhaps a bit scruffier now that his older self was living inside his younger body. He’d given up that morning shave and haircut he’d once favored. His clothes fit him more naturally, and he no longer held himself with the air of someone only pretending to be certain of what he was doing.
However, Wesley was anything but certain. He hadn’t meant to shift back into this period of time. Intercepting the Scourge’s beacon had been a fortunate accident. Wesley had been preoccupied with figuring out where and when he’d ended up, and how he’d gotten separated from Illyria. A month later he still had no answers - and was just trying to relive his life the best he could.
With a few improvements here and there. This time around, Wesley hadn’t bothered with the dying Kungai he had wounded before. He went straight for the demon that had abducted Cordelia - or, in this timeline, would have killed Doyle.
It was just too bad that doing so involved having frightened Doyle into believing him to be an enemy. Doyle hadn’t seen the demon sneaking up on him with a knife when Wesley had broken into the apartment to stop him. Doyle had sent Cordelia running from the office above and after Angel, who Wesley was now realizing had been gone an awful long time, no doubt battling that Kungai.
“Do you plan on keeping me here all night, then?” Wesley asked, when Doyle said nothing to his previous comment.
“Til my boss comes back.” Doyle’s expression flickered, momentarily smug. “You can give him the appearances can be deceiving spiel.” The corners of Wesley’s mouth curled up at the Irishman’s imitation of his own English accent.
“Yes. I’m sure that would go over well.” Wesley spotted the clock in Angel’s kitchen, visible just behind and over Doyle’s right shoulder. “But I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of time.”
“What? Late for an Evil Assassins’ tea?”
Now Wesley grinned, noticing Doyle’s irritation - and the shifting of his fingers on the crossbow’s release - as he did.
“Actually, I prefer whiskey. Or a nice double-malt Scotch.” There was no use making claims of his innocence now - when he had to get out of the apartment however he could. What if the Kungai was putting up more of a fight than it had when Wesley had faced it, and Angel needed help? What if Cordelia had gotten in the way and gotten hurt? This time shifting business was a bloody nuisance. Wesley had every idea of what had gone wrong in his life the first time, but no idea what would be right as an alternative. “And right now Angel is fighting a Kungai demon that he may, or may not, be able to overcome.”
Doyle looked shocked. Either by Wesley’s mention of Angel being in trouble, or by his use of Angel’s name, Wesley couldn’t be certain. Either way, it worked as the opening Wesley had needed.
He launched himself a little to the left of Doyle, so that if the man got off a shot it wouldn’t catch him somewhere fatal. Sure enough, a crossbow bolt lodged itself in the wall Wesley had been sitting against, just as Wesley rolled to the ground beside Doyle and lashed out with his foot, kicking Doyle’s crossbow out of his hands.
Wesley moved quickly, straddling the other man before he could rise from the floor, then dodging the punch Doyle aimed at his face.
Wesley felt he could take his chances where Doyle’s experience with weapons, compared to his, was concerned. But he doubted a fist-fight would end well for him. As Doyle was half Bracken, Wesley’s strength was no match for his - and if Doyle let his demon side fully emerge, any fight Wesley engaged him in would immediately be over.
Wesley had distracted Doyle, and he had to keep him distracted. He dodged another punch, then let loose with one of his own, catching Doyle on the jaw.
Then he grabbed the half-demon, with one hand on either side of his face, and kissed him.
Doyle blinked, going still. Wesley leaned back, purposefully putting his weight on the leg he’d unintentionally injured earlier, when Doyle had jumped between him and Barney trying to save the demon, and had gotten caught in the crossfire.
Doyle hissed, and Wesley punched him again.
“I take it…you wouldn’t fancy…going to help him together?” Wesley ground out, through another successful dodge, and one unsuccessful one. Doyle’s fist hit Wesley in the gut, and Wesley groaned at the impact to an imagined old wound.
Doyle rolled them over, but Wesley clamped down on the other man’s legs with his knees, and kept them rolling, so that he ended up on top once again.
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure…you’d have our backs…” Doyle replied, catching his breath as Wesley landed a blow to his solar plexus.
“It’s not as if… I’ve no practice…saving you…”
The exchange of blows abruptly ended as Doyle finally regained his bearings. He shook his face, going green and sprouting Bracken spines.
Wesley changed the trajectory of the punch he was in the middle of throwing, losing his balance. This time, Doyle didn’t bother trying to reverse their positions as he did. Instead he flung Wesley from him. Wesley landed a foot away, hard, on his back.
Wesley shook himself and coughed, the wind knocked from him. His hands fluttered, outstretched at his sides - instinctively reaching for weapons that weren’t there.
Doyle stood, returning to his human face.
He wiped away the trickle of blood coming from the lip Wesley had split before Doyle had let out his demon.
“You gonna tell me what that’s supposed ta mean?” Doyle asked.
Wesley suddenly blinked and stilled. His eyes focused on Doyle’s face. When he drew his arms in closer to his body, he brought Doyle’s crossbow with them. It had skittered under Angel’s couch, where Wesley’s fingers had brushed it as he’d landed.
“Perhaps another time,” Wesley said, regretting what he was about to do, but knowing he’d wasted enough time already. “Sorry about this,” he said sincerely. He pointed the crossbow at Doyle.
“Yeah. Me, too,” Doyle said, stiffening his shoulders.
Wesley jerked the crossbow and shot Angel’s chandelier from the basement ceiling. It fell on Doyle’s head and shoulders, knocking the man out and to the ground.
Wesley lowered the crossbow to the floor, grunting as he rose to his feet, one hand supporting his lower back.
He retrieved the shotgun, short sword, and pistols he’d surrendered to Doyle when he’d gone for his crossbow. Then he headed for Barney’s seedy little apartment, hoping he correctly remembered the way there as he did.
[ end? ]