Sweet Needs
Title: Sweet Needs
Fandom: Angel
Characters: Wesley, Illyria
Pairing: Wesley/Fred
Orientation: Het
Word Count: 738
Rating: PG
Notes/warnings: My OTP. *sniffles* Could be construed as a deathfic, but this is canon.
Prompts:
For Kinkbingo fill: "Vanilla Kink"
For Hurt/Comfort Bingo fill: "Making Deals with Demons"
Wesley blinked and looked around at the strange room. His memory was impaired, he realized. He didn’t know how he had gotten here. He couldn’t remember where he had been, either. That should trouble him more than it did, but this place was comfortable, warm, inviting, cozy… home?
“Hello, Wesley.”
He spun around at the sound of her voice, a grin already beginning to cross his face. “Hello, Fred.” For a few moments, he stared at her, soaking in the sight of her sweet smile. She wore a plain white blouse, a plaid skirt that reached to her knees, paired with ankle socks and saddle shoes. Her hair was pulled back with barrettes. Pink lipstick, light, almost translucent, added a slight shine to her lips. She was fresh faced and clean and pure. Fred.
“Is this all right, now?” She chewed on her lower lip, plucked at the tweed of the skirt and looked up at him nervously.
With those words, she broke the spell. Memory came crashing in, nearly driving him to his knees. Remembered loss, remembered pain; his life and death, remembered in an instant.
“Illyria! Where are we?” he demanded. He’d wanted to believe, so much, in this, in this place.
She unfolded herself from where she had been sitting on the end of the bed and came towards him. “In a moment. Betweeen. Suspended. I asked, you accepted. I am lying to you now, Wesley.”
“I’m dying.”
“Yes.”
He looked around at the bedroom Illyria had constructed out of Fred’s memories, stolen fragments of what remained of the girl he had loved and lost when this creature before him had come into being. The canopy bed with a pink and white gingham spread, the dollhouse in the corner, the white laminate furniture with curves and gold trim, all the pure and innocent things that had once been part of Fred. He wanted to touch that innocence, that purity, once last time, before he too vanished into the nothingness of death.
He looked at Illyria. “Once more.”
She nodded, understanding in that bizarre way she had of grasping what people needed and wanted, while not truly understanding what motivated the desires behind it all. He felt different, suddenly. He caught his image in the ornate mirror over the dresser, and was startled. Had he changed so much in the years since coming to Los Angeles? He saw himself as he had been when he left England, clean cut, hair slicked back, glasses, suit and tie. The man he no longer was. The man he would now never be again, except here, in a fantasy.
“You wished for innocence once more.” Illyria whispered, holding a hand out to him. He had, hadn’t he? Fred’s innocence was not the only thing that had been lost along the way.
“Yes, just once more.” He took her hands and pulled her to him, bending his head and kissing her lips sweetly. His hand came up to cup her chin, his fingers traced the curve of her cheek.
This was what might have been, if the evil had not infested their lives. This was normal. This was what Wesley had longed for, more than anything. Having sweet and achingly normal Fred in his arms, safe here, in this perfect pocket of her past life was a little piece of heaven.
If he had tried to take her to the bed, turned this into something sexual, he knew Illyria would have played along. But that was not what he wanted here. Not here. This was pure and innocent and that in itself was enough satisfaction for Wesley’s soul. It was what he had been trying to get back to, striving to find. It was what he had loved about Fred.
And so his kisses remained chaste, he hugged her warmly; he held her and caressed her back through the white cotton blouse. He attempted to do no more than that.
Eventually, she pulled away from him and said, “Come, Wesley, it is time to rest.”
She took his hand and led him to the bed, sitting down beside him as he stretched out and gazed up at the lace canopy. She stroked his cheek and hummed quietly, comforting him. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was the stuffed bunny beside him on the pillow.
He knew the bunny’s name, Fred had told it to him. He whispered, “Feigenbaum.”
Fandom: Angel
Characters: Wesley, Illyria
Pairing: Wesley/Fred
Orientation: Het
Word Count: 738
Rating: PG
Notes/warnings: My OTP. *sniffles* Could be construed as a deathfic, but this is canon.
Prompts:
For Kinkbingo fill: "Vanilla Kink"
For Hurt/Comfort Bingo fill: "Making Deals with Demons"
Wesley blinked and looked around at the strange room. His memory was impaired, he realized. He didn’t know how he had gotten here. He couldn’t remember where he had been, either. That should trouble him more than it did, but this place was comfortable, warm, inviting, cozy… home?
“Hello, Wesley.”
He spun around at the sound of her voice, a grin already beginning to cross his face. “Hello, Fred.” For a few moments, he stared at her, soaking in the sight of her sweet smile. She wore a plain white blouse, a plaid skirt that reached to her knees, paired with ankle socks and saddle shoes. Her hair was pulled back with barrettes. Pink lipstick, light, almost translucent, added a slight shine to her lips. She was fresh faced and clean and pure. Fred.
“Is this all right, now?” She chewed on her lower lip, plucked at the tweed of the skirt and looked up at him nervously.
With those words, she broke the spell. Memory came crashing in, nearly driving him to his knees. Remembered loss, remembered pain; his life and death, remembered in an instant.
“Illyria! Where are we?” he demanded. He’d wanted to believe, so much, in this, in this place.
She unfolded herself from where she had been sitting on the end of the bed and came towards him. “In a moment. Betweeen. Suspended. I asked, you accepted. I am lying to you now, Wesley.”
“I’m dying.”
“Yes.”
He looked around at the bedroom Illyria had constructed out of Fred’s memories, stolen fragments of what remained of the girl he had loved and lost when this creature before him had come into being. The canopy bed with a pink and white gingham spread, the dollhouse in the corner, the white laminate furniture with curves and gold trim, all the pure and innocent things that had once been part of Fred. He wanted to touch that innocence, that purity, once last time, before he too vanished into the nothingness of death.
He looked at Illyria. “Once more.”
She nodded, understanding in that bizarre way she had of grasping what people needed and wanted, while not truly understanding what motivated the desires behind it all. He felt different, suddenly. He caught his image in the ornate mirror over the dresser, and was startled. Had he changed so much in the years since coming to Los Angeles? He saw himself as he had been when he left England, clean cut, hair slicked back, glasses, suit and tie. The man he no longer was. The man he would now never be again, except here, in a fantasy.
“You wished for innocence once more.” Illyria whispered, holding a hand out to him. He had, hadn’t he? Fred’s innocence was not the only thing that had been lost along the way.
“Yes, just once more.” He took her hands and pulled her to him, bending his head and kissing her lips sweetly. His hand came up to cup her chin, his fingers traced the curve of her cheek.
This was what might have been, if the evil had not infested their lives. This was normal. This was what Wesley had longed for, more than anything. Having sweet and achingly normal Fred in his arms, safe here, in this perfect pocket of her past life was a little piece of heaven.
If he had tried to take her to the bed, turned this into something sexual, he knew Illyria would have played along. But that was not what he wanted here. Not here. This was pure and innocent and that in itself was enough satisfaction for Wesley’s soul. It was what he had been trying to get back to, striving to find. It was what he had loved about Fred.
And so his kisses remained chaste, he hugged her warmly; he held her and caressed her back through the white cotton blouse. He attempted to do no more than that.
Eventually, she pulled away from him and said, “Come, Wesley, it is time to rest.”
She took his hand and led him to the bed, sitting down beside him as he stretched out and gazed up at the lace canopy. She stroked his cheek and hummed quietly, comforting him. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was the stuffed bunny beside him on the pillow.
He knew the bunny’s name, Fred had told it to him. He whispered, “Feigenbaum.”