Fic improv
So I thought, why not do a fic the old fashioned on the spur fashion? Then I thought, but what would I write about, all the plots I have require way too much effort to be on the spur. And then I just started writing, because who needs all that thinking, anyway?
And this is what came out. AtS season 5. Because of course I need to write about crazy!Wes when the last time I saw those eps was many months ago and I have no access to them and I'm stubbornly refusing to "spoil" myself for the few remaining eps that I missed back then.
In the solitude of his apartment he had nothing but time, a stark contrast to the perpetual merry-go-round of the office. Nothing but freedom to let his mind wander, time to pick at the lint forming between the cracks of his frazzled brain.
No wonder his workdays seemed to extend further and further into the night.
He moved about stiff, exact, economy of movement honed down to neat vectors and sharp angles. The kettle was on and the tea measured while he watched; his hands working far, far away and if he concentrated enough maybe he might reach them.
Breaking was such an overused metaphor for failure. He wasn't broken; rather, there were splinters wedged between the wheels and the cogs ran backwards, and you couldn't say it was broken if it was still running.
While he turned this problem around and inside out, his hands finished their job. The tea was ready by the time he reached his conclusion. It was really only a working hypothesis, and he'd need a whole lot of tea and lint and cracks to fall into before he'd have an actual working theory.
There it was again, that word. Work, function. Equations, parallels, cross references in long dead languages that belonged right where he was, or vice versa. Did it really matter which group was overlapping as long as there was a cross-section?
He walked over to the bathroom, washing his face from the daily grime. Nothing to see there, move on. The pleasant part of corporate life was never having to wash concrete demon slime and pus away, but the infinitely small gray particles clinging to every hair and burrowing into his pores weren't that much better. Slime he knew when he'd beaten; these layers of endless gray he had to rub raw, soap it up and scratch the stubble he didn't dare to shave off, not just yet when he could imagine the dust obscured under, wouldn't have to see it in case it wasn't all in his head. Was his face more ashen now? Did they notice?
No, of course they didn't. He was as invisible as the grime he tried to wash; translucent, just an obstacle in the way of photons flashing through him as the inconsequential lump of molecules he was. They looked at him, but only bent on their way through. He wasn't enough to reflect.
He stared at the mirror, skin tingling with the heat of the water and the abrasion he'd caused. He tilted his head, as if asking something but never receiving an answer.
He walked away after taking down the whole mirror. No use for the useless, after all.
And when he returned to the tea neatly laid out on the living room table it was tepid and bland, but the moon shone in with cold brightness and it fit, strangely enough, so well he turned the lights off and bathed in its muted rays and enjoyed his cup of mediocrity with it.
Today, Angel had looked at him, and he'd seen something. Not enough to leave any impression, of course, but maybe one tiny beam had reflected back and he didn't know whether he wanted to turn solid or wish it was only a statistical anomaly.
Fred had once seen him. It never turned out well.
*************
And this is what came out. AtS season 5. Because of course I need to write about crazy!Wes when the last time I saw those eps was many months ago and I have no access to them and I'm stubbornly refusing to "spoil" myself for the few remaining eps that I missed back then.
In the solitude of his apartment he had nothing but time, a stark contrast to the perpetual merry-go-round of the office. Nothing but freedom to let his mind wander, time to pick at the lint forming between the cracks of his frazzled brain.
No wonder his workdays seemed to extend further and further into the night.
He moved about stiff, exact, economy of movement honed down to neat vectors and sharp angles. The kettle was on and the tea measured while he watched; his hands working far, far away and if he concentrated enough maybe he might reach them.
Breaking was such an overused metaphor for failure. He wasn't broken; rather, there were splinters wedged between the wheels and the cogs ran backwards, and you couldn't say it was broken if it was still running.
While he turned this problem around and inside out, his hands finished their job. The tea was ready by the time he reached his conclusion. It was really only a working hypothesis, and he'd need a whole lot of tea and lint and cracks to fall into before he'd have an actual working theory.
There it was again, that word. Work, function. Equations, parallels, cross references in long dead languages that belonged right where he was, or vice versa. Did it really matter which group was overlapping as long as there was a cross-section?
He walked over to the bathroom, washing his face from the daily grime. Nothing to see there, move on. The pleasant part of corporate life was never having to wash concrete demon slime and pus away, but the infinitely small gray particles clinging to every hair and burrowing into his pores weren't that much better. Slime he knew when he'd beaten; these layers of endless gray he had to rub raw, soap it up and scratch the stubble he didn't dare to shave off, not just yet when he could imagine the dust obscured under, wouldn't have to see it in case it wasn't all in his head. Was his face more ashen now? Did they notice?
No, of course they didn't. He was as invisible as the grime he tried to wash; translucent, just an obstacle in the way of photons flashing through him as the inconsequential lump of molecules he was. They looked at him, but only bent on their way through. He wasn't enough to reflect.
He stared at the mirror, skin tingling with the heat of the water and the abrasion he'd caused. He tilted his head, as if asking something but never receiving an answer.
He walked away after taking down the whole mirror. No use for the useless, after all.
And when he returned to the tea neatly laid out on the living room table it was tepid and bland, but the moon shone in with cold brightness and it fit, strangely enough, so well he turned the lights off and bathed in its muted rays and enjoyed his cup of mediocrity with it.
Today, Angel had looked at him, and he'd seen something. Not enough to leave any impression, of course, but maybe one tiny beam had reflected back and he didn't know whether he wanted to turn solid or wish it was only a statistical anomaly.
Fred had once seen him. It never turned out well.
*************