Nervous.
Okay. No real update. Just something that I've been playing with and made Rachel decide whether or not the public should see it cause I'm a big wimp and can't make decisions for myself.
Ahem.
I wrote my first fanfiction. Ever. Yeah. Angst-y, (probably shitty) piece from Angel this past season. Spoilers up to "The Girl in Question," or the episode that takes place in Italy.
Blame Rachel if it sucks.
Title: Shells
Fandom: Angel
Rating: PG
Summary: Poor Wesley.
Ship: Wesley/Fred.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And if I did...well, I'd be rich.
Warnings: Spoilers up to "The Girl in Questions."
She walked towards him wearing her face, speaking with her voice, wearing her clothes, her smile, her eyes...wearing her skin, nothing more than a shell now.
"Change back. Be blue. Be anything. Don't be her. Don't ever be her."
Complying, she tilted her head back and the blue overtook the Texan drawl, as he walked away.
---
The page blurred in front of his eyes. He couldn't read another word, all of the scrawlings had become an unknown foreign language. All except one -- Illyria -- the one word he wanted to be strange to him. The book was slammed shut on the desk and he glared at it. It was supposed to hold the answers -- Wesley's magic book...it wasn't magic when he needed it most. It wasn't magic when it was needed for her. As a lack bit of desperation, he drew the book into his lap. He knew nothing would happen -- knew there was no book in the Wolfram and Hart archives to help -- he knew this deep down, but still he was compelled to try. So he whispered,
"Show me how to fix this. Show me how to fix her."
Gently he opened the book and let the pages fall to their respective ends. Willing his eyes to read the words, he looked at the pages -- blank. Angry, he closed the book again and said, "How do I get her back?"
Blank.
"How can I find her?"
Blank.
With each unanswered question, the opening and closing grew louder, clanging, echoing, grieving.
"Show me the answer, how can I save her?"
The pages peeled back and he read, "She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time."
Once he finished the brief paragraph that had appeared he closed the book and put it on the desk.
"Why couldn't you have stayed?"
---
She watched from the window, the blue eyes piercing the glass between the shell and him. His books had offered nothing to him and she knew it. She had known since the beginning that this Winifred Burkle would become the shell. What she didn't know was that the creation of one shell would also create another -- the shell of a lonely man with no more answers.
Ahem.
I wrote my first fanfiction. Ever. Yeah. Angst-y, (probably shitty) piece from Angel this past season. Spoilers up to "The Girl in Question," or the episode that takes place in Italy.
Blame Rachel if it sucks.
Title: Shells
Fandom: Angel
Rating: PG
Summary: Poor Wesley.
Ship: Wesley/Fred.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And if I did...well, I'd be rich.
Warnings: Spoilers up to "The Girl in Questions."
She walked towards him wearing her face, speaking with her voice, wearing her clothes, her smile, her eyes...wearing her skin, nothing more than a shell now.
"Change back. Be blue. Be anything. Don't be her. Don't ever be her."
Complying, she tilted her head back and the blue overtook the Texan drawl, as he walked away.
---
The page blurred in front of his eyes. He couldn't read another word, all of the scrawlings had become an unknown foreign language. All except one -- Illyria -- the one word he wanted to be strange to him. The book was slammed shut on the desk and he glared at it. It was supposed to hold the answers -- Wesley's magic book...it wasn't magic when he needed it most. It wasn't magic when it was needed for her. As a lack bit of desperation, he drew the book into his lap. He knew nothing would happen -- knew there was no book in the Wolfram and Hart archives to help -- he knew this deep down, but still he was compelled to try. So he whispered,
"Show me how to fix this. Show me how to fix her."
Gently he opened the book and let the pages fall to their respective ends. Willing his eyes to read the words, he looked at the pages -- blank. Angry, he closed the book again and said, "How do I get her back?"
Blank.
"How can I find her?"
Blank.
With each unanswered question, the opening and closing grew louder, clanging, echoing, grieving.
"Show me the answer, how can I save her?"
The pages peeled back and he read, "She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time."
Once he finished the brief paragraph that had appeared he closed the book and put it on the desk.
"Why couldn't you have stayed?"
---
She watched from the window, the blue eyes piercing the glass between the shell and him. His books had offered nothing to him and she knew it. She had known since the beginning that this Winifred Burkle would become the shell. What she didn't know was that the creation of one shell would also create another -- the shell of a lonely man with no more answers.