Fic: Mutually Assured Destruction, PG-13, Wes/Illyria
TITLE: Mutually Assured Destruction
SUMMARY: There are three people in this relationship and one of them is dead.
RATING: PG-13, Wes/Illyria
WARNINGS: Spoilers to The Girl In Question.
She (and she is not a she) is drawn to that one, that rough, broken, selfish one. He who is Wesley. She is fascinated by Wesley, her Wesley, that is not hers. She (he, it?) wants to take him apart, wants to see what makes him (tick?), ever and ever, inexorably, like the strange thing keeping time on the wall.
Illyria is not used to keeping time in seconds. Illyria is not used to personal attachment. She is staring at the plants that used to talk to her (foliage, flora: these are other Names) and he is. Inside his office, ignoring her (him, it).
And he is tidying up scattered papers and she is walking to his door, she is -
Spike and Angel are *together* somewhere; Gunn is in another room.
- leaning against his door. She likes to lean and twist, the way this body can do that.
Wesley looks up, and he is tired and in pain, and says, "Illyria."
Just like that.
He sees two people when he looks at her, and she wonders which one of them will finally make him succumb.
"Wesley," she says, and doesn't move. Only pins him with her stare, like a bug under the microscope (Fred liked microscopes, and bugs, and the patterns of light early in the morning).
Wesley waits for Illyria to make a move. Illyria outstares him.
She is studying him, carefully, but not with detachment. She has no hypothesis to test; no use for the scientific method. She studies the line of his jaw, the roughness of his hair, the way his eyelids close briefly and his strong intake of breath. The memories that returned to the shell tell her that he used to wear glasses to correct his eyesight, that he came from a place called England, that he once belonged to Angel and that parts of Angel used to belong to him.
He falters under her regard. His eyes snap up to meet hers, angry and full of self-loathing, as is common.
"What do you want, Illyria?" he asks.
"To know what it is you are made of."
"Then read a book. I'm not in the mood."
"There is more to what we are made of than is in books. Winifred Burkle read them all and she did not know what it is that made Wesley," she replies.
He turns his eyes away and moves toward the wall. "I don't know what to say to you."
She secures this *cage* and -
Illyria is moving towards him. The door is closed.
- steps closer to Wesley. With every step that takes her closer to him he pushes himself closer to the edge of the table.
"I just wish to understand why it is I feel this thing," she whispers.
"I can't do this," he says, and stumbles.
She reaches out an arm to steady him and he does not escape and then. Illyria touches Wesley. She grabs hold of him. He grabs hold of her. They look at each other.
"I can't breathe," he says, which makes no sense as he is clearly respirating quite loudly.
He kisses her (him, it) with his eyes squeezed shut. This must be what she wanted to know because she applies herself to learning, intimately, the softness and pressure of his mouth and the hard yet feeble grip of his hands on her arms.
He yields, slightly, to her force and backs up against the desk, opening his mouth on a heated gasp. Humans are so warm and sickly-sweet, strong with incipient death. If she pressed harder on his ribs she could crush him. If she chose she could bite his tongue off. She chooses instead to explore (and be explored) through this new thing, strange mortal desire she should not have and he does not want.
She likes tasting him, discovering him on this closest sensory level. She wonders if her grief tastes as metallic as his does.
He draws his hand in to hers and deigns to show her another thing about his world.
SUMMARY: There are three people in this relationship and one of them is dead.
RATING: PG-13, Wes/Illyria
WARNINGS: Spoilers to The Girl In Question.
She (and she is not a she) is drawn to that one, that rough, broken, selfish one. He who is Wesley. She is fascinated by Wesley, her Wesley, that is not hers. She (he, it?) wants to take him apart, wants to see what makes him (tick?), ever and ever, inexorably, like the strange thing keeping time on the wall.
Illyria is not used to keeping time in seconds. Illyria is not used to personal attachment. She is staring at the plants that used to talk to her (foliage, flora: these are other Names) and he is. Inside his office, ignoring her (him, it).
And he is tidying up scattered papers and she is walking to his door, she is -
Spike and Angel are *together* somewhere; Gunn is in another room.
- leaning against his door. She likes to lean and twist, the way this body can do that.
Wesley looks up, and he is tired and in pain, and says, "Illyria."
Just like that.
He sees two people when he looks at her, and she wonders which one of them will finally make him succumb.
"Wesley," she says, and doesn't move. Only pins him with her stare, like a bug under the microscope (Fred liked microscopes, and bugs, and the patterns of light early in the morning).
Wesley waits for Illyria to make a move. Illyria outstares him.
She is studying him, carefully, but not with detachment. She has no hypothesis to test; no use for the scientific method. She studies the line of his jaw, the roughness of his hair, the way his eyelids close briefly and his strong intake of breath. The memories that returned to the shell tell her that he used to wear glasses to correct his eyesight, that he came from a place called England, that he once belonged to Angel and that parts of Angel used to belong to him.
He falters under her regard. His eyes snap up to meet hers, angry and full of self-loathing, as is common.
"What do you want, Illyria?" he asks.
"To know what it is you are made of."
"Then read a book. I'm not in the mood."
"There is more to what we are made of than is in books. Winifred Burkle read them all and she did not know what it is that made Wesley," she replies.
He turns his eyes away and moves toward the wall. "I don't know what to say to you."
She secures this *cage* and -
Illyria is moving towards him. The door is closed.
- steps closer to Wesley. With every step that takes her closer to him he pushes himself closer to the edge of the table.
"I just wish to understand why it is I feel this thing," she whispers.
"I can't do this," he says, and stumbles.
She reaches out an arm to steady him and he does not escape and then. Illyria touches Wesley. She grabs hold of him. He grabs hold of her. They look at each other.
"I can't breathe," he says, which makes no sense as he is clearly respirating quite loudly.
He kisses her (him, it) with his eyes squeezed shut. This must be what she wanted to know because she applies herself to learning, intimately, the softness and pressure of his mouth and the hard yet feeble grip of his hands on her arms.
He yields, slightly, to her force and backs up against the desk, opening his mouth on a heated gasp. Humans are so warm and sickly-sweet, strong with incipient death. If she pressed harder on his ribs she could crush him. If she chose she could bite his tongue off. She chooses instead to explore (and be explored) through this new thing, strange mortal desire she should not have and he does not want.
She likes tasting him, discovering him on this closest sensory level. She wonders if her grief tastes as metallic as his does.
He draws his hand in to hers and deigns to show her another thing about his world.