Ficlet: Transitivity (Fred, Illyria, Wes, Gunn) PG
Posted here so that I can have it with everything else...
Title: Transitivity
Characters: Fred, Illyria, Gunn, Wes (various implied het pairings)
Rating: PG
Timeline: post-NFA
*
Fred wakes up several times a night, every single night, her dreams disintegrating slowly enough around her that she knows they're memories--her memories--even though she pretends otherwise.
She lies to Wesley, selfless comfort and greedy self-indulgence all at once, and not even he really thought that it ever would have worked out for them, no matter the infinity of possibilities.
When she's awake, she sometimes has flashes that take her to a different rooftop than she remembers, with a more unstable Wes than she was used to, and one time a glass breaks in her hand, cutting her palm, and she drips blood in her wake until it clots.
She leaves Angel and Spike to each other or themselves, whatever, whichever, she doesn't care because Gunn--Charles--is leaking, and she figures the volume of each drop and measures it against the whole, her chest tight in a way she's not used to.
On the cusp of sleep, she sometimes has flashes that take her to an alley she finally remembers has significance, to a Charles who is guilty of a lot more than she's used to, and she cries every time, broken and heaving, messy and wet.
She thinks she saw Wes in the space of that last breath, and that he pulled her across to him while setting the other one free, and maybe that's what happened or not, she doesn't know or care, because even Gods aren't immortal.
When she finally calls him she doesn't even have to find the words, and maybe once upon a time she would have resented that he presumed to understand her, but it's only a comfort now.
"I'm here," Charles says a too-short time later, his long arms wrapping around her.
She curls against his chest and twists and turns herself until it's almost as though she is tucked safely out of sight behind his biceps, under his chin, on the other side of the barrier that is his bent knees, and she knows that only he realizes that she's not hiding.
Charles never tried to protect her, even if she thought so at the time, and she understands the difference now, just as she recognizes the matching dark spots on their souls.
"I traded my soul for a truck," Charles whispers in her ear like a secret, like she wasn't there and didn't drag the others to his rescue. "Ain't really a surprise how things went down for me. It was always there." Maybe it was, she can't find it in herself to disagree. "But you--"
"You think I didn't have my own dark spots?" she asks.
"She didn't come from you--"
"You killed so that I wouldn't. It was in me."
She thinks that he can't find it in himself to disagree. "Maybe," he says so faintly that she almost doesn't hear.
Hours later they unfold themselves and slip into her bed, and Charles is woken by memories that shame him, and she is woken by memories that are her burden simply because she's the only one left to own them.
She thinks they'll be okay and she'd like to make sure of it but she doesn't belong here, not really, and Wesley is tugging at her, seemingly heartless in his practicality and implacability. When she follows his draw she notices again how well they fit, how alike they are, and only he ever knew it would work out between them, in spite of the infinity of possibilities.
.End
Title: Transitivity
Characters: Fred, Illyria, Gunn, Wes (various implied het pairings)
Rating: PG
Timeline: post-NFA
*
Fred wakes up several times a night, every single night, her dreams disintegrating slowly enough around her that she knows they're memories--her memories--even though she pretends otherwise.
She lies to Wesley, selfless comfort and greedy self-indulgence all at once, and not even he really thought that it ever would have worked out for them, no matter the infinity of possibilities.
When she's awake, she sometimes has flashes that take her to a different rooftop than she remembers, with a more unstable Wes than she was used to, and one time a glass breaks in her hand, cutting her palm, and she drips blood in her wake until it clots.
She leaves Angel and Spike to each other or themselves, whatever, whichever, she doesn't care because Gunn--Charles--is leaking, and she figures the volume of each drop and measures it against the whole, her chest tight in a way she's not used to.
On the cusp of sleep, she sometimes has flashes that take her to an alley she finally remembers has significance, to a Charles who is guilty of a lot more than she's used to, and she cries every time, broken and heaving, messy and wet.
She thinks she saw Wes in the space of that last breath, and that he pulled her across to him while setting the other one free, and maybe that's what happened or not, she doesn't know or care, because even Gods aren't immortal.
When she finally calls him she doesn't even have to find the words, and maybe once upon a time she would have resented that he presumed to understand her, but it's only a comfort now.
"I'm here," Charles says a too-short time later, his long arms wrapping around her.
She curls against his chest and twists and turns herself until it's almost as though she is tucked safely out of sight behind his biceps, under his chin, on the other side of the barrier that is his bent knees, and she knows that only he realizes that she's not hiding.
Charles never tried to protect her, even if she thought so at the time, and she understands the difference now, just as she recognizes the matching dark spots on their souls.
"I traded my soul for a truck," Charles whispers in her ear like a secret, like she wasn't there and didn't drag the others to his rescue. "Ain't really a surprise how things went down for me. It was always there." Maybe it was, she can't find it in herself to disagree. "But you--"
"You think I didn't have my own dark spots?" she asks.
"She didn't come from you--"
"You killed so that I wouldn't. It was in me."
She thinks that he can't find it in himself to disagree. "Maybe," he says so faintly that she almost doesn't hear.
Hours later they unfold themselves and slip into her bed, and Charles is woken by memories that shame him, and she is woken by memories that are her burden simply because she's the only one left to own them.
She thinks they'll be okay and she'd like to make sure of it but she doesn't belong here, not really, and Wesley is tugging at her, seemingly heartless in his practicality and implacability. When she follows his draw she notices again how well they fit, how alike they are, and only he ever knew it would work out between them, in spite of the infinity of possibilities.
.End