Title: Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love
Author: Pagan Pylea Princess
Characters: Wesley, Illyria, Fred (kind of)
Summary: Poor ‘ol Wes grieves over his loss. (will this guy ever stop suffering?!)
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. (I know, it’s so unfair!)
Feedback: Yup Yup!
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To an onlooker it would appear that, sat in his armchair; Wesley Wyndam Pryce was peering disinterestedly into a dark corner of his apartment. But he had never been more fixed and focused on a spot than now. He remained silent and deep in thought, as he had done most days since…Fred.
He figured God was teasing him as he stared into his corner. He could see her, hunched over, and backed up against the wall. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, resting her chin on top of them. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her long, dark curls spilled over and hung around her face. She was looking right at him with her deep brown eyes, and she was smiling contentedly. Wesley loved that smile. It was like moonbeams and sunshine.
Slouching back into his chair, he could make out her outline, though it was slightly hazy, and she did not fade.
Yet every time he sat upright and reached out to take her hand, she disappeared. His disappointment didn’t grow any less each time he did it, a pain would shoot through his chest, and each time he did it he grew more and more frustrated with himself, and took another swig from his whiskey bottle which was perched on the arm rest.
Even now he couldn’t save her. He couldn’t help thinking that, day in day out, it was her soul that sat smiling in the corner, waiting for him to take hold of her and help her, and he couldn’t even do that. Angrily he threw his bottle at the figure, but instead of causing her injury, it passed right through her and smashed on the wall behind her.
She carried on smiling.
As what was left of his whiskey ran down the walls and onto the floor, Wesley sobbed quietly. The noise he made echoed around the hollow room. It was so empty now; he’d never felt so alone. Not many tears actually fell down his cheeks. He had cried them all already, and no matter how hard he wanted to, he couldn’t cry any more.
He looked to the clock on the mantelpiece. 9.30.
Half past nine in the morning, and already he was drinking, and seeing ghosts of his past. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was so tired, but he couldn’t sleep. Everytime he did, the figure became solid and wandered around his room endlessly, touching objects and floating around him restlessly. Then he would wake up, a little stronger, believing this time he would save her. He’d look up from his chair where she would be standing still, sometimes looking directly over him, and sometimes standing at the mantelpiece. Then she would return to her corner and sit in perfect silence, tricking him with her prowess.
“Wesley?”
Wesley shut his eyes, praying the demon would leave him. She slept for a long time, but not long enough in his book.
“You are awake?” she asked him, quietly. But her voice still echoed around the room like it was a cavern.
Keeping his eyes focused on the figure sat enthralled in the corner, in case she disappeared, he nodded his reply.
“Do you not wish to see your friends today?”
He was silent for a while.
“No. Not today. I think I’ll stay here.” His voice was hoarse and croaky, having not been used for so long.
Illyria cocked her head to one side. She kept her eyes on Wesley, who seemed to be staring at something in the corner. She was confused.
“You say you can see your friend, Fred?” she asked hollowly.
He simply nodded and squinted his eyes in an effort to make her out better. He sat up in his chair, and Illyria watched him pause for a moment, arm outstretched, then return to slumping in his chair. Illyria eyed the spot for a few minutes. She could see no such image.
“This spirit you see, it is what you call “scotch?” She asked.
“No.” He said, firmly and louder than he expected. More quietly he explained, “my mind. Plays tricks sometimes.”
Illyria was silent.
He turned. It was unlike him to take his eyes from his imaginary vision, but he looked toward Illyria.
“Will you be her?” he asked in a whisper, a solitary tear on his cheek. His eyes were pleading with her, and she could hear his soft heartbeat grow a little faster at the thought of seeing her again.
“Just for a little while?”
Illyria was still a moment, contemplating her actions. She knew that Wesley was prone to do this, and that it made him sad, or angry when she did so without his permission. Then, without a word, she morphed from her cold, blue form, into Fred’s soft, warm countenance.
She smiled, Oh how he loved that smile, and walked toward him.
“There you are.” She said soothingly.
He smiled back, a little more enlightened. “Yes. I’m here.”
She sat beside him on the arm of the chair, and put an arm around his neck. She leant her face against the top of his head and entwined her delicate fingers into his own. Her chocolate-coloured ringlet’s brushed the side of his face. Illyria could get Fred down to a tee. He could smell her sweet perfume, smell the subtle scent of strawberry on her hair, and feel the soft, delicate touch of her skin to his fingertips.
Wesley turned his chair to the window where they could watch the sun set over Los Angeles. Beautiful reds, golds and oranges.
And for a while, they would sit like this.
Just for a while.
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