Post by xandman on Sept 25, 2007 7:28:46 GMT 1
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em - I just play with 'em.
“But father please,” the boy pleaded. “I don’t want to go. I didn’t mean to…”
“But nothing,” the boy’s father chided. “I’ll not here another word from you.”
The boy wanted to try and shake loose his father’s grip, but his sense of self preservation got the better of him – he didn’t want to make Father any angrier than he already was. His feet shuffled and made twice the number of steps his father did just to keep up: any misstep and the boy knew he would surely be dragged the rest of the way.
He spotted his destination, coming at him at a rate of knots. It wasn’t so imposing if you really thought about it. Polished oak wood furnished by sparse family photos with too perfect camera smiles; too staged presentation and arrangement. The light was warm but the feeling of the photos was far colder. His father liked it that way though, neat, orderly, the way things should be.
The boy started to drag his feet without realising, slowing as a reaction to the small door next to the hallway table, which itself was furnished by an old fashioned black telephone and some fresh gardenia’s on a lace doily. The father jerked his arm and the boy was pulled and set firmly in front of the door.
A sharp sense of terror huddled over the boy’s frail form, his eyes wide pools of pleading and fear as they gazed up reluctantly into his father’s steel grey eyes. His father didn’t kneel, didn’t lower himself to speak eye to eye with boy. He simply opened the door in and shoved the boy under the tight frame which any adult would have been forced to crawl through for height, and the boy hit the narrow wall with a blunt force that shook his tiny frame.
The man said: “I don’t know what I did to deserve a child such as you.” And with that, he slammed the half-sized door and shut the boy into his dreaded and familiar spot, in the empty storage cabin beneath the stairs.
“Wesley?”
Sitting up with a start, Wesley sucked in a sharp breath and surveyed the room with a brief wild look. Small wooden desk. Familiar colours: forest green walls, warm browns and hot yellow light from the table lamp. He was in his study at the Hyperion. Cordelia. An out of focus Cordelia.
She spoke again. “You still with us over there?”
Wesley suddenly realised how disheveled he must have looked, and quickly sought about tidying himself up, straightening his shirt and flattening his hair in as dignified a manner as he could reasonably manage. If only he could find his… Ah, there they were. He picked up the wire rims and slid them to the bridge of his nose. After a moment Cordelia came back into focus nicely. She was wearing a bright red velour shirt that seemed to hold onto her curves like a needy lover never wanting to let go of their beloved. Her jet black pants seemed equally unyielding, but somehow she still managed to carry herself with a certain amount of grace and poise despite her impossibly tight attire.
“Cordelia,” he said gently, using her name to as much ground himself and his focus as greet her. “What can I do for you?”
Cordelia shrugged her shoulders. “Things are slow, I’m gonna head home for the night.”
“Head home, but it’s only…” Wesley checked his watch and let out a muffled – “Oh.”
“Yeah, you’ve been researching for like, ever in here. Take a break why don’t you.”
Wesley absently looked over the books and papers on his desk and said: “Well I really do want to take the down time to translate these runic inscr….”
“Oh hold up a minute mister,” Cordelia stopped him, “you’re not gonna try coming onto me with the old runic transcription line again, are you? Cos you’ve used that one before – didn’t work then and it won’t work now.”
Wesley couldn’t help but release a little smile, which he was pleased to see Cordelia reciprocate. “Where’s Angel?” Wesley asked, looking around past Cordelia into the lobby.
“Sir-broods-a lot is up in the fortress of solitude with a giant neon ‘do not disturb’ sign perched over his head.”
“And Gunn?”
“Out. Not sure where.”
The voice called to him.
“Ah… ok then.”
“Wesley?” Cordelia said, searching Wesley’s suddenly vacant stare. “Are you even listening?”
The voice whispered again. Wesley took a moment to reply. “Hmm?”
“What’s up with you?”
I don’t know what I did to deserve a child such as you. The voice called from his memory – deep and authoritative, carrying with it a shiver that melted Wesley’s bones.
Some voices never left you.
“No… I mean yes, it’s…” Wesley stammered; his concentration far away as he spoke. “If you happen to get a vision of…”
“If I have another psychic brain pain you’ll be the first I call.” With that Cordelia moved to spin on her heel and make a graceful exit, but she lingered a moment. Wesley hadn’t been himself lately. He’d seemed somewhat distant, his thoughts far away. She considered bringing it up with him but thought the better of it. He just needed some time to straighten his thoughts – that was all. This is a rough gig – she thought – everybody needs some time to work things out.
She turned and slung her black jacket over her shoulders, marching across the lobby floor and up the three steps to the front doors. Through those doors was the path to a microwave dinner, bubble bath and re-runs of Comedy Central. A wry smile tugged at her lips. Not exactly how a Friday night is supposed to be spent – or any night for that matter… but whatever, it was better than hanging around this place all night with nothing to do. As she reached for the front door she was taken aback as it opened in her face, nearly knocking her down.
“Woah! Liking the face where it is here… no desperate need for any facial reconstructions by means of slamming door.”
The man who stood before her couldn’t have been more than about fifty, wearing a brown sweater and pants, matching shoes and a faded white shirt with tan cotton vest, making him look like every fifty year old she’d ever met who hadn’t escaped their beloved fashion time zone for the last thirty years. There was something frail about the way he carried himself, almost like a man ten or twenty years his senior. His hands held nervously onto an old hat out in front of his stomach, hunching his shoulders in the process. But of all the things Cordelia noticed, really noticed, it was the man’s eyes. There was something familiar about them, something she recognized. Though brown and dark and speaking of a life made of many hard years, as she looked into them she could only see, only feel the desperate pleading that poured out of them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep but quivering with nervousness.
Cordelia held out her hand to the man to guide him in, concern now etched in her features. “Are you ok?” she asked.
The man’s only reply was the question: “Is he here?”
Though the man’s skin was a dark chocolate brown, his face seemed pale. Cordelia thought it best to get him a seat before he keeled over on her. He may have looked steady enough, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. “Why don’t you come and sit…”
“Please,” he interrupted. “Tell me. Is he here?”
Cordelia’s brows knit together. “Is who here?”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie?” Cordelia echoed, her mind trying to place the name. A second later it clicked. “Oh, you mean Gunn?”
“Please,” the man pleaded, his nervous hands kneading and working over the brim of his hat. “I need to find him.”
Cordelia looked him up and down again quickly and asked: “Who are you?”
The man faltered a moment, as if he’d tried to speak the words but they’d caught in his throat. Moments later he managed to get the words out, and Cordelia’s eyes went wide with surprise.
He said: “I’m his father.”
“But father please,” the boy pleaded. “I don’t want to go. I didn’t mean to…”
“But nothing,” the boy’s father chided. “I’ll not here another word from you.”
The boy wanted to try and shake loose his father’s grip, but his sense of self preservation got the better of him – he didn’t want to make Father any angrier than he already was. His feet shuffled and made twice the number of steps his father did just to keep up: any misstep and the boy knew he would surely be dragged the rest of the way.
He spotted his destination, coming at him at a rate of knots. It wasn’t so imposing if you really thought about it. Polished oak wood furnished by sparse family photos with too perfect camera smiles; too staged presentation and arrangement. The light was warm but the feeling of the photos was far colder. His father liked it that way though, neat, orderly, the way things should be.
The boy started to drag his feet without realising, slowing as a reaction to the small door next to the hallway table, which itself was furnished by an old fashioned black telephone and some fresh gardenia’s on a lace doily. The father jerked his arm and the boy was pulled and set firmly in front of the door.
A sharp sense of terror huddled over the boy’s frail form, his eyes wide pools of pleading and fear as they gazed up reluctantly into his father’s steel grey eyes. His father didn’t kneel, didn’t lower himself to speak eye to eye with boy. He simply opened the door in and shoved the boy under the tight frame which any adult would have been forced to crawl through for height, and the boy hit the narrow wall with a blunt force that shook his tiny frame.
The man said: “I don’t know what I did to deserve a child such as you.” And with that, he slammed the half-sized door and shut the boy into his dreaded and familiar spot, in the empty storage cabin beneath the stairs.
“Wesley?”
Sitting up with a start, Wesley sucked in a sharp breath and surveyed the room with a brief wild look. Small wooden desk. Familiar colours: forest green walls, warm browns and hot yellow light from the table lamp. He was in his study at the Hyperion. Cordelia. An out of focus Cordelia.
She spoke again. “You still with us over there?”
Wesley suddenly realised how disheveled he must have looked, and quickly sought about tidying himself up, straightening his shirt and flattening his hair in as dignified a manner as he could reasonably manage. If only he could find his… Ah, there they were. He picked up the wire rims and slid them to the bridge of his nose. After a moment Cordelia came back into focus nicely. She was wearing a bright red velour shirt that seemed to hold onto her curves like a needy lover never wanting to let go of their beloved. Her jet black pants seemed equally unyielding, but somehow she still managed to carry herself with a certain amount of grace and poise despite her impossibly tight attire.
“Cordelia,” he said gently, using her name to as much ground himself and his focus as greet her. “What can I do for you?”
Cordelia shrugged her shoulders. “Things are slow, I’m gonna head home for the night.”
“Head home, but it’s only…” Wesley checked his watch and let out a muffled – “Oh.”
“Yeah, you’ve been researching for like, ever in here. Take a break why don’t you.”
Wesley absently looked over the books and papers on his desk and said: “Well I really do want to take the down time to translate these runic inscr….”
“Oh hold up a minute mister,” Cordelia stopped him, “you’re not gonna try coming onto me with the old runic transcription line again, are you? Cos you’ve used that one before – didn’t work then and it won’t work now.”
Wesley couldn’t help but release a little smile, which he was pleased to see Cordelia reciprocate. “Where’s Angel?” Wesley asked, looking around past Cordelia into the lobby.
“Sir-broods-a lot is up in the fortress of solitude with a giant neon ‘do not disturb’ sign perched over his head.”
“And Gunn?”
“Out. Not sure where.”
The voice called to him.
“Ah… ok then.”
“Wesley?” Cordelia said, searching Wesley’s suddenly vacant stare. “Are you even listening?”
The voice whispered again. Wesley took a moment to reply. “Hmm?”
“What’s up with you?”
I don’t know what I did to deserve a child such as you. The voice called from his memory – deep and authoritative, carrying with it a shiver that melted Wesley’s bones.
Some voices never left you.
“No… I mean yes, it’s…” Wesley stammered; his concentration far away as he spoke. “If you happen to get a vision of…”
“If I have another psychic brain pain you’ll be the first I call.” With that Cordelia moved to spin on her heel and make a graceful exit, but she lingered a moment. Wesley hadn’t been himself lately. He’d seemed somewhat distant, his thoughts far away. She considered bringing it up with him but thought the better of it. He just needed some time to straighten his thoughts – that was all. This is a rough gig – she thought – everybody needs some time to work things out.
She turned and slung her black jacket over her shoulders, marching across the lobby floor and up the three steps to the front doors. Through those doors was the path to a microwave dinner, bubble bath and re-runs of Comedy Central. A wry smile tugged at her lips. Not exactly how a Friday night is supposed to be spent – or any night for that matter… but whatever, it was better than hanging around this place all night with nothing to do. As she reached for the front door she was taken aback as it opened in her face, nearly knocking her down.
“Woah! Liking the face where it is here… no desperate need for any facial reconstructions by means of slamming door.”
The man who stood before her couldn’t have been more than about fifty, wearing a brown sweater and pants, matching shoes and a faded white shirt with tan cotton vest, making him look like every fifty year old she’d ever met who hadn’t escaped their beloved fashion time zone for the last thirty years. There was something frail about the way he carried himself, almost like a man ten or twenty years his senior. His hands held nervously onto an old hat out in front of his stomach, hunching his shoulders in the process. But of all the things Cordelia noticed, really noticed, it was the man’s eyes. There was something familiar about them, something she recognized. Though brown and dark and speaking of a life made of many hard years, as she looked into them she could only see, only feel the desperate pleading that poured out of them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep but quivering with nervousness.
Cordelia held out her hand to the man to guide him in, concern now etched in her features. “Are you ok?” she asked.
The man’s only reply was the question: “Is he here?”
Though the man’s skin was a dark chocolate brown, his face seemed pale. Cordelia thought it best to get him a seat before he keeled over on her. He may have looked steady enough, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. “Why don’t you come and sit…”
“Please,” he interrupted. “Tell me. Is he here?”
Cordelia’s brows knit together. “Is who here?”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie?” Cordelia echoed, her mind trying to place the name. A second later it clicked. “Oh, you mean Gunn?”
“Please,” the man pleaded, his nervous hands kneading and working over the brim of his hat. “I need to find him.”
Cordelia looked him up and down again quickly and asked: “Who are you?”
The man faltered a moment, as if he’d tried to speak the words but they’d caught in his throat. Moments later he managed to get the words out, and Cordelia’s eyes went wide with surprise.
He said: “I’m his father.”