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it could go this way
I guess. if like, yeah. Note for the not-interested: I like Fred. I do. But Te gave me a beginning and I gave it a go. Also, I heart Ins. But if you didn't know that already, then where have you been?
Fred was dead.
That was the thing, really; more, it was mostly that Gunn wasn't and thought he probably should be. It didn't seem fair that he wasn't and she was, and that there was nowhere to aim angry that wasn't on her.
Gunn was the one who made stupid mistakes and almost got killed and made bad deals that almost got him killed and who *was* the Angry Young Black Man of Hollywood, like he was some kind of fucking B-movie monster, and he should have been the one to go first.
It would have been easier.
For him, anyway, and he didn't think it was too selfish to want things to be easy, just once. To take the road more traveled and all that, except that he *had*, and it still hurt to get to the end. Cordelia hugged him and said how sorry she was, and Angel stood around awkwardly, with his hands shoved in his pockets, and he didn't say anything but that was okay, because Gunn hardly ever wanted to hear it. He still came to the hotel, at first just to pack things up, and then he thought that he wouldn't come back after, except that he was apparently just a big liar. And. It was a place to go, he thought, and left it there.
Time passed. Fred would have said that they passed through time, because time was this whole big thing, like distance or maybe it *was* distance, because you could solve for the variable; she'd tried to explain it using a diagram and a graph and once, she pulled out this funky sculpture looking thing, but the words just kind of sank in and melted into the back of his head, and he'd caught her hand when she made a big gesture; she smiled, and he pulled her closer.
That was love.
This was life.
This day to day thing, because that's what they did. And every day made it hurt just that little bit less, until Gunn could go through her stuff, all the scribbled little notes on the backs of receipts, and the journals that she kept up after Wesley left them. He started to open one, black and white little composition book, when it hit him.
Wesley.
Gunn sat down on the edge of his bed. The name hit him in the chest, hard, and he felt like something just sucker punched him.
He spent an hour looking for the journals. Under the bed, and in the closet, because really? How the fuck did you hide these big notebooks of...stuff? That he hadn't read. Fred did, but she was...gone. He didn't find them before his pager went off and that was that for a while.
Some big rank ass thing to kill, and that was still what Gunn did. It was what he was best at. That and not dying, against all kinds of stupid odds. He spent that night at the hotel, and the next, in what used to be Fred's room, where there was stuff under all the paint. Listen, it said. Angel told him after, and so did Fred. Listen for that click, that one that makes everything makes sense.
Gunn scratched his stomach and stared at the ceiling. All he heard was the crickets outside, and the water sound of cars passing by down on the street.
Wesley, he thought again. The journals.
He slid out of bed and crouched down beside it. Tentatively, he stuck his hand into the space between the bed and floor, groped around a little. It would be just like--
Yes.
His fingers brushed the edge of a box, and up, to the top. Gunn pulled on it, and it slid out from beneath the bed with a quiet gritty sound. Dust and other things under that abandoned bed.
The box is heavy, and the journals are stacked neatly in it, all covered in that dust and other things. Human skin makes up 80% of dust. He could hear Fred saying that in his head, waving a pancake-loaded fork around and dripping syrup. He licked it off her palm and she grinned at him.
There they were.
Gunn pulled the top book out and brushed it off. The label was fading, dark blue ink to something like gray, and his fingers left smudged prints on the first page. There were dates in the top corner, years and years ago. Not that long, maybe, but it felt like longer.
Wesley's handwriting was sharp and on the second page, the first real entry, it just said "faith" in heavy black letters. Quick dash of a line under it, and the end scrawled off into a messy blob.
Gunn closed the book quickly. He tossed it back in the box and shoved the box back under the bed.
In the morning, he'd find out what was what.
But in the morning, Cordelia had a vision, and it was morning, hey, so Angel was stuck inside because no one had come up with SPF fucking 500 in a greaseless self-tanning formula that also moisturized and exfoliated.
That was what life with girls got you, he thought. Or at least life with Cordelia.
And life with Cordelia and Angel went on the way it always did, until time slipped past him again, and Gunn realized that he hadn't found out what was what, and that he didn't know if Wesley was even still alive. That was another sucker punch, and he blurted it out in the middle of breakfast, asked Cordelia flat out if she knew where Wesley was.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "We don't say his name, Gunn. You know that."
"Wesley," said Gunn, and Cordelia stood up, shoving the chair back and slamming her open hand down on the table. Gunn stood too and stared her down. "You know where he is."
"I *don't*," she said. "I don't."
"You do."
"*Gunn*."
"What, we just pretend that he doesn't exist?" and that was the exact wrong thing to say, because Cordelia just nodded. "That's fucked up."
Her eyes narrowed. "You had no problem with it yesterday."
Which was true, and it made Gunn feel sick. He *didn't* care, not for years, and what did that say about him?
Gunn remembered Wesley slumped against a broken fence and the stickyhot feel of blood slipping between his fingers. He looked down and his hands were clean. "Jesus," he said. That feeling in his stomach was guilt, probably. Maybe something dirtier than that. He'd called Wesley his friend, once upon a time.
Years gone by. And if every day were a mile, that was one fuck of a long way to go.
*And* he didn't even know if Wesley was still alive.
Well. Shit.
Fred was dead.
That was the thing, really; more, it was mostly that Gunn wasn't and thought he probably should be. It didn't seem fair that he wasn't and she was, and that there was nowhere to aim angry that wasn't on her.
Gunn was the one who made stupid mistakes and almost got killed and made bad deals that almost got him killed and who *was* the Angry Young Black Man of Hollywood, like he was some kind of fucking B-movie monster, and he should have been the one to go first.
It would have been easier.
For him, anyway, and he didn't think it was too selfish to want things to be easy, just once. To take the road more traveled and all that, except that he *had*, and it still hurt to get to the end. Cordelia hugged him and said how sorry she was, and Angel stood around awkwardly, with his hands shoved in his pockets, and he didn't say anything but that was okay, because Gunn hardly ever wanted to hear it. He still came to the hotel, at first just to pack things up, and then he thought that he wouldn't come back after, except that he was apparently just a big liar. And. It was a place to go, he thought, and left it there.
Time passed. Fred would have said that they passed through time, because time was this whole big thing, like distance or maybe it *was* distance, because you could solve for the variable; she'd tried to explain it using a diagram and a graph and once, she pulled out this funky sculpture looking thing, but the words just kind of sank in and melted into the back of his head, and he'd caught her hand when she made a big gesture; she smiled, and he pulled her closer.
That was love.
This was life.
This day to day thing, because that's what they did. And every day made it hurt just that little bit less, until Gunn could go through her stuff, all the scribbled little notes on the backs of receipts, and the journals that she kept up after Wesley left them. He started to open one, black and white little composition book, when it hit him.
Wesley.
Gunn sat down on the edge of his bed. The name hit him in the chest, hard, and he felt like something just sucker punched him.
He spent an hour looking for the journals. Under the bed, and in the closet, because really? How the fuck did you hide these big notebooks of...stuff? That he hadn't read. Fred did, but she was...gone. He didn't find them before his pager went off and that was that for a while.
Some big rank ass thing to kill, and that was still what Gunn did. It was what he was best at. That and not dying, against all kinds of stupid odds. He spent that night at the hotel, and the next, in what used to be Fred's room, where there was stuff under all the paint. Listen, it said. Angel told him after, and so did Fred. Listen for that click, that one that makes everything makes sense.
Gunn scratched his stomach and stared at the ceiling. All he heard was the crickets outside, and the water sound of cars passing by down on the street.
Wesley, he thought again. The journals.
He slid out of bed and crouched down beside it. Tentatively, he stuck his hand into the space between the bed and floor, groped around a little. It would be just like--
Yes.
His fingers brushed the edge of a box, and up, to the top. Gunn pulled on it, and it slid out from beneath the bed with a quiet gritty sound. Dust and other things under that abandoned bed.
The box is heavy, and the journals are stacked neatly in it, all covered in that dust and other things. Human skin makes up 80% of dust. He could hear Fred saying that in his head, waving a pancake-loaded fork around and dripping syrup. He licked it off her palm and she grinned at him.
There they were.
Gunn pulled the top book out and brushed it off. The label was fading, dark blue ink to something like gray, and his fingers left smudged prints on the first page. There were dates in the top corner, years and years ago. Not that long, maybe, but it felt like longer.
Wesley's handwriting was sharp and on the second page, the first real entry, it just said "faith" in heavy black letters. Quick dash of a line under it, and the end scrawled off into a messy blob.
Gunn closed the book quickly. He tossed it back in the box and shoved the box back under the bed.
In the morning, he'd find out what was what.
But in the morning, Cordelia had a vision, and it was morning, hey, so Angel was stuck inside because no one had come up with SPF fucking 500 in a greaseless self-tanning formula that also moisturized and exfoliated.
That was what life with girls got you, he thought. Or at least life with Cordelia.
And life with Cordelia and Angel went on the way it always did, until time slipped past him again, and Gunn realized that he hadn't found out what was what, and that he didn't know if Wesley was even still alive. That was another sucker punch, and he blurted it out in the middle of breakfast, asked Cordelia flat out if she knew where Wesley was.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "We don't say his name, Gunn. You know that."
"Wesley," said Gunn, and Cordelia stood up, shoving the chair back and slamming her open hand down on the table. Gunn stood too and stared her down. "You know where he is."
"I *don't*," she said. "I don't."
"You do."
"*Gunn*."
"What, we just pretend that he doesn't exist?" and that was the exact wrong thing to say, because Cordelia just nodded. "That's fucked up."
Her eyes narrowed. "You had no problem with it yesterday."
Which was true, and it made Gunn feel sick. He *didn't* care, not for years, and what did that say about him?
Gunn remembered Wesley slumped against a broken fence and the stickyhot feel of blood slipping between his fingers. He looked down and his hands were clean. "Jesus," he said. That feeling in his stomach was guilt, probably. Maybe something dirtier than that. He'd called Wesley his friend, once upon a time.
Years gone by. And if every day were a mile, that was one fuck of a long way to go.
*And* he didn't even know if Wesley was still alive.
Well. Shit.