Fic: Alias/Angel
Oct. 16th, 2005 04:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiA continuation of this snippet, also for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
crossovers100.
Prompt 13: yellow
674 words
Wesley is dimly aware of the rain beating harder against the windows; soon enough his drive will be nothing but mud, impassable. Not that it matters. His unwanted guest has, it seems, taken him at his word and put his gun away; He wonders, briefly, whether it would be worth getting his own shotgun from the locked cabinet and taking care of the problem now. But then, a cold, rainy night is hardly the ideal time to be outside disposing of a body. Morning will be soon enough.
His glass is empty, but he's pleased at how steady his hand is as he refills it. The stranger is talking to him; he's reached into an inside pocket and brought out a sheaf of paper, yellow with age, which he's holding out as if he expects Wesley to take it. He looks away, determined not to be drawn in by the faded ink, the scratchy handwriting. "Wolfram and Hart," the stranger says, and a little later, "Rambaldi." A name to conjure with, but Wesley is no conjuror. He swallows his whiskey and pours himself a little more. The bottle's almost empty, but there's enough to take to bed enough with him, which is precisely what he does, leaving the man still standing in his kitchen, mid-sentence. He wonders, dimly, if he should be concerned, but what could the stranger do, kill him? It's enough to raise a choked laugh, as he stumbles up the stairs.
***
Sun wakes him, making him squeeze his eyes shut against the yellow light. He rolls away from it, but that sends his stomach into a spasm of bile and blood. He can taste it in the back of his throat as he hauls himself to the edge of the bed and sits hunched over, breathing carefully until the nausea passes.
Deep breath, he tells himself. One, then another, then... is that coffee? Impossible, unless... but that had been a hallucination. He wouldn't have turned back on an unknown armed man sitting in his kitchen.
Hell.
His knee wobbles as he stands, but he makes it to the bedroom door without stumbling. Coffee, definitely. The stairs seem more rickety than usual, this morning.
A young man looks up as Wesley reaches the kitchen. Bright blue eyes, bright gold hair, and not, Wesley is sorry to see, any kind of hallucination. Hell, indeed, and the devil's looking disgustingly fresh, sitting at Wesley's own table, with Wesley's own books open in front of him.
"You have an extraordinary library, Mr. Pryce," the stranger says.
Wesley grunts and helps himself to his own coffee. It washes some of the sour taste from the back of his mouth, or at least makes it a slightly different sour taste. The drying rack is stacked with clean glasses. He turns around to glare at the stranger.
If the young man notices, he doesn't appear to care. "I would still like your advice on certain passages," he says. "The sooner you answer me, the sooner I'll be gone."
He should have shot the stranger last night, rain be damned. "You won't be gone," he says.
"I assure you, Mr. Pryce, that I have no need--"
"No. You won't be gone. I've made the house a trap. You can't leave."
The young man's mouth is hanging slightly open; he looks younger, like that, than Wesley thought. Then his mouth hardens and he rises, makes for the door. It closes behind him. Wesley takes a sip of his coffee and waits. The kitchen smells clean for the first time that he can remember.
The doorknob turns. It's the stranger again, stepping inside. He stares at the room, at Wesley. "What exactly just occurred?" he asks.
"I always knew that something would come looking for me," Wesley says. "I simply didn't know what. It seemed best to take precautions."
"By preventing..."
"It was extremely unlikely that whatever came looking for me would be anything but dangerous." The young man, he is pleased to see, no longer looks quite so fresh.
end
crossovers100.Prompt 13: yellow
674 words
Wesley is dimly aware of the rain beating harder against the windows; soon enough his drive will be nothing but mud, impassable. Not that it matters. His unwanted guest has, it seems, taken him at his word and put his gun away; He wonders, briefly, whether it would be worth getting his own shotgun from the locked cabinet and taking care of the problem now. But then, a cold, rainy night is hardly the ideal time to be outside disposing of a body. Morning will be soon enough.
His glass is empty, but he's pleased at how steady his hand is as he refills it. The stranger is talking to him; he's reached into an inside pocket and brought out a sheaf of paper, yellow with age, which he's holding out as if he expects Wesley to take it. He looks away, determined not to be drawn in by the faded ink, the scratchy handwriting. "Wolfram and Hart," the stranger says, and a little later, "Rambaldi." A name to conjure with, but Wesley is no conjuror. He swallows his whiskey and pours himself a little more. The bottle's almost empty, but there's enough to take to bed enough with him, which is precisely what he does, leaving the man still standing in his kitchen, mid-sentence. He wonders, dimly, if he should be concerned, but what could the stranger do, kill him? It's enough to raise a choked laugh, as he stumbles up the stairs.
***
Sun wakes him, making him squeeze his eyes shut against the yellow light. He rolls away from it, but that sends his stomach into a spasm of bile and blood. He can taste it in the back of his throat as he hauls himself to the edge of the bed and sits hunched over, breathing carefully until the nausea passes.
Deep breath, he tells himself. One, then another, then... is that coffee? Impossible, unless... but that had been a hallucination. He wouldn't have turned back on an unknown armed man sitting in his kitchen.
Hell.
His knee wobbles as he stands, but he makes it to the bedroom door without stumbling. Coffee, definitely. The stairs seem more rickety than usual, this morning.
A young man looks up as Wesley reaches the kitchen. Bright blue eyes, bright gold hair, and not, Wesley is sorry to see, any kind of hallucination. Hell, indeed, and the devil's looking disgustingly fresh, sitting at Wesley's own table, with Wesley's own books open in front of him.
"You have an extraordinary library, Mr. Pryce," the stranger says.
Wesley grunts and helps himself to his own coffee. It washes some of the sour taste from the back of his mouth, or at least makes it a slightly different sour taste. The drying rack is stacked with clean glasses. He turns around to glare at the stranger.
If the young man notices, he doesn't appear to care. "I would still like your advice on certain passages," he says. "The sooner you answer me, the sooner I'll be gone."
He should have shot the stranger last night, rain be damned. "You won't be gone," he says.
"I assure you, Mr. Pryce, that I have no need--"
"No. You won't be gone. I've made the house a trap. You can't leave."
The young man's mouth is hanging slightly open; he looks younger, like that, than Wesley thought. Then his mouth hardens and he rises, makes for the door. It closes behind him. Wesley takes a sip of his coffee and waits. The kitchen smells clean for the first time that he can remember.
The doorknob turns. It's the stranger again, stepping inside. He stares at the room, at Wesley. "What exactly just occurred?" he asks.
"I always knew that something would come looking for me," Wesley says. "I simply didn't know what. It seemed best to take precautions."
"By preventing..."
"It was extremely unlikely that whatever came looking for me would be anything but dangerous." The young man, he is pleased to see, no longer looks quite so fresh.
end
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-10-16 07:18 pm (UTC)Sark and Wesley. Ow, but yay.
Are you going to continue the Sark-Simon-River, too? Pretty please?
(Crap. Baltar and Six is the closest icon I've got right now. You're gonna make me resurrect a Sark icon...)
OFF-TOPIC (sorry, Vanzetti)
Date: 2005-10-16 09:15 pm (UTC)http://pics.livejournal.com/monanotlisa/pic/00102x9a/g3
no subject
Date: 2005-10-17 12:25 am (UTC)So pleased that you like it (and to be honest, I'm surprised anyone saw the first post -- on a Saturday!). And yes, there will be more of the Sark-Simon-River thing. I have a page of dialogue that needs to be rewritten, for one thing.
no subject
Date: 2005-10-16 09:12 pm (UTC)PLZ RITE MORE!!11!!
& ;-)
no subject
Date: 2005-10-17 12:28 am (UTC)Ahem. Thank you. ;->