| Whiskey Burns by Michelle |
| The whiskey no longer burns on its way down his throat. In another life, he would have stopped long before the burn disappeared, would have wanted to keep his mind sharp. But Wesley is in this life, in this place, and he keeps drinking, even though he no longer feels the sensations of the act. Monotony and familiarity are ways of becoming lost to thought, and that's something he wants very much. A part of him - the part that will always be a trained watcher, no matter what happens to the rest of him - knows there are things to do, a creature heretofore unknown by man to study, an evil empire to destroy. He should be up and functioning, taking up some of the slack with Gunn in the hospital and Fred . . . Yet all he can bring himself to do is sit in the dark and drink whiskey that has lost its bite. Wesley knows there will come a time when he will have to adjust to everything that has happened, but he's doing all he can to push that time far away. For with adjustment comes acceptance, and deep down, no matter what he tells himself or tells others, he's not ready to accept that she's gone. Almost-numb fingers tighten around the hard glass as he curses his lack of self-control. He doesn't want to think of what happened, and yet his mind revolves around nothing but, penetrating what should be dreamless sleep. The things he sees when unconscious are insubstantial, half-truths and desperate wishes, and yet they're excruciatingly sharp as they slice into already bleeding wounds. //The girl of your dreams loved you. That's more than most people ever get.// Harmony's words, cruelly mocking upon review, echo through his mind. He doubts it will ever be enough that Fred loved him, doubts the sentiment will ever be more than hollow consolation. He should be grateful for what he had with her, but there's no way he can. She had loved him for just a moment in an eternity of moments, while he loved her for a million moments, and would love her for a million moments more. How could he ever be content with that? He takes another mouthful of whiskey, and the lack of heat conversely reminds him of the consuming fire of Illyria. Fred was the one reduced to ash by the Old One, but he received secondary burns just by being in the vicinity. He feels them deep in his flesh, and he knows the longer he's in her presence, the deeper the burns will go. Perhaps that's why he keeps Illyria close instead of turning her away. There are others at the firm who would be better suited to handling the former god, but Wesley holds on and insists on handling Illyria alone. The others think it's because she looks like Fred, but there's more to it. If he stays with her long enough, the burns might go all the way through and turn him to ash, just like his damsel. His damsel. Bitterness washes through Wesley at the thought. If Fred was his damsel, that would imply he was her hero. Yet all he'd done was sit and hold her as she died in his arms, a lost angel amidst the pain. What kind of hero did that make him? And there it is - he isn't a hero; he's just a man. A man who couldn't save the woman he loved, a woman who was more of a hero than he could ever be. Now there's just a shell left of his lady love, and the being inside is a stain on everything Fred stood for. But he will stay with the shell, for that is all that is left of Fred, and he promised to stay with her. It will destroy him, of that he's certain, but there is no other path left for him. And he will faithfully follow that path until its end. Until the time comes to take action, he will sit and drink his whiskey, waiting for it to once again burn on its way down his throat. back to the archive |