Artistic License - What Lies Beneath
Oct. 8th, 2006 12:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcherTitle / Prompt: What Lies Beneath / Want
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: Discussions of inappropriate relationships and attractions.
Pairing: Wesley/Lilah, implied Wesley/others
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 1,132
Rating: PG-13 for non-explicit discussion
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
To be perfectly honest, there hasn't been a lot of my life that's been centered around what I actually might want. I've lived a life that has been about what needed to be done, what must be done, whether it was what I wanted or not.
It seems to sit somewhere inside the core of his body, a little bit south of his heart and behind his gut, but never quite getting far enough down to be easily dismissed. It isn't anger, and it isn't lust. It isn't hate and it isn't anger and it isn't any kind of twisted, mad love that he's seen so many others surrender themselves to. It's none of those things, and it's all of those things, and as much as he hates to admit, it's a part of him. Despite that, it seems to hate him at the same time, especially because he once gave it a few precious months in the sun, up at the surface of him, calling the shots. And then, just like before, he pushed it down and denied it again.
Take, for example, when I first arrived in Sunnydale to replace Giles as Buffy's Watcher. Although I'd always felt that I was meant for field work, I'd always pictured being able to remain in England, in familiar and much more appropriate surroundings. But duty called, and I responded.
It roiled and burned around Buffy. The wanton disobedience, the flaunting of her illicit relationship with the vampire Angel and the constant insults that merely frustrated him made it want nothing more than to bend the girl over the edge of a desk and paddle her into submission. Perhaps, it wondered, a good consistent program of discipline and punishment would have done Buffy right. It knew what was good for the girl-- a steady diet of his hand, or the flat of a book, or the snap of a good stout ruler against her arse and, if it guessed right, an education into what a living man could offer her. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
And then there was Faith. Watchers were almost never called upon to mentor more than a single Potential at any one time, so how could they have entertained the nothion that a single man would be able to rein in a pair of full-fledged Slayers? But again, with circumstances falling as they did, there was nothing I could do except take on the responsibility.
Faith roused its anger even more than her smaller, golden-haired counterpart. Everything about her spoke of Buffy's failings writ larger and much more dangerously. It knew that something was wrong with Faith, at the deepest level. It watched her with a desperate, angry want for the body she so obviously regarded so poorly. If Faith was going to throw herself around town in a sad attempt to attract attention and false comfort, then it knew damn well that he should have taken matters, and her into his own hands. Even years down the road, it understood that he should have taken Faith. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
Acceptance of duty, of course, also requires more personal sacrifices. I, for instance, have rarely had much of a social life to speak of, and certainly more than a little bad luck in the realm of relationships.
It registered them clearly, even when he did not-- the short skirts, the well-filled low-cut blouses, and the signals as brazen as any of Faith's cruder comments-- and it was what pushed him to respond to Cordelia's advances. She was the one who seemed to recognise his worth, who seemed to understand that where Giles had become lax and soft, he would be disciplined and authoritative, and she was strongly gravitating toward that. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
On the rare instances during which I have allowed my actions to be dictated by my wants, the results have been disastrous. There is a cold, lonely and blatantly self-destructive phase of my life which I am more than glad to be rid of and would like nothing more than to forget.
It raged against the betrayals, and it howled in fury at the injustice. It had watched him try to help, try to be a good man and be condemned for it. And at last, he released it, gave it voice and freedom, and it reveled in the darkness. It found an echo in the sense of Lilah, and it pulled her to him, like to like. She drew from it, and she fed it. It encouraged every angry and wanton impulse he had and funneled it into her. It grew and thrived even as he fell further and further down. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her, and he had acknowledged it, allowed it-- even enjoyed it, not that he would confess. And then the freedom was gone.
We stand aside, we turn the other cheek, we remove ourselves from the situation. All too often, the right course of action goes so much against the grain of what we want that it is a true hurt to do so. But if the right and noble thing to do were always the easiest, then everyone would be right and noble, and I would be well out of a job. And so, we stand aside. We turn the other cheek.
It didn't understand, but it could not deny. Fred was nothing that he needed, but it seemed she was everything that he wanted. It saw no fire, no anger, no spirit that would feed and feed upon the things that lay beneath his surface. He saw her as the light that would draw those things out of him, wanting to see them gone. It knew he did not understand that those things were him. Still, it fueled his jealousy, drove him to pursue even when all his morality had said to stand aside. It took what he wanted in that office. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
Without these better angels, without this conscience, all mankind would be driven by its unadulterated baser desires. Everyone would simply do as they wanted, and all would be chaos. If everyone behaved by the dictates of duty, and by what was right and necessary, then how much finer a world could they build?
It knew it was right. It knew that every time he chose "what was right" over what he wanted, it would only lead him further down the sad, lonely path he had always walked. And when he went to die, it knew that, for once, what it wanted and what he wanted were the same.
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: Discussions of inappropriate relationships and attractions.
Pairing: Wesley/Lilah, implied Wesley/others
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 1,132
Rating: PG-13 for non-explicit discussion
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
To be perfectly honest, there hasn't been a lot of my life that's been centered around what I actually might want. I've lived a life that has been about what needed to be done, what must be done, whether it was what I wanted or not.
It seems to sit somewhere inside the core of his body, a little bit south of his heart and behind his gut, but never quite getting far enough down to be easily dismissed. It isn't anger, and it isn't lust. It isn't hate and it isn't anger and it isn't any kind of twisted, mad love that he's seen so many others surrender themselves to. It's none of those things, and it's all of those things, and as much as he hates to admit, it's a part of him. Despite that, it seems to hate him at the same time, especially because he once gave it a few precious months in the sun, up at the surface of him, calling the shots. And then, just like before, he pushed it down and denied it again.
Take, for example, when I first arrived in Sunnydale to replace Giles as Buffy's Watcher. Although I'd always felt that I was meant for field work, I'd always pictured being able to remain in England, in familiar and much more appropriate surroundings. But duty called, and I responded.
It roiled and burned around Buffy. The wanton disobedience, the flaunting of her illicit relationship with the vampire Angel and the constant insults that merely frustrated him made it want nothing more than to bend the girl over the edge of a desk and paddle her into submission. Perhaps, it wondered, a good consistent program of discipline and punishment would have done Buffy right. It knew what was good for the girl-- a steady diet of his hand, or the flat of a book, or the snap of a good stout ruler against her arse and, if it guessed right, an education into what a living man could offer her. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
And then there was Faith. Watchers were almost never called upon to mentor more than a single Potential at any one time, so how could they have entertained the nothion that a single man would be able to rein in a pair of full-fledged Slayers? But again, with circumstances falling as they did, there was nothing I could do except take on the responsibility.
Faith roused its anger even more than her smaller, golden-haired counterpart. Everything about her spoke of Buffy's failings writ larger and much more dangerously. It knew that something was wrong with Faith, at the deepest level. It watched her with a desperate, angry want for the body she so obviously regarded so poorly. If Faith was going to throw herself around town in a sad attempt to attract attention and false comfort, then it knew damn well that he should have taken matters, and her into his own hands. Even years down the road, it understood that he should have taken Faith. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
Acceptance of duty, of course, also requires more personal sacrifices. I, for instance, have rarely had much of a social life to speak of, and certainly more than a little bad luck in the realm of relationships.
It registered them clearly, even when he did not-- the short skirts, the well-filled low-cut blouses, and the signals as brazen as any of Faith's cruder comments-- and it was what pushed him to respond to Cordelia's advances. She was the one who seemed to recognise his worth, who seemed to understand that where Giles had become lax and soft, he would be disciplined and authoritative, and she was strongly gravitating toward that. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
On the rare instances during which I have allowed my actions to be dictated by my wants, the results have been disastrous. There is a cold, lonely and blatantly self-destructive phase of my life which I am more than glad to be rid of and would like nothing more than to forget.
It raged against the betrayals, and it howled in fury at the injustice. It had watched him try to help, try to be a good man and be condemned for it. And at last, he released it, gave it voice and freedom, and it reveled in the darkness. It found an echo in the sense of Lilah, and it pulled her to him, like to like. She drew from it, and she fed it. It encouraged every angry and wanton impulse he had and funneled it into her. It grew and thrived even as he fell further and further down. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her, and he had acknowledged it, allowed it-- even enjoyed it, not that he would confess. And then the freedom was gone.
We stand aside, we turn the other cheek, we remove ourselves from the situation. All too often, the right course of action goes so much against the grain of what we want that it is a true hurt to do so. But if the right and noble thing to do were always the easiest, then everyone would be right and noble, and I would be well out of a job. And so, we stand aside. We turn the other cheek.
It didn't understand, but it could not deny. Fred was nothing that he needed, but it seemed she was everything that he wanted. It saw no fire, no anger, no spirit that would feed and feed upon the things that lay beneath his surface. He saw her as the light that would draw those things out of him, wanting to see them gone. It knew he did not understand that those things were him. Still, it fueled his jealousy, drove him to pursue even when all his morality had said to stand aside. It took what he wanted in that office. It knew it was right. It knew he wanted her.
Without these better angels, without this conscience, all mankind would be driven by its unadulterated baser desires. Everyone would simply do as they wanted, and all would be chaos. If everyone behaved by the dictates of duty, and by what was right and necessary, then how much finer a world could they build?
It knew it was right. It knew that every time he chose "what was right" over what he wanted, it would only lead him further down the sad, lonely path he had always walked. And when he went to die, it knew that, for once, what it wanted and what he wanted were the same.
