Where You Should Be ((![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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Dec. 8th, 2006 03:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcherTitle: Where You Should Be
Song: "Raining in Baltimore" by the Counting Crows
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Rating: G
Pairing(s): implied Wesley/Fred
Fandom(s): Buffy/Angel
Author's Note: Response refers purely to canon characters and situations.
"A hole in the world"-- that's how Spike had described the Deeper Well to me, afterwards. The irony of the imagery was not lost on either of us, I suspect. There are times when the vampire is the crudest, most unsubtle creature I have ever met, others when I suspect he is far more sophisticated of thought than most, particularly Angel, give him credit.
A hole in the world, in the shape of a woman. Where she should be, now she is not. Where you should be, Fred, no one is around.
It doesn't rain in Los Angeles very often. For Californians, that's part of the allure of living here. The air is warm, the sky is blue and clear, and more often than not, rain is a thing unknown. When it comes to Los Angeles, it takes on a very different character than any other places where it is familiar. Rain is a menace, a hazard-- something to be avoided at all costs.
Most of the world sees a gentle rain as something life-affirming, giving to the world its most precious, most important ingredients of existence, or as a metaphor of the washing away of the old and unneeded. In Los Angeles, where even the slightest precipitation causes oil to rise out of the usually dry pavement and a few drops can incite a devastating mud slide, rain is the enemy. It takes away and destroys, rather than refreshing and renewing.
Intellectually, death is a part of the universe's cycle, a truth that allows all of creation to exist in the balance it so willfully pursues. Here in Los Angeles, death has taken. It has broken and undone. It has torn a hole in the world, in the shape of a woman.
The rain is the only thing that marked that day as any different from the others after Fred was gone. I stared out of the window of my Wolfram & Hart office, sitting on the floor amongst stacks of papers and scrolls and books, watching droplets race each other down the necro-tempered glass window. I know that something came, trying to fill the hole, but fitting so very poorly. And with that emptiness, I wonder what is left of me, in turn.
A hole in the world, in the shape of a man.
Song: "Raining in Baltimore" by the Counting Crows
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Rating: G
Pairing(s): implied Wesley/Fred
Fandom(s): Buffy/Angel
Author's Note: Response refers purely to canon characters and situations.
"A hole in the world"-- that's how Spike had described the Deeper Well to me, afterwards. The irony of the imagery was not lost on either of us, I suspect. There are times when the vampire is the crudest, most unsubtle creature I have ever met, others when I suspect he is far more sophisticated of thought than most, particularly Angel, give him credit.
A hole in the world, in the shape of a woman. Where she should be, now she is not. Where you should be, Fred, no one is around.
It doesn't rain in Los Angeles very often. For Californians, that's part of the allure of living here. The air is warm, the sky is blue and clear, and more often than not, rain is a thing unknown. When it comes to Los Angeles, it takes on a very different character than any other places where it is familiar. Rain is a menace, a hazard-- something to be avoided at all costs.
Most of the world sees a gentle rain as something life-affirming, giving to the world its most precious, most important ingredients of existence, or as a metaphor of the washing away of the old and unneeded. In Los Angeles, where even the slightest precipitation causes oil to rise out of the usually dry pavement and a few drops can incite a devastating mud slide, rain is the enemy. It takes away and destroys, rather than refreshing and renewing.
Intellectually, death is a part of the universe's cycle, a truth that allows all of creation to exist in the balance it so willfully pursues. Here in Los Angeles, death has taken. It has broken and undone. It has torn a hole in the world, in the shape of a woman.
The rain is the only thing that marked that day as any different from the others after Fred was gone. I stared out of the window of my Wolfram & Hart office, sitting on the floor amongst stacks of papers and scrolls and books, watching droplets race each other down the necro-tempered glass window. I know that something came, trying to fill the hole, but fitting so very poorly. And with that emptiness, I wonder what is left of me, in turn.
A hole in the world, in the shape of a man.
