Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prodigalwatcher) wrote2007-02-23 01:22 pm
prodigalwatcher) wrote2007-02-23 01:22 pm
Entry tags:
AL - February 2007
Title: Once upon a time, there were three.
Prompt: Joy
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: None
Pairing: None
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 509
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
There was a time when the world was a great deal simpler than it is now, and, at least in general, much more enjoyable. Things were comfortable and everything made sense and everyone and everything around me seemed to have found its natural order.
It was a time when Angel Investigations encompassed a tiny pair of rooms to serve as offices and sported but three employees: Angel, Cordelia and myself. Angel was the Champion, the one whose destiny it was to battle thing things that the people of Los Angeles knew nothing of, but threatened their lives and souls nonetheless. Cordelia served as the administration, when there were actual cases and files to administrate, and always kept light in a place where we dealt with so much darkness. As for me, I was the scholar, the Watcher and the occasional impersonator of the boss.
Angel Investigations was job and calling, home and family. Most of all, it was a place to belong, especially because of how well we all seemed to fit together. Although I came somewhat late to the game, it seemed as though once we had found each other, the group became complete, and everyone knew their parts.
I could come into the office and without looking know exactly where everything was. If it was Tuesday, Cordelia had stopped by the bakery and brought muffins, while on Friday, it was my job to supply doughnuts. There was always coffee in the pot and stacks and stacks of paper piled on the desks, regardless of the actual amount of work done the day before. Angel wouldn't be in, normally, until closer to noon when the light was indirect through the windows.
Cordy would likely get a vision, or there was the rare phone call or visitor. She and I would set out on foot, and Angel would head into the sewer tunnels in the day or at night we would all pile into his car and fly down the streets with the top down. (A tactic, I used to suspect, that may have had more to do with his coiffure than enjoyment of temperate Southern California nights.) We would do what was needed, and return to the office to lick our wounds or to celebrate a wound-free encounter. Off we would trudge back to our apartments, and the day would start anew.
Please don't misunderstand me, I am in no way regretting the expansion of our group. The friends we gained in the time after those days are the finest people I've had the honour to know: Gunn, Lorne, Fred. But those days were the simplest, the most joyful all in all.
I don't often indulge in nostalgia, something I typically consider to be unproductive and not particularly useful. But sometimes, I find myself looking at the photo of the three of us, grinning like fools, with no idea of the things to come, and I think more than a little fondly of that naiveté, and more than a little sadly of its passing.
Prompt: Joy
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: None
Pairing: None
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 509
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
There was a time when the world was a great deal simpler than it is now, and, at least in general, much more enjoyable. Things were comfortable and everything made sense and everyone and everything around me seemed to have found its natural order.
It was a time when Angel Investigations encompassed a tiny pair of rooms to serve as offices and sported but three employees: Angel, Cordelia and myself. Angel was the Champion, the one whose destiny it was to battle thing things that the people of Los Angeles knew nothing of, but threatened their lives and souls nonetheless. Cordelia served as the administration, when there were actual cases and files to administrate, and always kept light in a place where we dealt with so much darkness. As for me, I was the scholar, the Watcher and the occasional impersonator of the boss.
Angel Investigations was job and calling, home and family. Most of all, it was a place to belong, especially because of how well we all seemed to fit together. Although I came somewhat late to the game, it seemed as though once we had found each other, the group became complete, and everyone knew their parts.
I could come into the office and without looking know exactly where everything was. If it was Tuesday, Cordelia had stopped by the bakery and brought muffins, while on Friday, it was my job to supply doughnuts. There was always coffee in the pot and stacks and stacks of paper piled on the desks, regardless of the actual amount of work done the day before. Angel wouldn't be in, normally, until closer to noon when the light was indirect through the windows.
Cordy would likely get a vision, or there was the rare phone call or visitor. She and I would set out on foot, and Angel would head into the sewer tunnels in the day or at night we would all pile into his car and fly down the streets with the top down. (A tactic, I used to suspect, that may have had more to do with his coiffure than enjoyment of temperate Southern California nights.) We would do what was needed, and return to the office to lick our wounds or to celebrate a wound-free encounter. Off we would trudge back to our apartments, and the day would start anew.
Please don't misunderstand me, I am in no way regretting the expansion of our group. The friends we gained in the time after those days are the finest people I've had the honour to know: Gunn, Lorne, Fred. But those days were the simplest, the most joyful all in all.
I don't often indulge in nostalgia, something I typically consider to be unproductive and not particularly useful. But sometimes, I find myself looking at the photo of the three of us, grinning like fools, with no idea of the things to come, and I think more than a little fondly of that naiveté, and more than a little sadly of its passing.