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quotable_muse] February 2009 - 105 - "It's human to lie..."
Feb. 9th, 2009 01:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prodigalwatcherFebruary 2009 - 105 - "It's human to lie. Most of the time we can't even be honest with ourselves." - 'Rashômon'
Wesley kicked the apartment door closed behind him, eyes narrowing against the first rays of the rising sun, ones that had been obscured by the ugly, heavy curtains in the hallway. He reached back to turn the lock at the same time his satchel slipped off his sagging shoulder. Not bothering to pick up the bag, Wesley walked slowly, gingerly to the living room of his apartment.
He'd have a limp, he predicted, as the slash on his right thigh healed. Although the medicinal poultice he'd mix up later would make sure that lasted only a day, the muscles would be stiff for a few more. Wesley knew he was slow enough already without an injury. He would have to make sure that Jensen knew to cover his--
No, he would not have to. Because there was no more David Jensen. Jensen had been one of Wesley's soldiers, and now he was only remains. The authorities would find David Jensen's broken and torn body and would eventually file his death away in the "unsolved" bin with the hundreds of other murders committed in Los Angeles by demons and other supernatural beings.
Gingerly, he shrugged off his leather jacket and it, too, struck the floor. The process was painful, thanks to the blow Wesley had taken to his left shoulder. He would have a deep, angry bruise there for a week, but it was the souvenir the Folchak demon had given him rather than the death dealt to David Jensen.
"David Jensen died to save lives," Wesley whispered, the purposely heavy walls of the apartment dampening the words until they died in the air.
Wesley fell onto the couch. To no surprise, there was a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin already on the coffee table, a tumbler beside it. His right arm, at least, still had enough dexterity to open the bottle, difficult as that was one-handed, and pour several fingers for himself.
Wesley spoke quietly again, raising his glass of whiskey in a toast to the empty room. "We are making a difference."
After draining the glass, Wesley pushed himself up to his feet, slowly and gently. The slow and gentle did little to mask the pain from both leg and shoulder, but it did at least keep his mind focused on the task. Feet heavy, he started towards the bedroom.
"I still care," he murmured.
A low, husky voice sounded from inside the still-darkened bedroom.
"Do you really believe those things?" asked Lilah.
Wesley was unsurprised. "I need myself to believe them," was his only comment to her. But as he sat on the edge of his bed and felt Lilah's hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt, and her mouth breathing hotly against his ear, he silently added one last lie.
I don't miss her at all.
(466)
Wesley kicked the apartment door closed behind him, eyes narrowing against the first rays of the rising sun, ones that had been obscured by the ugly, heavy curtains in the hallway. He reached back to turn the lock at the same time his satchel slipped off his sagging shoulder. Not bothering to pick up the bag, Wesley walked slowly, gingerly to the living room of his apartment.
He'd have a limp, he predicted, as the slash on his right thigh healed. Although the medicinal poultice he'd mix up later would make sure that lasted only a day, the muscles would be stiff for a few more. Wesley knew he was slow enough already without an injury. He would have to make sure that Jensen knew to cover his--
No, he would not have to. Because there was no more David Jensen. Jensen had been one of Wesley's soldiers, and now he was only remains. The authorities would find David Jensen's broken and torn body and would eventually file his death away in the "unsolved" bin with the hundreds of other murders committed in Los Angeles by demons and other supernatural beings.
Gingerly, he shrugged off his leather jacket and it, too, struck the floor. The process was painful, thanks to the blow Wesley had taken to his left shoulder. He would have a deep, angry bruise there for a week, but it was the souvenir the Folchak demon had given him rather than the death dealt to David Jensen.
"David Jensen died to save lives," Wesley whispered, the purposely heavy walls of the apartment dampening the words until they died in the air.
Wesley fell onto the couch. To no surprise, there was a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin already on the coffee table, a tumbler beside it. His right arm, at least, still had enough dexterity to open the bottle, difficult as that was one-handed, and pour several fingers for himself.
Wesley spoke quietly again, raising his glass of whiskey in a toast to the empty room. "We are making a difference."
After draining the glass, Wesley pushed himself up to his feet, slowly and gently. The slow and gentle did little to mask the pain from both leg and shoulder, but it did at least keep his mind focused on the task. Feet heavy, he started towards the bedroom.
"I still care," he murmured.
A low, husky voice sounded from inside the still-darkened bedroom.
"Do you really believe those things?" asked Lilah.
Wesley was unsurprised. "I need myself to believe them," was his only comment to her. But as he sat on the edge of his bed and felt Lilah's hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt, and her mouth breathing hotly against his ear, he silently added one last lie.
I don't miss her at all.
(466)
