BtVS/AtS fic: "Measure Up" 1/1
Measure Up
S J Smith
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, Joss Whedon.
Written for Leni’s CyA ficathon as a backup. *grins*
Rating: Anyone can read.
Pairings: Wesley; very very pre-Wesley/Giles if you squint.
A.N.: Much thanks to cornerofmadness for the edits.
Summary:
* * *
Things you want: setting, timeline, quotes, specific objects: AR where Wesley lived post NFA. A getting together story. A getting to know who you are post Chosen and NFA story. A falling in love story, though not exactly a romance novel type of romance.
Things you don’t want: characters, pairings, angst, fluff: Character death, unequal partnership, BSDM
Extras: highest rating, genre: I love when they work together and learn more about each other that way.
* * *
He had been hurt, rather badly. He hadn’t expected to live, even by the demon god known as Illyria. He’d behind reluctantly, left for dead by his friends. He’d expected it; had said his farewells, had been willing to leave this mortal coil and move on to whatever might lie beyond. The soft haze had been taking him over, like a cool blanket moving up his body, his senses slowly shutting down.
The last to go had been his sight and his gaze had been full of her, the beautiful Texan girl he’d loved, smiling so fondly at him. His heart had expanded one last time at her sweet grin then everything faded away…
…until a sharp sound awakened him, a shrill beeping lodged in his ears, a whooshing noise and people’s urgent voices, calling his name, insisting he open his eyes, no matter how damned tired he was -
- so he opened his eyes and saw the concerned blue gaze, not of the demon god, certainly not of anyone on Angel’s side, instead, an older face, one he’d left behind some many years ago for not measuring up. Mr. Giles? he tried to say but couldn’t, the tube down his throat prevented him from speaking.
A warm hand pressed his shoulder gently and Giles gave him a smile that seemed warm and not at all condescending. “Quietly, Wesley. You’ve been in a bit of a predicament. I can’t even offer you tea just yet.”
With that statement, Wesley knew he was in good hands and allowed himself to be coaxed back into healing sleep.
* * *
When next he woke, the older man wasn’t there. A young woman had taken his place, a solemn, sweet smile offered to him. “Hi, Wesley.”
“Willow?” Well, that’s what he tried to say.
She shook her head slowly, holding up her hand to keep him from trying to say anything more. “You still have a tube in. You were in pretty bad shape.” Willow’s hand came down from out of the air, smoothing his bangs off his forehead. Wesley tried not to consider how nice that felt. Her mouth quirked in some unfamiliar emotion, Willow said, “I did a spell to find survivors.” The quirk became another smile. “And there you were.”
Me? Wesley had expected to die. He noticed Willow said nothing about the others; not Angel nor Gunn; not even Spike. (He didn’t want to think of Illyria.) Wesley blinked up at her, hoping she could read the question he wanted answered in his eyes.
Her fingers continued their slow, comforting movement across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Wesley. You were the only one I found.”
He found that crying was as impossible as speaking with a tube in his throat.
* * *
Wesley counted the day the tube came out as one of his favorite. It was lovely to be able to draw his own breath. Of course, that set off a round of coughing that hurt like hell and for a few wild seconds, he almost wished he’d died with his friends.
“No, you don’t.” Her voice somehow sounded the same, even after all this time.
He hadn’t seen her by the doorway or, if he had, hadn’t really paid much attention to her. Buffy Summers, after all, was no longer a part of his life. Faith. He wondered briefly how she was; where she was, then dragged his attention back to Buffy. She looked better, he thought idly, then wondered why he’d thought that, but she did look better than the last time he’d seen her. More sure. Confident. Every centimeter the warrior he had known she would be. No wonder Angel had loved her. Wesley battened down the thought that Spike had, as well. Neither would appreciate him musing over their feelings for this woman in front of him. “How do you know?” he managed to grate out past a voice box that hadn’t had to work in…who knew how long.
“Because life is important.” She folded her arms and, for an instant, Wesley saw a little lost girl in her place before Buffy bottled it all up again. “All life is.”
Tempted to ask what she thought about demons with souls, Wesley refrained. He was, after all, the only survivor. And spilling salt into wounds still unhealed was not his way.
* * *
“Are you up to doing some work?” Giles’ voice roused him from a daydream of a blue-skinned demon god who looked like a girl he’d once loved, almost startling Wesley.
“What kind?” He turned his wheelchair to face the other man, who bore an inordinate amount of books in his arms.
With a testy catch in his voice, Giles answered. “A demon menace in Boston. Faith’s very own hellmouth is causing her some problems,” that explained his irritation, “and there are so few Watchers…” He trailed off, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I thought,” Giles tried again, “that you might be bored enough to want to help. And I certainly need the assistance.”
“Of course.” Wesley wheeled his chair closer to the table set up in his room, setting the brake when he was close enough. Giles laid the books out as well as a pair of tablets, pencils and pens. “Ah, Tobin’s Spirit Guide.” Wesley stroked the tome fondly.
“Only the best.” Giles pulled up a chair and sat across from him, taking up another of the books. “What we’re looking for is something with a psychic aura it uses for its attack. It moves extraordinarily quickly and, from what Faith says, leaves behind a ‘gruesome scene that looks like something out of Saw’.” He raised his eyes to meet Wesley’s.
“I’m afraid the reference is lost on me,” Wesley said, shrugging.
“Yes, I understand completely.” The men exchanged a look. “No matter, Willow did explain it and it pretty much is self-explanatory.”
“Ah.” Wesley cracked open the Spirit Guide. “So, we’re looking for something with chainsaws in the place of…limbs? Mouth?”
“Something like that, yes.” Giles opened the book in front of him. “With a psychic aura.”
“I shall do my best.” Wesley fingered the heavy vellum, skimming the opening topics and classifications of how the guide was broken down within the pages.
“Yes, Faith has mentioned that before.” Surprised, Wesley looked up from the book. Giles nodded once, his expression warmer than Wesley ever remembered seeing it previously. “She is very worried about you. When we find something, you should call her and tell her the news.”
“I…will.” Trying a smile out, Wesley ignored that little bubble that swelled up inside him. Hope was not, after all, not something he truly believed in any longer.
* * *
“Where shall I live?” Wesley stood next to his bed, staring at the suitcase laid out on top of it, pitiful few things resting inside.
“There is plenty of room for you at the local Watcher’s Hall.” Giles stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “If you are interested, there’s even a position open.” At Wesley’s faint grumble, he chuckled. “Your assistance has been greatly appreciated.”
The amount of space in the piece of luggage mocked him. This was not the first time he’d lost everything but this was the first time he’d lost more than just things. His friends were gone. His family. The girl he loved and the demon god who’d taken her life. The vampire who, ironically enough, taught him to live. Cordelia. Wesley closed his eyes. Jasmine. He shivered, wondering if Angel’s son had made it through the battle. Had he been safe? Had he fought? The boy had remembered enough of his past that a normal life might not have worked for him anymore. Wesley wondered if he should tell Giles.
He wondered if Giles would tell Buffy.
“Here.”
A hand brushed his arm and Wesley found Giles offering him a handful of tissue. He accepted it blankly only to realize tears rolled down his face.
“I am terribly sorry,” Giles said quietly.
Wesley wiped his eyes, pressed the tissue to his face. “Thank you.” He chuckled through the tears. “Isn’t it strange? I feel like I’ve come full circle.”
“You’ve been tempered by the flames.”
“Perhaps.” Straightening his shoulders, Wesley tossed the tissue in the rubbish bin. “Though as one of my friends would have said, ‘maturity is highly overrated.’” His smile melancholy, Wesley closed the suitcase, flipping the latches closed. “I suppose there’s nothing more for me here.” He reached for the handle but Giles somehow managed to beat him to it, slipping the case off of the bed.
“You are still convalescing.” He pointed at the wheelchair.
“I’m fine.” The grumble didn’t stop him from climbing into the chair, knowing that the hospital rules wouldn’t allow him to leave on his own feet. As if he’d fall and break something in his haste to escape this place. Giles set the suitcase on the armrests and Wesley plunked his elbows on top of it. “Really, this is too much, Giles. You could’ve sent someone here to collect me.”
“It’s all right.” Giles started wheeling him out of the room and into the long corridor to the discharge station. “I don’t mind.”
“Still, you have better things to do than cart me around like some decrepit old man.” Wesley clenched his fists on top of the case. He knew that ‘if onlies’ could destroy a man but still….
“You’re not decrepit, Wesley. You’ve been a great help to me, these past few weeks.”
“Oh, a little research.” He tossed a hand in the air. “Yes, that’s all I’m good for. That and getting knocked in the head and ofttimes, nearly getting killed.”
“I doubt your friends would have felt that way.” There was a note in Giles’ voice that Wesley couldn’t quite understand; something sharp and almost irritated. Wesley craned his head to look up at the older man, seeing that anger in Giles’ face as well.
Turning back around, Wesley felt like a chided child. “You’re right, of course.” He sighed, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame. “I’m afraid it’s pre-post-hospital jitters. But I’ll be better one day.”
“Yes.” Giles laid a hand on his shoulder. “And that will be a good thing.”
The touch startled Wesley with its warmth and he glanced in askance at Giles. The other man had a faint smile on his face as he squeezed Wesley’s shoulder then dropped his hand away.
This time, Wesley cautiously allowed that bubble to build. His friends were gone, yes, but he had their memories. And, he promised them in his mind, he would measure up to the legacy they left behind.
S J Smith
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been, Joss Whedon.
Written for Leni’s CyA ficathon as a backup. *grins*
Rating: Anyone can read.
Pairings: Wesley; very very pre-Wesley/Giles if you squint.
A.N.: Much thanks to cornerofmadness for the edits.
Summary:
* * *
Things you want: setting, timeline, quotes, specific objects: AR where Wesley lived post NFA. A getting together story. A getting to know who you are post Chosen and NFA story. A falling in love story, though not exactly a romance novel type of romance.
Things you don’t want: characters, pairings, angst, fluff: Character death, unequal partnership, BSDM
Extras: highest rating, genre: I love when they work together and learn more about each other that way.
* * *
He had been hurt, rather badly. He hadn’t expected to live, even by the demon god known as Illyria. He’d behind reluctantly, left for dead by his friends. He’d expected it; had said his farewells, had been willing to leave this mortal coil and move on to whatever might lie beyond. The soft haze had been taking him over, like a cool blanket moving up his body, his senses slowly shutting down.
The last to go had been his sight and his gaze had been full of her, the beautiful Texan girl he’d loved, smiling so fondly at him. His heart had expanded one last time at her sweet grin then everything faded away…
…until a sharp sound awakened him, a shrill beeping lodged in his ears, a whooshing noise and people’s urgent voices, calling his name, insisting he open his eyes, no matter how damned tired he was -
- so he opened his eyes and saw the concerned blue gaze, not of the demon god, certainly not of anyone on Angel’s side, instead, an older face, one he’d left behind some many years ago for not measuring up. Mr. Giles? he tried to say but couldn’t, the tube down his throat prevented him from speaking.
A warm hand pressed his shoulder gently and Giles gave him a smile that seemed warm and not at all condescending. “Quietly, Wesley. You’ve been in a bit of a predicament. I can’t even offer you tea just yet.”
With that statement, Wesley knew he was in good hands and allowed himself to be coaxed back into healing sleep.
* * *
When next he woke, the older man wasn’t there. A young woman had taken his place, a solemn, sweet smile offered to him. “Hi, Wesley.”
“Willow?” Well, that’s what he tried to say.
She shook her head slowly, holding up her hand to keep him from trying to say anything more. “You still have a tube in. You were in pretty bad shape.” Willow’s hand came down from out of the air, smoothing his bangs off his forehead. Wesley tried not to consider how nice that felt. Her mouth quirked in some unfamiliar emotion, Willow said, “I did a spell to find survivors.” The quirk became another smile. “And there you were.”
Me? Wesley had expected to die. He noticed Willow said nothing about the others; not Angel nor Gunn; not even Spike. (He didn’t want to think of Illyria.) Wesley blinked up at her, hoping she could read the question he wanted answered in his eyes.
Her fingers continued their slow, comforting movement across his forehead. “I’m sorry, Wesley. You were the only one I found.”
He found that crying was as impossible as speaking with a tube in his throat.
* * *
Wesley counted the day the tube came out as one of his favorite. It was lovely to be able to draw his own breath. Of course, that set off a round of coughing that hurt like hell and for a few wild seconds, he almost wished he’d died with his friends.
“No, you don’t.” Her voice somehow sounded the same, even after all this time.
He hadn’t seen her by the doorway or, if he had, hadn’t really paid much attention to her. Buffy Summers, after all, was no longer a part of his life. Faith. He wondered briefly how she was; where she was, then dragged his attention back to Buffy. She looked better, he thought idly, then wondered why he’d thought that, but she did look better than the last time he’d seen her. More sure. Confident. Every centimeter the warrior he had known she would be. No wonder Angel had loved her. Wesley battened down the thought that Spike had, as well. Neither would appreciate him musing over their feelings for this woman in front of him. “How do you know?” he managed to grate out past a voice box that hadn’t had to work in…who knew how long.
“Because life is important.” She folded her arms and, for an instant, Wesley saw a little lost girl in her place before Buffy bottled it all up again. “All life is.”
Tempted to ask what she thought about demons with souls, Wesley refrained. He was, after all, the only survivor. And spilling salt into wounds still unhealed was not his way.
* * *
“Are you up to doing some work?” Giles’ voice roused him from a daydream of a blue-skinned demon god who looked like a girl he’d once loved, almost startling Wesley.
“What kind?” He turned his wheelchair to face the other man, who bore an inordinate amount of books in his arms.
With a testy catch in his voice, Giles answered. “A demon menace in Boston. Faith’s very own hellmouth is causing her some problems,” that explained his irritation, “and there are so few Watchers…” He trailed off, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I thought,” Giles tried again, “that you might be bored enough to want to help. And I certainly need the assistance.”
“Of course.” Wesley wheeled his chair closer to the table set up in his room, setting the brake when he was close enough. Giles laid the books out as well as a pair of tablets, pencils and pens. “Ah, Tobin’s Spirit Guide.” Wesley stroked the tome fondly.
“Only the best.” Giles pulled up a chair and sat across from him, taking up another of the books. “What we’re looking for is something with a psychic aura it uses for its attack. It moves extraordinarily quickly and, from what Faith says, leaves behind a ‘gruesome scene that looks like something out of Saw’.” He raised his eyes to meet Wesley’s.
“I’m afraid the reference is lost on me,” Wesley said, shrugging.
“Yes, I understand completely.” The men exchanged a look. “No matter, Willow did explain it and it pretty much is self-explanatory.”
“Ah.” Wesley cracked open the Spirit Guide. “So, we’re looking for something with chainsaws in the place of…limbs? Mouth?”
“Something like that, yes.” Giles opened the book in front of him. “With a psychic aura.”
“I shall do my best.” Wesley fingered the heavy vellum, skimming the opening topics and classifications of how the guide was broken down within the pages.
“Yes, Faith has mentioned that before.” Surprised, Wesley looked up from the book. Giles nodded once, his expression warmer than Wesley ever remembered seeing it previously. “She is very worried about you. When we find something, you should call her and tell her the news.”
“I…will.” Trying a smile out, Wesley ignored that little bubble that swelled up inside him. Hope was not, after all, not something he truly believed in any longer.
* * *
“Where shall I live?” Wesley stood next to his bed, staring at the suitcase laid out on top of it, pitiful few things resting inside.
“There is plenty of room for you at the local Watcher’s Hall.” Giles stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “If you are interested, there’s even a position open.” At Wesley’s faint grumble, he chuckled. “Your assistance has been greatly appreciated.”
The amount of space in the piece of luggage mocked him. This was not the first time he’d lost everything but this was the first time he’d lost more than just things. His friends were gone. His family. The girl he loved and the demon god who’d taken her life. The vampire who, ironically enough, taught him to live. Cordelia. Wesley closed his eyes. Jasmine. He shivered, wondering if Angel’s son had made it through the battle. Had he been safe? Had he fought? The boy had remembered enough of his past that a normal life might not have worked for him anymore. Wesley wondered if he should tell Giles.
He wondered if Giles would tell Buffy.
“Here.”
A hand brushed his arm and Wesley found Giles offering him a handful of tissue. He accepted it blankly only to realize tears rolled down his face.
“I am terribly sorry,” Giles said quietly.
Wesley wiped his eyes, pressed the tissue to his face. “Thank you.” He chuckled through the tears. “Isn’t it strange? I feel like I’ve come full circle.”
“You’ve been tempered by the flames.”
“Perhaps.” Straightening his shoulders, Wesley tossed the tissue in the rubbish bin. “Though as one of my friends would have said, ‘maturity is highly overrated.’” His smile melancholy, Wesley closed the suitcase, flipping the latches closed. “I suppose there’s nothing more for me here.” He reached for the handle but Giles somehow managed to beat him to it, slipping the case off of the bed.
“You are still convalescing.” He pointed at the wheelchair.
“I’m fine.” The grumble didn’t stop him from climbing into the chair, knowing that the hospital rules wouldn’t allow him to leave on his own feet. As if he’d fall and break something in his haste to escape this place. Giles set the suitcase on the armrests and Wesley plunked his elbows on top of it. “Really, this is too much, Giles. You could’ve sent someone here to collect me.”
“It’s all right.” Giles started wheeling him out of the room and into the long corridor to the discharge station. “I don’t mind.”
“Still, you have better things to do than cart me around like some decrepit old man.” Wesley clenched his fists on top of the case. He knew that ‘if onlies’ could destroy a man but still….
“You’re not decrepit, Wesley. You’ve been a great help to me, these past few weeks.”
“Oh, a little research.” He tossed a hand in the air. “Yes, that’s all I’m good for. That and getting knocked in the head and ofttimes, nearly getting killed.”
“I doubt your friends would have felt that way.” There was a note in Giles’ voice that Wesley couldn’t quite understand; something sharp and almost irritated. Wesley craned his head to look up at the older man, seeing that anger in Giles’ face as well.
Turning back around, Wesley felt like a chided child. “You’re right, of course.” He sighed, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame. “I’m afraid it’s pre-post-hospital jitters. But I’ll be better one day.”
“Yes.” Giles laid a hand on his shoulder. “And that will be a good thing.”
The touch startled Wesley with its warmth and he glanced in askance at Giles. The other man had a faint smile on his face as he squeezed Wesley’s shoulder then dropped his hand away.
This time, Wesley cautiously allowed that bubble to build. His friends were gone, yes, but he had their memories. And, he promised them in his mind, he would measure up to the legacy they left behind.