Fic: Still Life

Tue, 08 May 2007 09:22:57 GMT

[A/N: I wrote this fic months ago, under the influence of prescription meds and no sleep, trying for something post-canon that didn't require explanation, and was more art than substance. This was the result, which I promptly put away until I could stand to look at it again. I may eventually cross-post it if people enjoy it.]

Title: Still Life
Author: viridian
Pairing: Wesley/Illyria
Summary: "You seek to save what's rotted through." (Post-NFA.)

She isn't surprised when he comes back for her.

She's sure it's a dream, so she isn't surprised. She's lying on the same bed this Shell had died on the first time. She's not even sure she made it out of that alley alive. Maybe he's come to take her back to wherever it is mortal creatures go when they're through.

"Illyria."

It's just noise, now. Just a name that hasn't meant anything in too long for this world to remember.

(I need noise to keep me here.)

She doesn't move, but her eyes track him as he sits down on the edge of the bed and brushes a piece of still red-stained blue hair out of her face with hands that are too warm and solid for a ghost.

"You can't stay here."

There it is, then. He's only come to tell her once again that she should go. To evict her from this life as he'd tried to in the beginning. How foolish to think she'd get to go with him. She'd been lying when she said he'd be where she is, and he can't forgive the lie. She shouldn't want his forgiveness, but she's inexplicably ready to grant him her own. The weakness of his species has made her weak now, as well.

She sits up wearily, bone-tired, this shell a prison that feels more pain than she's ever known. It hadn't stopped with the battle's end. She's been lying here for who knows how long, waiting for the invisible wound to heal. It hasn't. This one can't be fixed with magic and bandages, but when he presses a kiss to her forehead she feels the pain flare brighter and then slowly, slowly begin to recede.

(What a wonder...)

"I don't understand."

She looks to him for answers, but the ghost of a smile is all that he has to offer.

"Neither do I."

The Powers have a strange sense of humor, it seems. She realizes the humanity of that thought in something close to horror. She knows then that he's right. She can't stay here. If she stays this world will eventually drag her down to its level so that she can be crushed beneath its weight. It's been crushing her since she set foot into it. She feels so tiny, and when he stands and holds out a hand, she takes it and lets him pull her to her feet.

She is mildly surprised when they step outside to see a sky just touched by the barest hint of light. How could it be dawn when it had seemed so dark only moments before? She pauses, suddenly wary of whatever fate she has submitted herself to. He must feel her hesitate, because he stops to look at her, really look, and for the first time she thinks he sees her, and not a ghost.

It is not until some time after that she realizes that he is not one, either. The hotel rooms always have two beds, but neither of them sleep until the night she wordlessly slips into his. She doesn't reach out to him, only rests her head on the opposite pillow and closes her eyes. Some nights after he cries into her hair and clings so tightly she's glad she isn't breakable. Some days she hates him a little for this and every other offense, but those days gradually become fewer and further between.

By the time they get where they're going he's already taken to calling her his goddess. She knows he doesn't truly worship, but that doesn't matter as much as it used to. She isn't sure she loves him, but he seems amused when he asks her how one can tell. He says she shouldn't worry. She's still learning; they both are.

Sometimes it's hard to tell who's guiding who.

"What do you have in place of a soul?" he asks one night, after drinking too much whiskey for what is neither the first nor the last time.

"I have my name," she replies, before returning the question with no more deliberate cruelty than any of the thousand and one that came before it. His inability to answer has never particularly bothered her.

It is not enough, not for either of them. Not yet. Perhaps not ever; for different reasons, neither of them has much concept of the word or what it feels like.

She does not think she would have chosen this, until one morning she realizes that she has never truly considered leaving since he came back for her. She does not recall making the choice to stay, which momentarily disturbs her because she has never been unable to recall anything in her life.

When he awakes with her name on his lips (more than just noise now, it takes on a new meaning every time he speaks it), the question becomes unimportant.

(Would you have loved me?)

Perhaps it always was.

speaks in blue

Fic: Still Life