Disclaimer: I don't own Wesley or Illyria, I'm just playing with them for a few moments.
Author's Note: Thanks to the BuffyWorld website for the borrowed snippets from the episode, A Hole In The World.
He had to laugh when contemplating the futility of his existence. He was nothing now, no longer a Watcher, no longer a lover, nothing but a shell like the one Illyria wore, like the one Fred has become. But the laughter somehow caused pain, a vague discomfort that radiated from the place where his heart used to rest. The laughter always tasted like whiskey, and never of happiness, the way it did when Fred was alive.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, He thought wryly, remembering the days of immaculately tailored suits, when he'd never known pain such as this, when decisions were simple, and there was no challange his Slayer could not overcome.
And now, the only thing he watched was a fallen goddess who'd lost all her powers, and wore the body of the woman he had once loved.
Wesley sat slumped against his desk, books scattered, feeling the fibers of the carpet beneath his hands as he stroked it, as one would a cat. Sometimes, when he was drunk enough, he would pretend the carpet to be Fred's hair, and run his fingers through it while whispering soft words of affection.
The demon always found that particularly amusing.
'Superhero. And this is my power…to not let them take me. Not me.'
She wore Fred's face, and spoke with Fred's voice, Fred's lips parting to allow the demon's ancient thoughts to spill freely. Fallen, a fallen goddess, and it was strangely appropriate for him to be charged with her keep. The fallen Watcher, watching the sort of creature he would have once mustered an army to destroy.
Only, he cannot destroy her.
'I'm not scared. I'm not scared. I'm not scared…'
She wore Fred's body the way any other woman would wear an evening gown, moving easily within its limbs, twisting and stretching them to her will. It was her greatest defense against him, and he was sure she knew that. Knew that he would have killed her in a thousand different ways had she not hidden behind the face of the woman he had spent years adoring.
It probably just amused her, fallen goddess with power enough to slaughter the occupants of an entire planet.
She played upon the stubborn emotions of his dead heart the way Lorne would play a piano, squeezing a melody of grief and heartbreak from him. He'd caught a ghost of a smile upon Fred's lips when Illyria had caught his reaction to her transformation. She'd stood in the doorway of Fred's long-abandonded office, wearing Fred's body and speaking in Fred's sweet voice, and Wesley had felt the shards of his heart explode outwards once more, his expression tortured as he stared. And Illyria had smiled Fred's sweet smile at him. His pain intrigued her. She watched him out of Fred's eyes now, her blue-tinged lips moving soundlessly as if harmonizing with his grief-stricken sobs.
'Please, Wesley, why can't I stay?'
Her last moments still haunted him. They played behind his eyelids like an old horror movie. Sometimes they flickered, distorted by his own grief, but the outcome never changed.
He always woke with tears on his face. Once, he awoke to find Illyria straddling him, eyes trailing the progress of the tears down his cheeks. She pressed Fred's lips to his cheek, to his lips, tasting the tears, the sorrow, before pulling back to study him. He puzzled her, his grief puzzled her. He wondered if she ever loved anything, anything besides senseless violence and the blood of innocents on her hands.
"You loved the shell." She accused, twisting Fred's voice until it reflected the age of the demon inside her body.
He nodded his agreement, wondering what purpose her questions served. She knew everything Fred knew, and Fred knew he loved her.
'Would you have loved me?' – 'I've loved you since I've known you. No, that's not—I think maybe even before.'
He hated that Illyria could see that know, could look upon those final, intimate moments with her cold eyes and pick them apart. He glared at her, trembling fingers wrapped around the glass of whiskey.
"You mourn her. You lock yourself away from the half-breeds and you try to murder the dark-skinned human, and you try to poison yourself and you leak your weakness all over your shirt."
He sighed.
"It's called crying." He told her, not that he thought she particularly cared. But she seemed to acknowledge his correction, and he was suddenly reminded of Fred, the way she would nod in the same manner, taking the new information inward to ponder.
He could not tell if Illyria realized that she was using Fred's mannerisms or not. But he said nothing of it, regardless, because it was comforting to pick some little part of Fred out of the strangeness that was Illyria.
Comforting as a fist upon a freshly formed bruise, perhaps, but comforting all the same.
"Why?" She asked, reaching out a pale hand to touch his cheek. "Why so much waste for this shell?"
He turned his face away, feeling the sorrow threatening to overwhelm his again, to crush him the way it did in those first moments, when Fred lay slumped and still in his arms, body cooling as Illyria stirred within it.
"I loved her." He confessed, and there was a strange shake in his voice.
"Weak." Illyria scoffed, and Wesley smiled wryly. The action hurt, and his dead hurt thudded feebly as he felt a passing urge to laugh.
And then Illyria shimmered, skin rippling and dancing until it was suddenly Fred before him, perfect and alive. Wesley laughed bitterly before shaking his head, and the image vanished, Illyria standing before him once again.
"No lies." He asked. "No lies, not yet."
"Why?" She asked quietly, head cocked in confusion.
"I am not quite weak enough for that." He told her. "Not yet."
She made a small noise of disagreement in her throat, skin twisting once more as she put Fred's face back on.
"Weak. All of you are weak, crying for this shell that shall never return. Why should I not wear this face, ease your pain?"
He sighed, wondering why he did not let her. So much easier, to lie to themselves, to pretend. To ignore Gunn's treachery and the horror of the past week.
And then Fred's voice came dancing back into his head, unbidden, as always.
'My boys. I walk with heroes. Think about that.'
"Because we have to make her proud." He realized, not even aware that he was speaking. "To be the men she thought we were, and she thought we were heroes."
"I remember those words." Illyria said, crossing her arms. "The shell told you that, before I made her leave."
"Fred." His voice caressed the word. "Fred thought we were heroes, and that is what we have to be."
He forced himself to stand, to open the shades, to let sunlight stream into his office. And in the sunlight, Illyria rippled once more, her own face breaking through as she came to stand beside him.
"No lies." He murmured again. "Not yet."