Title: Legend
Author: ShawThang
Rating: PG
Timeline: Set during "Time Bomb".
Disclaimer: All belongs to the almighty Joss.
Feedback: Craved and much appreciated!
Summary: Charles Gunn used to be a legend.
Author's Notes: There just aren't enough fics out there about Gunn, so I thought I'd increase the numbers… ;)
Legend
He used to know who he was.
He sits at his desk, watching the stack of paperwork grow, until he slams his fist on the polished wood with a frustrated grunt. The pile keeps growing; a measure of all the people who need help, of all the evil he must excuse in order to keep the fancy suits and endless resources. He wonders when he started to need this, to crave it all. The feeling of being important, of being powerful and helpful. The others look to him for help now, and he feels a tiny part of him wither every time he provides the information that he never really knew.
A few days ago he believed he was doing something good for the world. He was helping people- albeit a few evil people- to find justice. He thought he was a valuable asset to the group and the company. He thought he was needed and appreciated. Others noticed him as someone doing the impossible and fighting evil from the inside.
A nervous, stuttering boy scuttles in and places another file on his desk, then leaves. He watches the new folder and then turns his head away. He is lost. Alone. Some would consider him evil. Huh. Ironic. Once he was all for the black and white. He was never lost among the shades of grey, because to him, there weren't any. But now there are so many shades of grey he is struggling to see beyond them, to the colours.
He feels he is sliding towards black, where once he was all white.
Back in the old days he was a leader. Others waited for him to give orders and they would carry them out with complete faith that they were making a difference. They knew, as one by one their friends fell, that he wouldn't send them into danger if it wasn't desperate. They trusted him, and they knew that because of him they were doing something good. Because of him, they had a reason to fight.
They would scour the streets, watching him for silent signals and listening carefully for his calm, whispered orders. They would stay behind him, but never more than a couple of feet, fearing what would happen in the darkness of the night if they wandered too far from him. He never feared the night. He was never paralysed by the soft sounds and scuffles of being hunted. He didn't hesitate when screams pierced the deceptively peace of night. He didn't run when there wasn't any hope.
Because of him, most of them survived.
When one of them felt the searing pain of a knife wound, he would stand in front of them, protecting them. When one of them fell in battle he would carry them to safety. When one of them went missing he would search until they were found. When one of them were bitten and drained he would cut their heads off. When they were killed, he lived.
He always made it out. He went into each battle believing it was his last, and yet he, alone or with others, always walked away. The others began to see him as invincible, unbeatable… a hero. He was the subject of revered whispers and tales that the older ones passed onto the new ones. The stories told of fights where he saved children and women and men from the clutches of vampires. They told of his ability to take on four vampires and win. They told of his dedication to the cause.
Kill the vampires.
As time passed and his friends died, new friends gathered around him, and the only black mark on his reputation began to fade. Only a few knew of this failure and none spoke of it. The only night he didn't get there on time, and because of this failure he lost the one person he loved more than anything. Everyone who knew he was forced to slam a stake through her heart is dead now. Those who remain alive only know what they were told. That his sister was taken, and there was nothing he could do to save her.
He lowers his head into his palms, feeling the smoothness of his skin. Lifting his head he stares at his hands, wondering when the touch pads on his fingertips disappeared, and when the endless splinters and blisters stopped coming.
He remembers the night he did the unthinkable. Their leader, their prodigy, the one they all wanted to be, betrayed them. He aligned himself with a vampire. With the enemy. He fought alongside the vampire, fighting with it and its friends. His preconceived ideals flew out the window, and others no longer saw the unwavering, determined man he once was. They saw him hesitate, watched him falter, and looked on as he distanced himself from them in favour of the vampire.
Months past and he no longer saw much of them. Eventually, his visits teetered off until calling on them became a rare occurrence. He had found another place, a place he could call home with people he would call his family. But in this place he was at the bottom of the pecking order. He wasn't the best fighter, he wasn't the fastest or strongest, and he wasn't even the guy with the most street smarts. But he learned about the myth of black and white, and he knew he couldn't stay with his old friends any more. They didn't understand what he did.
He chose, eventually. Turned his back on the people who looked up to him. Turned his back on the people who saw him as an idol, on the people who relied on his strengths to keep them alive. And that choice led him here.
Sitting in a ridiculously expensive office, behind his large desk, in a grey-blue Armani suit, he is alone. He is a lawyer with borrowed knowledge in his head. A street kid bought with money. A friend who kills. He is a fighter who has forgotten how to fight. A white hat willing to turn a blind eye to evil. A man who doesn't know who he is anymore.
His eyes flicker to the photo on his desk every few minutes, a painful reminder of why he is here. Angel, standing tall and collected in the middle, a pillar of strength. Cordelia, alight in a fiery red dress and smiling radiantly. Wesley, body stiff but face relaxed and standing slightly offside. Lorne, decked in a suave, purple suit, lifting his hands up in mock prayer. Fred… God, Fred.
What has he done? He was so blind sighted by his desperation to do something worthwhile, to be needed and important like he was on the streets, that he has signed away his friend's life. In his flight for acknowledgement and a sense of identity he has killed Fred, and possibly leashed some terrible deity on the world as well. Wesley has tried to kill him, Angel hates him and even Spike couldn't meet his eye, and he has no doubt he deserves it. But what kind of a man has he become, if two mass-murderers and a man who kidnapped a child cannot stand the very sight of him?
I couldn't go back... to being just the muscle. I—I didn't think it would be one of us. I didn't think it would be Fred.
He used to love Fred as much as Wesley does. He would have killed half the world to keep her safe, and now he has killed her. He doesn't remember the exact details of the paper he signed, and wonders what the outcome would have been if he had read over it properly. If he had done his homework and discovered exactly what it was he was agreeing to. He wonders if he would have refused or if he would have still signed it anyway.
Because I was weak. Because I wanted to be somebody that I wasn't. Because I don't know where I fit. Because I never did.
He sits at his desk, watching the mountain of files grow. His eyes flicker to the photo, out the window, then to the folders again.
Fred. Cordelia. Alonna.
He remembers what it feels like to hunt. To slip into the darkness, to disappear into the shadows and wait for the creatures to appear. The zesty tingle of anticipation, the breathless thrill of the chase, the still pause of silence before all hell broke loose. That's his favourite moment. The pause, almost a suspension of time, when the enemy realized you were there. He never thought, just felt. Felt his legs moving, carrying him forward. Felt his arms weighed down by his weapon. Felt the satisfying jolt as the enemy exploded into dust. He wishes he could remember it more clearly.
He stands, and walks over to the filing cabinet on the far wall. He pushes it aside, reaches into a secret drawer and pulls out a stake. The lightweight wood feels strange in his hand. He hasn't used one for years. It is smooth in his palm, and as he lifts it up to study it, it becomes a silhouette against the pink sky lighted by the descending sun. His eyes catch on the tall city buildings, and then he glances back at the stake.
Charles Gunn used to be a legend.
The End
Reviews welcome!