TITLE: Tea with Dru
AUTHOR: Ten
RATING: PG13
PAIRING: Wes/Dru
=======================================================================================
NOTE: I've done something unusual here and added music clip links.
The atmosphere of classical music is important to Wes and the general feel
of this chapter. These are little RealPlayer links which play only a portion
of a selection, but enough to give the proper mood and enhance your experience.
Unfortunately, ff.net doesn't allow direct links, so you are reduced to copying
and pasting the URL's into a new window. Sorry.
DEDICATION: This chapter is lovingly dedicated to Ebs & Kev who, with
their keen insight and unselfish input have helped to turn this into a
well-honed collaboration. Thank you, too, to GioGio, my lovely beta who keeps
me honest when my tenses and possessives go berserk. You guys are the best!
=======================================================================================
CHAPTER 2
After Drusilla left, Wes was no longer motivated to continue his workout and chose instead to tidy up. He felt strangely peaceful. It had been a very long time since he could say that about himself, his damaged spirit carrying deep scars which prevented it.
After he showered, he settled down for a quiet evening with some music and a desire to research. Rachmaninoff, Satie, Faure, and Delibes suddenly appealed, and he took out his custom-burned CD, "Research Music." Labels had a tendency to be sticky, he preferred to label them by hand, even though he had to use Sharpee markers to get permanent titles; still, it was in exquisite penmanship. He slipped the CD into his laptop and the delicious sounds of Rachmaninoff came to life. (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00000I93Z001017/103-3099574-1391052)
He put the kettle on, took a deep breath, and then succumbed to the temptation that had been haunting him since Drusilla left. He thought of her and the comfortable, familiar ease they had with one another. It wasn't just because they were both British; there was something deeper, something ancient that seemed to wrap them both in an embrace of sans souci. He thought of her eyes, which seemed to penetrate him and strip away the walls and layers of emotional insulation he'd developed over the years. Her voice was like the cooing of a dove, soft and reassuring, and when combined with her eyes it formed a hypnotic duet which made him open himself up to her. And when she touched him ... Wes shook his head as if he were trying to clear a path through the fog. This could be a dangerous situation. He had invited a vampire into his home, a vampire who did not have the additional self-control of a soul, a vampire who was methodically driven insane by her sire and still struggled to maintain balance. He suddenly felt like the most ridiculously trusting soul on Earth.
The kettle screamed at him from the kitchen. He made a full pot of tea and then pulled out several old Watchers' texts, specifically those which dealt with the Scourge of Europe. He wanted details. What did Drusilla, Angelus, William the Bloody, and Darla do for over a century? He didn't want just the dry facts, he wanted details of their locations and kills. He wanted to know what Angelus had done to her that brought her to him so willingly. Beneath it all, he wanted to know why she was defying her sire to come to him now. He didn't think he'd find that answer online or in any of his books, but perhaps he could shed a little light on something. Perhaps he could find out why he felt so drawn to her.
The music changed, Delibes (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B000060OHV001002/103-3099574-1391052), two lovely female voices singing of flowers. It was haunting and drew Wes's thoughts back to Drusilla once again, to their time together, to her unexpected visit, her deep blue-grey eyes, her ebony hair, her blood-red lips. Wes felt something inside him stir, then pushed it aside. Research. Yes, that's what he needed, research.
He thumbed mindlessly through the stack of books on his makeshift desk. Nothing appealed to him, nothing called to him to explore and examine the darkest times of this mysterious woman. Without realizing it, he had a spell book before him. It was as elementary as spell books go, but it was one that he was comfortable with. He began to thumb through it, looking for something, but not really sure what it was. Suddenly annoyed with himself, he set the book aside and drew open the largest volume, the one which dealt more specifically with Angelus and his special talents of torture and violence. Wes shivered involuntarily, poured another cup of tea and began to read.
Gorecki chimed in (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00000I93Z001012/103-3099574-1391052), an eery selection considering the subject, the "Symphony of Sorrowful Songs," how perfectly fitting. Angelus was the most ruthless vampire in documented Watcher history. That is not to say there were not others, but he was the one who stood out from the time such records were kept. He did not just feed on his victims, he toyed with them, selected them based upon days, sometimes weeks, of stalking them. If he found someone particularly interesting he might consider turning them, but no more than a handful of times had he allowed them to survive past the fledgling stage, staking or beheading them himself when they became bothersome. Drusilla had been one that he cultivated because of her special talent, that of visions. Obviously, Angelus thought he could use her ability in some way. The volume Wes was reading footnoted a cross reference for Drusilla and then continued with a running list of those Angelus sired. Wes set the book aside, leaving it open, and looked though the pile for the one referenced.
He found it easily and turned to the appropriate page. The girl Drusilla did not want the curse of visions, she tried in vain to be rid of it, but it perpetuated to the point where it drew attention to her. She had been a pious and heavily religious girl, but when the Church discovered her affliction, she was spurned. Her family tried to keep her hidden, but once word moved through the village, there was little they could do to protect her from judgemental glances and whispers. It also drew Angelus's attention to her.
Gymnopedie #3 by Satie began its strains as Wes read more about the poor girl. (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00000427P001003/103-4311118-1921464) Angelus was not content to simply turn her, he wanted her to come to him willingly, but she was a terrified child and would scarcely leave her home except to go to church. However, her family was more easily accessible. Each day, as she went to mass, he would watch her; then he began to approach her subtly, whispering a few words which only she could hear as they passed by. They were words of death, words which threatened those around her. And slowly, one by one, he made each of them come true, killing each member of her family, drawing their blood into him, each one bringing him closer to the object of his obsession. Toward the end, he began killing them in front of her.
Wes stopped abruptly. Refilling his cup, he stood and moved toward the window which looked out over the small community where he lived. Palm trees and street lights seemed a sudden comfort from the cruel readings. He knew what she felt, or at least, he knew somewhat how she must have felt. He had seen his father die. His father, a heartless, cruel, abusive man who, Wes discovered many years later, had been a Watcher. He had still been a lad of about 13 when his father was murdered, and there was no remorse or sorrow in him regarding his death. He wondered idly if Drusilla had suffered at the hand of her father as well. He turned his thoughts away from the cold cavern of his childhood and looked out into the night once more. Shadows moving through trees, oddly cast images against sidewalks and buildings: these things left an element of supernatural fear in most people. Wesley himself was so honed to it that he could recognize a demon or a vampire in the dark from a great distance. Though his strength lay in research, he had no trouble killing the creatures which fed on others. In fact, he had no real trouble killing at all if it were within the confines of his own, self-appointed morality.
His mind wandered back to his father, the long-healed scars on his body aching for no real reason, an echo of pain and abuse he had suffered at his father's hand. Wes had been a bright boy, he took to schooling well and was usually at the top of his class. He was obedient and took great care to help those around him, particularly his quiet, unassuming mother. His father, however, had a darker side which frightened him and which few ever saw save him. Wes had not known what a Watcher was and in fact did not know what vocation his father practiced, but he did know the feel of his father's hand as it struck him, the bite of his belt when it assaulted him, the acrid, hideous smell of burning flesh when he was burned, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and the horrible sound of his father's voice as he berated him, demeaned him, and cried out in release each time the horrid man raped his own son.
Wes looked down to see his hands bleeding, the teacup shattered into thousands of tiny shards on the floor in front of him. He turned from it and walked away, not bothering to pick any of it up.
Silently he walked back to the workout area and began pounding the hanging bag with a frightening ferocity, his still-bleeding hands once again leaving fresh, red paintings over the old stains. (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B000060OHV001012/103-3099574-1391052) His research music still echoed in the flat, the sung prayer of Floria Tosca, "Why, oh Lord, have you allowed this to happen?"
---------------------------------------------------
TBC
AUTHOR: Ten
RATING: PG13
PAIRING: Wes/Dru
=======================================================================================
NOTE: I've done something unusual here and added music clip links.
The atmosphere of classical music is important to Wes and the general feel
of this chapter. These are little RealPlayer links which play only a portion
of a selection, but enough to give the proper mood and enhance your experience.
Unfortunately, ff.net doesn't allow direct links, so you are reduced to copying
and pasting the URL's into a new window. Sorry.
DEDICATION: This chapter is lovingly dedicated to Ebs & Kev who, with
their keen insight and unselfish input have helped to turn this into a
well-honed collaboration. Thank you, too, to GioGio, my lovely beta who keeps
me honest when my tenses and possessives go berserk. You guys are the best!
=======================================================================================
CHAPTER 2
After Drusilla left, Wes was no longer motivated to continue his workout and chose instead to tidy up. He felt strangely peaceful. It had been a very long time since he could say that about himself, his damaged spirit carrying deep scars which prevented it.
After he showered, he settled down for a quiet evening with some music and a desire to research. Rachmaninoff, Satie, Faure, and Delibes suddenly appealed, and he took out his custom-burned CD, "Research Music." Labels had a tendency to be sticky, he preferred to label them by hand, even though he had to use Sharpee markers to get permanent titles; still, it was in exquisite penmanship. He slipped the CD into his laptop and the delicious sounds of Rachmaninoff came to life. (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00000I93Z001017/103-3099574-1391052)
He put the kettle on, took a deep breath, and then succumbed to the temptation that had been haunting him since Drusilla left. He thought of her and the comfortable, familiar ease they had with one another. It wasn't just because they were both British; there was something deeper, something ancient that seemed to wrap them both in an embrace of sans souci. He thought of her eyes, which seemed to penetrate him and strip away the walls and layers of emotional insulation he'd developed over the years. Her voice was like the cooing of a dove, soft and reassuring, and when combined with her eyes it formed a hypnotic duet which made him open himself up to her. And when she touched him ... Wes shook his head as if he were trying to clear a path through the fog. This could be a dangerous situation. He had invited a vampire into his home, a vampire who did not have the additional self-control of a soul, a vampire who was methodically driven insane by her sire and still struggled to maintain balance. He suddenly felt like the most ridiculously trusting soul on Earth.
The kettle screamed at him from the kitchen. He made a full pot of tea and then pulled out several old Watchers' texts, specifically those which dealt with the Scourge of Europe. He wanted details. What did Drusilla, Angelus, William the Bloody, and Darla do for over a century? He didn't want just the dry facts, he wanted details of their locations and kills. He wanted to know what Angelus had done to her that brought her to him so willingly. Beneath it all, he wanted to know why she was defying her sire to come to him now. He didn't think he'd find that answer online or in any of his books, but perhaps he could shed a little light on something. Perhaps he could find out why he felt so drawn to her.
The music changed, Delibes (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B000060OHV001002/103-3099574-1391052), two lovely female voices singing of flowers. It was haunting and drew Wes's thoughts back to Drusilla once again, to their time together, to her unexpected visit, her deep blue-grey eyes, her ebony hair, her blood-red lips. Wes felt something inside him stir, then pushed it aside. Research. Yes, that's what he needed, research.
He thumbed mindlessly through the stack of books on his makeshift desk. Nothing appealed to him, nothing called to him to explore and examine the darkest times of this mysterious woman. Without realizing it, he had a spell book before him. It was as elementary as spell books go, but it was one that he was comfortable with. He began to thumb through it, looking for something, but not really sure what it was. Suddenly annoyed with himself, he set the book aside and drew open the largest volume, the one which dealt more specifically with Angelus and his special talents of torture and violence. Wes shivered involuntarily, poured another cup of tea and began to read.
Gorecki chimed in (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00000I93Z001012/103-3099574-1391052), an eery selection considering the subject, the "Symphony of Sorrowful Songs," how perfectly fitting. Angelus was the most ruthless vampire in documented Watcher history. That is not to say there were not others, but he was the one who stood out from the time such records were kept. He did not just feed on his victims, he toyed with them, selected them based upon days, sometimes weeks, of stalking them. If he found someone particularly interesting he might consider turning them, but no more than a handful of times had he allowed them to survive past the fledgling stage, staking or beheading them himself when they became bothersome. Drusilla had been one that he cultivated because of her special talent, that of visions. Obviously, Angelus thought he could use her ability in some way. The volume Wes was reading footnoted a cross reference for Drusilla and then continued with a running list of those Angelus sired. Wes set the book aside, leaving it open, and looked though the pile for the one referenced.
He found it easily and turned to the appropriate page. The girl Drusilla did not want the curse of visions, she tried in vain to be rid of it, but it perpetuated to the point where it drew attention to her. She had been a pious and heavily religious girl, but when the Church discovered her affliction, she was spurned. Her family tried to keep her hidden, but once word moved through the village, there was little they could do to protect her from judgemental glances and whispers. It also drew Angelus's attention to her.
Gymnopedie #3 by Satie began its strains as Wes read more about the poor girl. (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B00000427P001003/103-4311118-1921464) Angelus was not content to simply turn her, he wanted her to come to him willingly, but she was a terrified child and would scarcely leave her home except to go to church. However, her family was more easily accessible. Each day, as she went to mass, he would watch her; then he began to approach her subtly, whispering a few words which only she could hear as they passed by. They were words of death, words which threatened those around her. And slowly, one by one, he made each of them come true, killing each member of her family, drawing their blood into him, each one bringing him closer to the object of his obsession. Toward the end, he began killing them in front of her.
Wes stopped abruptly. Refilling his cup, he stood and moved toward the window which looked out over the small community where he lived. Palm trees and street lights seemed a sudden comfort from the cruel readings. He knew what she felt, or at least, he knew somewhat how she must have felt. He had seen his father die. His father, a heartless, cruel, abusive man who, Wes discovered many years later, had been a Watcher. He had still been a lad of about 13 when his father was murdered, and there was no remorse or sorrow in him regarding his death. He wondered idly if Drusilla had suffered at the hand of her father as well. He turned his thoughts away from the cold cavern of his childhood and looked out into the night once more. Shadows moving through trees, oddly cast images against sidewalks and buildings: these things left an element of supernatural fear in most people. Wesley himself was so honed to it that he could recognize a demon or a vampire in the dark from a great distance. Though his strength lay in research, he had no trouble killing the creatures which fed on others. In fact, he had no real trouble killing at all if it were within the confines of his own, self-appointed morality.
His mind wandered back to his father, the long-healed scars on his body aching for no real reason, an echo of pain and abuse he had suffered at his father's hand. Wes had been a bright boy, he took to schooling well and was usually at the top of his class. He was obedient and took great care to help those around him, particularly his quiet, unassuming mother. His father, however, had a darker side which frightened him and which few ever saw save him. Wes had not known what a Watcher was and in fact did not know what vocation his father practiced, but he did know the feel of his father's hand as it struck him, the bite of his belt when it assaulted him, the acrid, hideous smell of burning flesh when he was burned, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and the horrible sound of his father's voice as he berated him, demeaned him, and cried out in release each time the horrid man raped his own son.
Wes looked down to see his hands bleeding, the teacup shattered into thousands of tiny shards on the floor in front of him. He turned from it and walked away, not bothering to pick any of it up.
Silently he walked back to the workout area and began pounding the hanging bag with a frightening ferocity, his still-bleeding hands once again leaving fresh, red paintings over the old stains. (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/clipserve/B000060OHV001012/103-3099574-1391052) His research music still echoed in the flat, the sung prayer of Floria Tosca, "Why, oh Lord, have you allowed this to happen?"
---------------------------------------------------
TBC