Author: InsinuoAnimus
Disclaimer: Know the drill, love the drill, use the drill. None of the characters are mine. Sorry.
Summary: The line between reality and fantasy are often blurred. If not invisible.
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{ i'll wash my bloody hands
and we'll start a new life }
Shifting in the bed, Fred propped all of her weight, which wasn't all that much to begin with, on her left elbow as her eyes roamed over the sleeping body in her bed. It still didn't seem plausible that he was here with her now. When she had gotten the phone over two weeks ago, this was all she had wanted. She had just wanted him back -- frankly, she didn't care if he was insane, she just wanted him back with her. She just wanted the goofy British man that had made her feel like she was the most amazing woman in the world. But now that he was here, sleeping next to her in the bed he had moved to every part of her room until she was satisfied, it just seemed wrong. His bright blue eyes weren't the eyes that she remembered. They were always dark and hallow, the look of death reflected in them. This wasn't the man she had fallen in love with. This man was someone else entirely. Even his accent was different. The logical part of her had the perfect explaination for that. The stab wound that had nearly taken his life, had left more lasting effects than an angry scar. It had made Wesley's voice rougher, the doctors had said it could be a permenant effect on his voice, which it had proved to be. But still the voice seemed so different to her. How could a person she knew so well change so much? No logical part of her could -- would understand it. When he touched her, he looked at her as if it was paining him to do so.
It pulled at her heart, in the most painful way, when she first saw the look in his eyes. She had tried to pull away from him, but he had managed to surprise her again when he reached for her, the pained look in his eyes disappearing and a frantic look replacing it. The first night he stayed in her bed, she had feigned sleep. She had felt his eyes on her all night and at first it had made her heart swell. Now it just made her want to cry, because those eyes weren't getting any brighter, they didn't reflect happiness in them. She wasn't making him happy. She was pretty sure she used to make him happy. He used to smile at her, he used to laugh at her silly jokes, he used to say cheesy things like about how he liked her smile or how he thought she was the most beautiful when she had no make up on and her hair was a mess. But now he looked at her blankly, he touched her as if he was painting a picture only he could see, he softly cried into the crook of her neck when he thought she wasn't paying attention. The man she loved was gone, and now the man she was starting to fall in in love with all over again was miserable. She could no longer make him smile, and she seemed to have the power to make him cry.
A week ago he had told her she was the only one that mattered, he had kissed her frantically, passionately. He had held her close afterwards, when she had touched his face again he had let out a strangled sob. The realization had hit her fast and hard -- she had never seen him cry before. His eyes were much brighter when he cried. It was the only time when his eyes were bright nowadays. When he stopped crying, his eyes froze over, his eyes taking the shade of ice blue. Sometimes when he looked at her, she could swear she could feel a cold chill go through her. He tilted his head at her at times, looking at her as if she spoke a language he didn't understand. Everything about Wesley now made her feel like she was reading a book for the first time. He was like a book she thought she had read but when she looked at the cover a second time she realized that she didn't. It excited her at the same time it frightened her. She had known Wesley for close to ten years, how could she not know parts of him? Hadn't she been the one he had trusted everything with? If she didn't know who he was, then who was the person she had been in love with since the moment her book hit him on the head all those years ago?
"I can hear you thinking."
"Can you?"
Wesley shifted his weight in the bed a bit, his eyes blinking a few times before completely focusing on Fred. He smiled lazily at her, earning a half smile in return. Moving some more in the bed, Wesley pulled himself in a sitting position and let his eyes rest on Fred's face. It had been a week since the first time he kissed her. It had been a week since he had lost Angel. Wesley could remember how he had come to Fred, he could remember how she rubbed his arms, stripped his wet clothes off him, he could remember how she gasped in surprise when he kissed her, he remembered how she melted against him, melted into him a second or two later. Angel had told him to stop fighting love, he had told him that he had love in Fred, but it seemed like Wesley was fighting more than he was before. Kissing Fred felt the same, her eyes looked the same, but there were things about her that would never be how he remembered them. He couldn't sit down and tell her about his life because it would just confuse her. His life even confused him now. Nothing was how it was, how it should be. How could he tell Fred that?
How could he tell Fred anything about him without lying? It wasn't as if Wesley had never told Fred a lie. Wesley didn't have disillusions about him and Fred. They weren't Romeo and Juliet, they didn't have the sweetest relationship. Maybe they could have, but time hadn't been on their side. All Wesley had was years of the love he had for her, all he had was a few kisses and too many missed chances to count. He had tears of a love that never had it's chance. He had dreamless nights, visions and nightmares of Fred plaguing him. He had the demi goddess that had taken over Fred's body and unexpectedly gave him something in return, something he had learned to accept, maybe even like. Yes, he had Illyria in a way that no one had really understood. He had Fred and he had Illyria, who in fact had been the same person, but not. But how could he tell that to the sweet naive girl that moved all the way to England because they had fallen in love after she nearly gave him a concussion?
"I now can hear you thinking."
"It's a speciality of mine."
Fred frowned, mimicking Wesley's earlier actions, she pushed herself up in a sitting position and reached out and touched Wesley's shoulder, feeling the bare skin underneath her hands. She liked doing this. She knew that she touched him too much, she wasn't sure if it made Wesley uncomfortable or not, but it reassured her he that he was here. Whether it was wrong or right, she enjoyed having Wesley with her. But when he looked past her the way he was now, she was afraid that this was all a dream. Letting out a sigh, Fred continued to run her fingers along the bare skin of Wesley's shoulder. Her fingers danced across the skin from his shoulder to his neck, pausing at his collar bone. She could feel his breathing coming in and out faster and she couldn't help the grin that passed her lips. At least some things about Wesley were the same. She could still make him lose control. She wasn't sure if she should be proud of that or not, but she was. She loved knowing that she got to him, even if it was nowhere near the way he got to her. He could smile at her and she was putty in his hands.
"I want to know about you."
Wesley blinked again, forcing himself through the enjoyable haze and back to the surface. Fred's voice cut through the wonderful feeling, the distinct feeling of warmth and maybe even a little happiness, and brought back the eerie cold that seemed to be his new best friend ever since the day he woke up at The Retreat. Perhaps before that, it had been around for a while, since the moment that Fred had died in that world. Wesley grabbed Fred's hand, stopping her from touching him, he watched the hurt looked that flashed in her eyes. He pursed his lips, his fingers twitching as if begging him to let her go, let her touch him, it made them both happy. But instead he moved her hand from his body and let it drop to a space in between them. Wesley's eyes bounced to the spot that he had let her hand drop to. He stared at it, as if it was the gap between them that would never go away. No matter how close he got to Fred, something always stood in the way. The small gap between them in the bed was just more proof. Struggling to get further and closer to Fred at the same time, Wesley looked back up and watched the hurt look continue on in Fred's eyes. It was funny how some things never changed. Fred's eyes always looked the same when they broke down. He could remember the look in her eyes too well when she broke down. Those last moments before Illyria took over. Fred had been so scared, asking why she couldn't stay--
"No."
Fred felt her body jump at the sudden loud booming voice that cut through the silence that had started to wrap around her and Wesley. Fred looked around for a second before she realized that the voice had belonged to Wesley. "No?" Fred swallowed down the sob that threatened to escape. "You don't have to tell me, I just..."
Why can't I stay?
"No." It was Wesley's voice again. Once again the shout scared both Fred and Wesley, but Wesley's eyes didn't hold the hurt and surprised look that Fred's did. Wesley's eyes held a frantic look. "No." Wesley whispered this time as he pushed away from Fred, when she reached out for him, he pushed her hand away much more forceful than he had intended to. He slipped out of the bed and stared at Fred with the hallow look that Fred had learned to hate. She never thought it was possible to hate something about Wesley, but she hated that look.
"Isn't this what you want? I thought you wanted--"
I wish to explore this feeling.
"Don't be her. Be anyone but her."
"Wesley, what are you--"
"You're not her." Wesley grabbed his shirt off the ground and slipped it on and then started to search for his pants. A million thoughts swirled through his mind, but the one that was much louder than all the others was that he had failed her. He had betrayed the memory of Fred by allowing himself to-- he should have said no to her.
Fred slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could, she walked over to Wesley and touched his arm, but this time when she touched him, he didn't calm down like he did the other times, instead he turned his eyes back to her. His eyes were a shade of blue she had never seen before, they were a dangerous look, a look that made her take a few steps back. "Wesley, I... I just wanted to know you. It feels like I don't know you."
"You'll never be her." Wesley took steps toward Fred until she let out a squeak of surprise as her back hit the wall. Her wild, confused eyes met Wesley. Sweet brown eyes that were shining with the threat of tears shone at him, cutting through his anger, his memories of someone that looked like her. "Fred." Wesley reached his hand out, wincing when Fred flinched back and then looked shocked at her actions. "I have to go."
"Wesley, no." Fred reached out for Wesley once more. "Don't go. Don't leave."
"I'm not him."
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"I thought you two were," Rupert paused, took off his glasses and swiped at them with the edge of his shirt, a horrible habit of his he always did when he got nervous or uncomfortable. "ah, reaquainted with one another." Rupert smiled softly when Fred ducked her head and blushed. Rupert had known Fred for years, he had only truly warmed up to her a year or so before Wesley had gone to The Retreat. With Wesley gone, they had learned to depend on each other, they both shared memories of the man that refused to come back to them.
"We," Fred coughed and shot Rupert a quick grin despite her mood. "were. We were. I don't know what happened. He looked at me as if he didn't even know me. One moment his eyes were soft and then they were cold and he was yelling no. He was going on about how I would never be her. I was scared." Fred stopped talking and covered her face with her hands. "That's horrible. How can I be afraid of him? He'd never hurt me."
"I'm not sure who he is anymore. He hardly talks to me. I think he resents me a bit."
"But why would he? Rupert," Fred removed her hands and brought one to rest on top of Rupert's. "you're his best friend. You two knew each other for years before the three of us ever met. How could he ever resent you? I remember the way you two used to talk. You two even used to finish each other's sentences. You were like..."
"Brothers. Yes, I thought so too. But ever since he returned, he's been so different. Those scars... I remember when the only marks he had on him were cuts on his face when he shaved. I look at him now, I look at that scar on his throat, and then the scar on his wrist, and it just proves that I have no idea who he is. I could have visited him at the hospital but I didn't. I was terrified. Of him. Terrified that he wouldn't remember me. But then you told me he was back, I thought maybe he really was. But he never came back, Fred. He never used to say my name like it was a curse word, he does now. I've never felt out of place with him until recently."
"He looks at me differently too. It hurts. He doesn't remember how we met. I hoped he would remember, that maybe somewhere along the line his memory would, I don't know, jump start back to life? It's only been two weeks but I feel like I failed him in some way. That's silly, isn't it? How could I fail him? He just seems so disappointed. He seemed so disappointed when he woke up at The Retreat. When he first looked at me, he was so happy, Rupert. But the moment he looked at his wrist, found out where he was, his attitude changed. The night he, ah, came to me, the night he kissed me, I thought he had finally remembered. But the words he spoke to me, the way he, um, touched me," Fred spoke the last part quickly, smiling when Rupert coughed and shifted on the couch. "it was as if it was for someone else. He told me I would never be her. He's in love with someone else."
"Fred, don't be silly. He's been in The Retreat for the past six years, I highly doubt he had time to--"
"No. I'm the wrong version of me."
Rupert prided himself in being a very dignified man, but he couldn't help the indignified snort that came out in response to Fred's words. He couldn't believe what he was hearing at, Rupert looked down at his watch quickly, eleven thirty at night. It wasn't bad enough that Fred had called him crying hysterically, wailing on about how Wesley had left her, but now he was being forced to listen to rubbish like this. "You're mad, woman."
"Thank you." Fred sniffed.
"No, really. You can't tell me that you really believe his story about ho--"
"You didn't hear how he talked about it. About these people he knew. I know what the doctors said, so don't even repeat it. I know, I know. He created that world due to his bad childhood, due to the traumatizing events of his father being an absolute jerk and his mother never being there for him and just letting what happened continue to happen, but I'm telling you it's not just a story to him. He has a life full of memories."
"Of vampires and demons. What next, the boogey man?"
"Souls."
"Excuse me?" Rupert asked, arching up an eyebrow.
"You forget some of the vampires had souls. Spike and Angel did."
"Spike and Angel don't exist."
Fred pushed herself up off the couch and rubbed at her forehead in frustration. She whirled around and stared at Rupert, but yet her brown eyes didn't manage to get as cold and intimidating as Wesley's blue eyes. Fred got the feeling that she was just amusing Rupert, that or frustrating him as well. "He's gone, Rupert. By the time I got my shoes on to chase after him, he was gone. So if believing in a few stories about vampires, hell dimensions and a bunch of people saving the world from all the things that go bump in the night, makes Wesley feel better, then I'm willing to buy a few crosses and some holy water." Fred let out a groan when Rupert snorted again. "I love him. I loved him the moment I dropped that book on his head. I loved him so much that all those years without you and him, I couldn't even be faithful to Charles because Wesley was all I thought about. I loved him so much I left everything behind and came here knowing fully well that I could get rejected and fail miserably. And I failed him, Rupert. What if it's real? What if all of it's real? Isn't he worth the risk of looking crazy?"
Rupert frowned, the snarky response falling off the tip of his tongue and lodging itself at the back of his throat. "Fred, vampires... they don't exist. Wesley has had a very hard life and you know the doctors--"
"I don't care what the doctors said. Six years and they didn't manage to help Wesley."
"They helped. They did a lot for his mental state. If they didn't, he wouldn't be free to run away."
"He doesn't smile. They failed him as much as we did. Now get off your
ass and help me look for him."
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"Nice job, English."
Wesley blinked, he groaned as he felt quick pangs of pain shoot throughout his back. He looked around his surroundings and let his head fall back down, wincing as more pain shot throughout his body. As if being crazy wasn't enough of a problem, he was now among the bums sleeping on a bench that smelled awful. Wesley sniffed, crinkling his nose at the smell before he turned his head to the voice. "Oh, it's you. This is surprising."
"Well, you know I figured the big boss was just giving you a bunch of sentimental crap."
"And you're here to give it to me real?" Wesley asked, scowling when his legs were shoved off of the bench. "Find your own bench, this one is mine. I don't want to talk. You're not even real, so the point of this is moot."
"I find it amusing that you're still trying to be mister logical when you're fruitier than my grandma Marge."
"I am not fruity."
"That's what you said about your pansy ass."
"My ass isn't pansy."
"That's a matter of opinion."
Wesley sighed and shifted on the bench, he looked down at his wrist and frowned. "I lost my watch."
"It was broken anyway." He moved over to the left side of Wesley and sat down, grabbing the newspaper that was laying on the bench he opened the newspaper and turned to section C, pursing his lips as he scanned the first page. "Man, The Lakers aren't doing good at all. Can you believe that Divac signed with us again?"
"Gunn, what do you want?"
Gunn sighed and folded the newspaper and threw it toward the garbage can and twisted his body to face Wesley. "You're running. That's not a question, it's a fact. You think running is the answer? It's not. Running won't get you anywhere. Okay, that's a lie. It'll get you everywhere except the place you want to be."
"She's gone, Gunn."
"So are we."