Quest for Comprehension
Chapter One
Hey, all. This is my first fic in the Angel universe. Hopefully I didn't do too bad a job at it. This fic is set during the episode that Illyria takes Fred's form in the presence of Fred's family. It is slightly AU, so please forgive any minor storyline flaws. The story is rated T for now, but I might bump the rating up depending on where it goes. I am aware that this chapter is pretty short, but it's really more of a prologue. Also, the tone of this chapter is a lot darker than the tone of the next few chapters. There's even some humor coming! The next chapter should be up within a week or so. Please leave a review when you are finished reading, and feel free to make any suggestions. They will all be much appreciated! And now, on with the story.
The experience with the mortal's parents had been fascinating, and yet disgusting at the same time. These humans made no effort to conceal their thoughts or emotions-primordial, really. What was fascinating was the way in which the shell's body reacted to these other people. Illyria could feel warmth when close to the parents of the shell. Illyria experienced a similar warmth when near the killer of her Qwa'ha Xahn, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Similar, but very different.
Yes, Wesley. The one whose grief hung over him like a constant, dreary fog. He was clouded, smothered by his misery. He was the most fascinating of all. He had been in love with the shell; that much she knew, but Illyria was slowly beginning to pick up many of the shell's memories, and, in doing so, realized that the shell, Fred, had loved the stupid mortal back. The mortal who couldn't even control his own emotions, let them beat him down like a slave driver. She had loved him back.
Love. For all of the shell's descriptions, reasons, and explanations of human life, love was one thing that Fred had failed to comprehend. Of course, Illyria, though currently occupying Fred's former body, was not Fred, and would therefore be perfectly able to come up with a suitable explanation for herself. Wesley would help. Yes, Illyria could feel love at work while close to the shell's parents, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. Illyria knew that only with Wesley's help would she be able to comprehend this concept of love. And he would help, whether he wanted to or not.
Illyria wasn't fond of the idea that she needed help with anything, even something as trivial and meaningless as learning to comprehend the workings of a creature as simple as a human. Illyria decided that perhaps she didn't need the help, after all; she simply wished it. It would make things easier, and, as some part of the shell that was still foreign to her indicated, a great deal more fun.
Wesley was furious that Illyria had assumed the shell's previous form. Why though, Illyria was not quite sure, and Wesley had thoroughly failed at providing any sort of satisfactory explanation. No matter. His eyes revealed everything. In a split second Wesley's eyes betrayed all that he was thinking and experiencing. Sadness, anger, grief, hunger, want, need. Even love. All the things that Illyria was determined to understand for herself.
Illyria could see that Wesley wanted her. Or at least, wanted what had once been, but Illyria was as close as it comes to the real thing. She would use that to her advantage. She would use him. Take what she wanted, and cast him away. She was sure of it.
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Wesley curled his hand into a ball and sent it flying into the wall, not even wincing at the sharp pain and blood that resulted. He allowed the pain to overcome him, making a desperate attempt to block out the other pain, the deeper pain. Why did Illyria have to take Fred's form? Why? What was she looking for? Surely there was another way to obtain it. In the first two seconds of seeing Illyria in that form, all of his feelings for Fred he had tried so hard to bury came rampaging back.
How could he help it? Wesley knew that Illyria wasn't Fred; his mind served as a constant reminder to that fact almost every second. Other parts of him, however, weren't so easily convinced. Other parts of him wanted to believe.
No. He must not allow himself to succumb to those parts of him. Sure, it would be easy, surrendering to the lie, pretending. It would ease him for the time being. But not forever. Never forever. Forever was something he had wanted with Fred; it no longer existed. Forever was something that he had once believed in, but not anymore. Maybe if he hadn't believed, he wouldn't be hurting. But he couldn't help it.
He had managed to contain his emotions while in the presence of Fred's parents. Perhaps it was a good idea to conceal the truth from them. Maybe it was better to let them keep believing in the lie, as Wesley wished that he could. He had managed to go along, to pretend, but now, in the confines of his room, his emotions flowed freely through him, stabbing him, piercing him, torturing him, making him just want to die.
There wasn't a lot left to convince Wesley to stay alive. He had nothing left to live for, really. His chance, his one chance at true happiness had been snatched away. Gone forever. Even if there was another chance for him to be happy... No. Wesley found that he didn't even want it. He didn't want there to be another way, another one. He wouldn't allow himself to be happy, even if he had the chance. So why go on living? Maybe it was because he really didn't have anything to die for either. It wasn't as though Fred would be waiting for him. Dying wasn't even worth the effort. But neither was living. Passive suicide. There's a thought. But even so, a part of him felt the need to live. That most basic, human, instinctual part that dwells at the bottom of everybody.
Maybe he continued to live to protect those around him. Maybe some subconscious part of him believed that somebody out there still cared about him, that somebody out there would grieve over his death. If he could prevent somebody from going through that, he would. Not that anybody would actually mourn his death, but it was a nice thought.
For now, Wesley would just curl under the covers of his bed and try to forget. Maybe he would have a drink to help him become more at ease. Then again, maybe he would just cry, cry until he couldn't anymore, until the lull of sleep finally pulled him under, only to dream of what no longer was.
So, what did you think? Let me know, please. And feel free to make any suggestions! Thanks! Until next time...
