FIC: (It Means) Something
Aug. 8th, 2012 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ever_neutral(It Means) Something
Lilah/Wesley | S3/4 spoilers | ~950 words
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
upupa_epops. Prompt: "Don't worry, lover. I didn't feel a thing." // "I'm sure you didn't." Many thanks to bellonablack for the fixing up.
Later, they will ask him about his regret.
"It was a regrettable time," he'll say with some diplomacy.
And the world will be happy with this.
It will be her hands that leave the strongest impression on his memory.
(Hands are important, someone said.)
The thing about her hands was that they were always clean.
"Manners isn't happy."
She had been brushing her long, thick hair before his dirty mirror.
"You should decapitate him," proposed his reflection in the background of the glass, and turned a page of the Inferno.
(On wrong days, he wonders how things could be different if he'd been there in time to --
In time.)
An ordinary morning:
"I'm working late tonight, don't wait up for me."
(she had forgotten herself)
He'd been fantasising about shredding her pristine, white blouse. "Your blasted work."
She had practically beamed: gleaming white teeth, and red from ear to ear.
Sometimes, they had seemed intent on ruining everything.
"I paid a visit to your little friends today," her long fingers wrapping around a cut glass.
He'd stiffened, poured an infinitesimal amount of too much wine.
"Who?"
Her laugh -- like nails on glass. "You're getting better at it."
"Hm?"
"Pretending."
At this point, he might have looked her in the eye. "In comparison to what?"
Her shrug might have been light and happy. (Happy -- she had been happy.) "Before."
A brief pause. "Well, if I'm as good a pretender as you claim, how could you know the difference?"
She had smiled over the top of the red. "Someone has to."
(every other second of the hour)
They were both far too calculating, too aware of the lines in the sand they had drawn themselves. This is how people like them worked. Lilah had known.
You see, once, she had met him with a perfect garland of bulbous red roses.
A cocked eyebrow. "How thoughtful of you."
"You wish, lover." She had been sniffing the flowers in a highly exaggerated fashion. "A very, very sweet client."
She'd left the roses behind, afterwards. And he had skirted them angrily for days, wanting nothing more than to shred them to pieces, but possessing too much dignity to maim an unwitting ornamental plant.
He had been glad when the flowers simply died.
(Truthfully, he hadn't noticed for days.)
(in the dark)
"We should go away somewhere," he had been mumbling, his fingers threading through her hair.
She'd peered at him, boneless and sated. Then, a beatific smile, sharp as jagged glass, "Careful, lover," a finger running down his chest, "you're growing sentimental."
"The city is so aggravating," he had continued without bluster. "It's so full of… people."
"Well, I could banish them all, if you wanted."
"You couldn't do that. Banish them. Ludicrous."
"No," she'd smirked into his collarbone. "But Wolfram and Hart could."
"Ugh, your bloody work. I stand by my initial proposition."
She had said nothing, but smiled more firmly into his skin, and he'd drawn an arm tighter around her, both falling silent, neither one expecting the idea to ever reappear in the light of day again.
Sometimes, they had resembled young people "in love".
He would think this abruptly, strangely, as they sat curled around each other on his sofa, the television blaring some dreadful news about freak accidents and armed robbery.
"That poor 7/11 owner," he had muttered noncommittally, as images of a local crime (no fatalities) flashed across the screen.
"Mmmmm," she'd hummed into his neck.
And it had crept up on him then, the knowledge that she didn't care, not about this insignificant crime, nor any other kind, nor probably even natural disasters. She didn't care about the fatalities. She didn't care at all.
And it occurred to him that he didn't either.
(And he wondered if he cared about even that.)
(a twist)
She had been prone to generosity.
Hardly on a grand scale. But towards him.
An Alexandre Dumas on his nightstand. "What's this?"
The curve of her smile from the side. "A book."
"Yes, I can see that." He'd turned towards her. "Is it a special occasion?"
"Oh, the gratitude." But her tone had been fond. "I thought you would appreciate it. It's an original. As in," fastening gold through her earlobes, "the original, actually. You're welcome."
He had stood, awkward and touched, all the knowledge and experience within him somehow proving to be embarrassingly inadequate, insufficient for this -- whatever this had been. This inconceivable, impenetrable woman.
"Thank you," he'd finally said, insufficiently as ever.
But it had been enough for her.
"Don't fret, lover, I don't expect you to give me anything in return."
(And he didn't.)
(That was pretty much that.)
(the thing about her hands is that they would always touch him as though he were real)
(as though the humming between their mortal bodies was proof of something, anything at all)
This can't go on, he had thought, over and over, with her around him, surrounding him, inside of him. It will come to an end.
Maybe he would be relieved.
For a long time after the end (not his end) -- he simply sat, and stared at his hands.
For a long time: it was he who was the ghost, the disembodied soul, the wraith in the basement, his hands cold and strange and no longer belonging to him.
(we don't have that word in our vocabulary)
But the ghost in him had been wrong.
(he just couldn't say it out loud)
In another lifetime:
He would have --
(she knows)
Lilah/Wesley | S3/4 spoilers | ~950 words
For
upupa_epops. Prompt: "Don't worry, lover. I didn't feel a thing." // "I'm sure you didn't." Many thanks to bellonablack for the fixing up.Later, they will ask him about his regret.
"It was a regrettable time," he'll say with some diplomacy.
And the world will be happy with this.
It will be her hands that leave the strongest impression on his memory.
(Hands are important, someone said.)
The thing about her hands was that they were always clean.
"Manners isn't happy."
She had been brushing her long, thick hair before his dirty mirror.
"You should decapitate him," proposed his reflection in the background of the glass, and turned a page of the Inferno.
(On wrong days, he wonders how things could be different if he'd been there in time to --
In time.)
An ordinary morning:
"I'm working late tonight, don't wait up for me."
(she had forgotten herself)
He'd been fantasising about shredding her pristine, white blouse. "Your blasted work."
She had practically beamed: gleaming white teeth, and red from ear to ear.
Sometimes, they had seemed intent on ruining everything.
"I paid a visit to your little friends today," her long fingers wrapping around a cut glass.
He'd stiffened, poured an infinitesimal amount of too much wine.
"Who?"
Her laugh -- like nails on glass. "You're getting better at it."
"Hm?"
"Pretending."
At this point, he might have looked her in the eye. "In comparison to what?"
Her shrug might have been light and happy. (Happy -- she had been happy.) "Before."
A brief pause. "Well, if I'm as good a pretender as you claim, how could you know the difference?"
She had smiled over the top of the red. "Someone has to."
(every other second of the hour)
They were both far too calculating, too aware of the lines in the sand they had drawn themselves. This is how people like them worked. Lilah had known.
You see, once, she had met him with a perfect garland of bulbous red roses.
A cocked eyebrow. "How thoughtful of you."
"You wish, lover." She had been sniffing the flowers in a highly exaggerated fashion. "A very, very sweet client."
She'd left the roses behind, afterwards. And he had skirted them angrily for days, wanting nothing more than to shred them to pieces, but possessing too much dignity to maim an unwitting ornamental plant.
He had been glad when the flowers simply died.
(Truthfully, he hadn't noticed for days.)
(in the dark)
"We should go away somewhere," he had been mumbling, his fingers threading through her hair.
She'd peered at him, boneless and sated. Then, a beatific smile, sharp as jagged glass, "Careful, lover," a finger running down his chest, "you're growing sentimental."
"The city is so aggravating," he had continued without bluster. "It's so full of… people."
"Well, I could banish them all, if you wanted."
"You couldn't do that. Banish them. Ludicrous."
"No," she'd smirked into his collarbone. "But Wolfram and Hart could."
"Ugh, your bloody work. I stand by my initial proposition."
She had said nothing, but smiled more firmly into his skin, and he'd drawn an arm tighter around her, both falling silent, neither one expecting the idea to ever reappear in the light of day again.
Sometimes, they had resembled young people "in love".
He would think this abruptly, strangely, as they sat curled around each other on his sofa, the television blaring some dreadful news about freak accidents and armed robbery.
"That poor 7/11 owner," he had muttered noncommittally, as images of a local crime (no fatalities) flashed across the screen.
"Mmmmm," she'd hummed into his neck.
And it had crept up on him then, the knowledge that she didn't care, not about this insignificant crime, nor any other kind, nor probably even natural disasters. She didn't care about the fatalities. She didn't care at all.
And it occurred to him that he didn't either.
(And he wondered if he cared about even that.)
(a twist)
She had been prone to generosity.
Hardly on a grand scale. But towards him.
An Alexandre Dumas on his nightstand. "What's this?"
The curve of her smile from the side. "A book."
"Yes, I can see that." He'd turned towards her. "Is it a special occasion?"
"Oh, the gratitude." But her tone had been fond. "I thought you would appreciate it. It's an original. As in," fastening gold through her earlobes, "the original, actually. You're welcome."
He had stood, awkward and touched, all the knowledge and experience within him somehow proving to be embarrassingly inadequate, insufficient for this -- whatever this had been. This inconceivable, impenetrable woman.
"Thank you," he'd finally said, insufficiently as ever.
But it had been enough for her.
"Don't fret, lover, I don't expect you to give me anything in return."
(And he didn't.)
(That was pretty much that.)
(the thing about her hands is that they would always touch him as though he were real)
(as though the humming between their mortal bodies was proof of something, anything at all)
This can't go on, he had thought, over and over, with her around him, surrounding him, inside of him. It will come to an end.
Maybe he would be relieved.
For a long time after the end (not his end) -- he simply sat, and stared at his hands.
For a long time: it was he who was the ghost, the disembodied soul, the wraith in the basement, his hands cold and strange and no longer belonging to him.
(we don't have that word in our vocabulary)
But the ghost in him had been wrong.
(he just couldn't say it out loud)
In another lifetime:
He would have --
(she knows)
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 11:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 07:29 pm (UTC)How awful.
There is something so sculptural about this pairing to me and you truly bring that aspect to life here. The hand leitmotiv as well as the constant positioning was stunning. And I loved how blasé Wesley is. And how he is really not. But still is. Because, yes. Exactly.
She had been brushing her long, thick hair before his dirty mirror.
The constant dichotomy between clean and dirty is most excellent. I love that his environment (and by extention him) ends up being the dark and ugly to her beauty and class.
She had practically beamed: gleaming white teeth, and red from ear to ear.
Yes, yes. This is my Lilah. Scarily hypnotizing.
He'd stiffened, poured an infinitesimal amount of too much wine.
OMG OMG. BUT WHAT IS THAT LINE. OMG. DO YOU WANT TO KILL ME OR WHAT. LIKE WHAT IS IT. UNNNNG SO PRETTY. SO FUCKING PRETTY. I HAVE NO COHERENCE TO OFFER. AHHHHH ♥
And he had skirted them angrily for days, wanting nothing more than to shred them to pieces, but possessing too much dignity to maim an unwitting ornamental plant.
Hilarious. Of course he would, that stubborn thing. Loved every second of that scene.
He would think this abruptly, strangely, as they sat curled around each other on his sofa, the television blaring some dreadful news about freak accidents and armed robbery.
Dude. The imagery right there. Slaying. Like. Stop, what are you doing to my brain. I am creating the whole room at this point. The syntax is absolutely beautiful. And the visual. I just can't. /failing at words
(And he wondered if he cared about even that.)
Spot on, spot on, spot on. My boy.
I loved the whole present concept. His reaction, her reactions. The lingering questions. (What did she expect?) Quite chilling. And also very endearing.
For a long time: it was he who was the ghost, the disembodied soul, the wraith in the basement, his hands cold and strange and no longer belonging to him.
Ah, so much love for this. This imagery works so well with my head!canon. Again, the sculptural lexique. But you also work in the marionette and the ghost, which are each other's opposite. And the association is perfect because that's the problem. It's the disruption between body and soul, past and present, aspirations and reality, truths and lies, want and need... It's absurd and it's merciless. He can't be real, but her hands gave him hope. (The Worst, btw. How dare you even.)
I loved it. Wanted moar :D
no subject
Date: 2012-08-09 12:05 am (UTC):')
There is something so sculptural about this pairing to me
Ooh, that's a good insight. I'm glad you think I drew them accurately. :D
I love that his environment (and by extention him) ends up being the dark and ugly to her beauty and class.
yes yes yes! Strangely enough, I always saw LILAH as being the light in Wesley's dark place during that time. Really fascinating reversal of their "moral" roles.
This is my Lilah. Scarily hypnotizing.
It is my Lilah too! ♥
This imagery works so well with my head!canon. Again, the sculptural lexique. But you also work in the marionette and the ghost, which are each other's opposite. And the association is perfect because that's the problem. It's the disruption between body and soul, past and present, aspirations and reality, truths and lies, want and need... It's absurd and it's merciless. He can't be real, but her hands gave him hope.
WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY MUST YOU SAY THESE THINGS????????? DDDDDDDDDDD:
Wanted moar :D
lol, I will write them again, I expect.
And thank you x32948329432324, bb. Your interpretations of my ~writing always give me life. Very pleased this worked for you. ♥ ♥ ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 09:53 pm (UTC)Love it <3
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 11:53 pm (UTC)♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-08 11:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-09 02:14 am (UTC)"Manners isn't happy."
She had been brushing her long, thick hair before his dirty mirror.
"You should decapitate him," proposed his reflection in the background of the glass, and turned a page of the Inferno.
I love love love the idea of him giving her that idea. More than I should.
At this point, he might have looked her in the eye. "In comparison to what?"
Her shrug might have been light and happy. (Happy -- she had been happy.) "Before."
A brief pause. "Well, if I'm as good a pretender as you claim, how could you know the difference?"
She had smiled over the top of the red. "Someone has to."
I can literally hear them having this conversation in my head. Who knows you better than me.
For a long time after the end (not his end) -- he simply sat, and stared at his hands.
For a long time: it was he who was the ghost, the disembodied soul, the wraith in the basement, his hands cold and strange and no longer belonging to him.
(we don't have that word in our vocabulary)
But the ghost in him had been wrong.
(he just couldn't say it out loud)
I loved this part the best though. It fits how haunted he seems after she died perfectly. And I love overall how you used parentheses to echo his thoughts and interject truths, it was a really effective device.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-09 04:32 am (UTC)I love love love the idea of him giving her that idea. More than I should.
Me too! And being so nonchalant about it, too. *g*
Who knows you better than me.
WAHHHHHHHHHH ♥
Haha, I'm glad the parentheses work for you! I overuse them tbh.
Thank you, bb. ♥ ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-09 09:40 pm (UTC)"I'm working late tonight, don't wait up for me."
(she had forgotten herself)
OUCH.
RED FROM EAR TO EAR!
Ha, the Dumas fits perfectly. I'm quite brilliant, ain't I?
I enjoy this trainwreck. Thank you ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-10 01:12 am (UTC)\o/ \o/ \o/
Ha, the Dumas fits perfectly. I'm quite brilliant, ain't I?
Indeed, indeed.
Glad you enjoyed, yo. Thank you for the comment! ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 02:26 am (UTC)Take a breather cause you've killed me dead.
Well done.
(i am dismayed that all my wes icons are goofy.)
no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 03:41 am (UTC)Dubious yay.
Thank you, m'dear, thank you.
(what other sort of Wes is there)
no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 03:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 08:50 am (UTC)Nonetheless, you are a peach. I could eat you tbh. Thank you for all your comments and kind words, dear friend. Recover soon. ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-14 04:37 am (UTC)And the world will be happy with this.
WOW. You do such an amazing job of capturing mood in this fic and using understatement to make an impact. I was never fully on the Wesley/Lilah train, but you are doing a great deal to convert me here.
The thing about her hands was that they were always clean.
*sobs at the utter perfection*
This is going in my memories post-haste. It stuck in my memory for days and days after I read it.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-14 08:19 am (UTC)I was never fully on the Wesley/Lilah train, but you are doing a great deal to convert me here.
SUCCESS. \o/
I'm heartened to know this resonated with you enough to be Memorised, oh friend. That is very much appreciated. ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 09:51 am (UTC)I actually don't have the words. Every single line hurts and I don't know what to do. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
It hurts.
(award for most useless comment but seriously)
(the thing about her hands is that they would always touch him as though he were real)
(as though the humming between their mortal bodies was proof of something, anything at all)
I can't.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 01:40 pm (UTC)lol couldn't resist.
Seriously though, it's comments like that that make this fic business worth it. So glad this resonated with you. Sorry about the pain. /o\ And thank you for sharing your feels, I sincerely appreciate it.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 02:10 pm (UTC)(you're not sorry about my pain. but it's okay. i will persevere.)
no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 08:46 am (UTC)(i'm rubbish, so have a cat.)
no subject
Date: 2012-08-24 09:06 am (UTC)bless.