Son of fic dribble
Apr. 11th, 2003 10:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenOkay, again still not sure how all this is going to turn out, but operating under the principle that I can maybe do a long story if I trick myself into thinking it's not really a long story.
"It's not working out," Travers said, as though this were nothing more than an observation about the weather.
"It's working fine," Wesley said. He put his notebook down onto the conference table, daring anyone to dispute the weight of it. "Already the observations gathered - "
"Are boring and repetative," another Watcher, Joshua, said. He appealed to the table at large. "The vampire is insane. There is nothing to be learned from him."
"The vampire is centuries old purely in our own dimension," Wesley pointed out. "Adding in the time he has spent elsewhere, the amount of knowledge he must have obtained is immeasurable, particularly regarding Hell dimensions. Few creatures besides vampires could have managed to survive such circumstances. To throw all that away because progress has not been achieved in only a few days - "
"Weeks," Travers said.
"Weeks," Wesley admitted, but forged on, "it's a crime against knowledge. It's a crime against what this organization stands for."
"He does nothing but scream," Lydia said. The tone of her voice made it impossible for Wesley to decide if she was disturbed by that, or supported him in spite of it. Perhaps it was both.
"Because, as we all know, the proper response to time spent in a Hell dimension is a burst of glorious song," Wesley shot back, having long grown tired of that argument.
There was a moment of silence. Wesley dared to think it was due to his own reputation. To the strength of his efforts, and test scores, and family name when it came right down to it, reminding them all that he wasn't to be dismissed this easily. He had earned this opportunity and he wasn't going to let it be snatched away by impatience and petty jealousies.
"It's just a vampire," Joshua said.
"It is Angelus," Travers said, and Wesley felt a glimmer of hope for his chances. "Moreover he is the only known vampire in possession of a soul."
"We should put him out of his misery," Lydia shuddered.
"He's not much use to us if he can't speak," Travers said, finally looking back to Wesley. "I'll give you two weeks. If you can't find some way of making him coherent, he'll have to be given over to the labs entirely."
"That shan't be a danger," Wesley said. He picked his things up again, readying himself to go back down into the erstwhile dungeon. "I have faith."
"Have results," Travers suggested. "They'll be more useful."
***
Nights passed. Wesley sat in his chair and watched as the vampire screamed and howled in agony, the sounds only stopping when he was tranquilized in order to be taken into the research wing, where he was poked and prodded and cut and measured as only the scientific branch of the Council could examine such things
All other times, he was Wesley's.
Wesley wasn't sure when he'd started to look upon the creature as having enough of a self to be worth thinking of in human terms. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, if the detecting spell was right, that the vampire possessed a soul. Perhaps it was the weakened inability for the vampire to constantly maintain his demonic face.
Perhaps it was the night the screams had quieted, only to be replaced by hoarse, bitter weeping.
Wesley watched all of this, and took notes.
He kept accurate journals of every moment, every action, knowing that, yes, certainly, by now it had become repeatative but hoping against hope that it would provide him with enough information with which to find a key. Something that would allow him to decode this language of pain and find something resembling communication.
He tried speaking to the vampire in every language that he knew. He studied others and added those into the mix. He recorded the harsh cries and analyzed them when he should have been sleeping, desperately trying to find a pattern that would indicate some kind of meaning.
He boned up on the known histories, wondering how they could be applied.
Then, one night when Angelus lay curled into a tight ball, his shackled arms crossed protectively over his chest and his throat so raw that blood spilled out of his lips as he sobbed, an idea came to him.
Wesley stole out of the room and headed directly for the archives. A few questions found him the box he needed, and inside he found the item that would probably work best.
He returned to the dungeon. He found a long stick and placed the item on the end of it, holding it out before him so the vampire could - he hoped - observe it without actually making contact with Wesley.
It took a long while. Wesley thought his arm might break from the strain. But, finally, the sobs quieted as the vampire sniffed the air, and looked around in dazed, half-blind bewilderment.
"Buffy?" Angelus asked.
Wesley smiled, holding out the shirt that had once belonged to Merrick, the Slayer's first Watcher, and congratulated himself for figuring out how to get through to the vampire she'd sent to eternal damnation.
***
"It's not working out," Travers said, as though this were nothing more than an observation about the weather.
"It's working fine," Wesley said. He put his notebook down onto the conference table, daring anyone to dispute the weight of it. "Already the observations gathered - "
"Are boring and repetative," another Watcher, Joshua, said. He appealed to the table at large. "The vampire is insane. There is nothing to be learned from him."
"The vampire is centuries old purely in our own dimension," Wesley pointed out. "Adding in the time he has spent elsewhere, the amount of knowledge he must have obtained is immeasurable, particularly regarding Hell dimensions. Few creatures besides vampires could have managed to survive such circumstances. To throw all that away because progress has not been achieved in only a few days - "
"Weeks," Travers said.
"Weeks," Wesley admitted, but forged on, "it's a crime against knowledge. It's a crime against what this organization stands for."
"He does nothing but scream," Lydia said. The tone of her voice made it impossible for Wesley to decide if she was disturbed by that, or supported him in spite of it. Perhaps it was both.
"Because, as we all know, the proper response to time spent in a Hell dimension is a burst of glorious song," Wesley shot back, having long grown tired of that argument.
There was a moment of silence. Wesley dared to think it was due to his own reputation. To the strength of his efforts, and test scores, and family name when it came right down to it, reminding them all that he wasn't to be dismissed this easily. He had earned this opportunity and he wasn't going to let it be snatched away by impatience and petty jealousies.
"It's just a vampire," Joshua said.
"It is Angelus," Travers said, and Wesley felt a glimmer of hope for his chances. "Moreover he is the only known vampire in possession of a soul."
"We should put him out of his misery," Lydia shuddered.
"He's not much use to us if he can't speak," Travers said, finally looking back to Wesley. "I'll give you two weeks. If you can't find some way of making him coherent, he'll have to be given over to the labs entirely."
"That shan't be a danger," Wesley said. He picked his things up again, readying himself to go back down into the erstwhile dungeon. "I have faith."
"Have results," Travers suggested. "They'll be more useful."
***
Nights passed. Wesley sat in his chair and watched as the vampire screamed and howled in agony, the sounds only stopping when he was tranquilized in order to be taken into the research wing, where he was poked and prodded and cut and measured as only the scientific branch of the Council could examine such things
All other times, he was Wesley's.
Wesley wasn't sure when he'd started to look upon the creature as having enough of a self to be worth thinking of in human terms. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, if the detecting spell was right, that the vampire possessed a soul. Perhaps it was the weakened inability for the vampire to constantly maintain his demonic face.
Perhaps it was the night the screams had quieted, only to be replaced by hoarse, bitter weeping.
Wesley watched all of this, and took notes.
He kept accurate journals of every moment, every action, knowing that, yes, certainly, by now it had become repeatative but hoping against hope that it would provide him with enough information with which to find a key. Something that would allow him to decode this language of pain and find something resembling communication.
He tried speaking to the vampire in every language that he knew. He studied others and added those into the mix. He recorded the harsh cries and analyzed them when he should have been sleeping, desperately trying to find a pattern that would indicate some kind of meaning.
He boned up on the known histories, wondering how they could be applied.
Then, one night when Angelus lay curled into a tight ball, his shackled arms crossed protectively over his chest and his throat so raw that blood spilled out of his lips as he sobbed, an idea came to him.
Wesley stole out of the room and headed directly for the archives. A few questions found him the box he needed, and inside he found the item that would probably work best.
He returned to the dungeon. He found a long stick and placed the item on the end of it, holding it out before him so the vampire could - he hoped - observe it without actually making contact with Wesley.
It took a long while. Wesley thought his arm might break from the strain. But, finally, the sobs quieted as the vampire sniffed the air, and looked around in dazed, half-blind bewilderment.
"Buffy?" Angelus asked.
Wesley smiled, holding out the shirt that had once belonged to Merrick, the Slayer's first Watcher, and congratulated himself for figuring out how to get through to the vampire she'd sent to eternal damnation.
***
