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Friends Will Be Friends meme (for anonymous)
Fandom: Angel
Characters: Wes, Gunn
Gen, c. 1000 words
Waiting
They had begun by arguing. Wesley was sure that he would call, and Gunn was sure that he would not. He had fired them after all; told them to get out; to leave him alone and not come back. To Gunn that seemed pretty final. He had even convinced himself that he wasn't bothered by it; that he wasn't annoyed, or even a little hurt. It was just one of those things. The battle went on. Gunn had been fighting vampires long before he had heard of Angel Investigations, and if need be he would carry on the fight alone. So if he sat in the quiet of the apartment, with one eye on the telephone, it wasn't because he was waiting for Angel to ring. It certainly wasn't at all as though he cared.
A few feet away, a huge, ancient book open in front of him, Wesley's mind was travelling down similar pathways. Angel would ring. Angel wouldn't ring. Angel had to, must do, might do, couldn't... it did matter, it didn't, it shouldn't. Wesley rubbed his eyes, his fingers getting in a tangle with the glasses that should be a familiar part of him. He shouldn't be stumbling over them by now. He felt even more unco-ordinated that usual lately though. The book was too heavy on his lap. The words swam in front of his eyes, his concentration shot to hell. Loyalty - it was a curious cross to bear. He had switched his from the Watchers, an ancient organisation that was once all he had known - all that he had had in the world - to a vampire. Everything he had been raised to fight had become everything he lived to fight with; and now that too was gone. Angel had thrown him out, and loyalty and duty and reason were as muddled a blur as the ancient demonic alphabet that kept swirling before his eyes. Maybe Angel would call today. Deep inside, Wesley knew that he wouldn't. Deep inside, Wesley feared that they might never speak again. He didn't want to face up to how much that would hurt, nor how much he hoped that it wasn't true.
"You want pizza?" Gunn didn't, not especially, but he asked the question anyway. The heavy silence of the room was starting to annoy him, endlessly reminding him that there was a sound he was trying not to wait to hear. Blinking up at him, Wesley frowned, as though the simple English were too much to comprehend.
"Pizza?" repeated Gunn. The Englishman shook his head.
"No thank you. I, er... no. But you go ahead. I can man the fort."
"Yeah, 'cause that's taking a lot of work. Our bank of secretaries can barely handle the stress."
"Things will pick up." Wesley's eyes strayed to the phone, then snapped back to the book on his lap as though guilty. Not that Angel's was the only telephone call that they were waiting for. They needed for Cordelia to report in with one of her visions; or better yet for a paying customer, if he was to carry on meeting his rent; if they were all to continue doing those pesky, unimportant little things like eating. It was just that Angel was the obstacle; the heavy stumbling block that needed negotiating if they were to carry on in their work without him. A demon that needed laying to rest. Gunn sighed, and pushing himself to his feet, went over to the window. He had no idea what time it was. Somewhere between dusk and dawn at least, the subtleties lost to the endless lights of the city.
"Where's Cordelia?" he asked, more as a way to prevent the silence from crashing back down, than because he truly cared for the answer. Wesley frowned, still preoccupied with a book that Gunn was well aware hadn't been properly read in hours.
"She said something about retail therapy. Or... retail therapy without the retail, due to funds. That was quite some time ago now though."
"Yeah, like two days." Gunn struggled with the window, eager for fresh air to combat the increasingly stuffy apartment. They had been here what seemed like forever, killing time, talking of nothing, frustrating themselves with inaction. The air had become as stale as the conversation. The window fought him, but he forced it up in the end, letting in a gentle breeze, warm and carrying the scent of hot dogs. Car horns blared, people shouted, doors slammed. Normal sounds. A whole world of normal, masking their more exotic world beneath. "Maybe we should go out on patrol. Bound to be something out there we can be doing. Might even be somebody who'll pay us."
"I very much doubt the latter. But certainly." Wesley rose to his feet, laying the book extra carefully on his chair. His eyes strayed to the phone again, but it stayed silent. It was mocking them now, determined to keep its peace whatever happened.
"Forget it, man." Grabbing a pair of stakes, Gunn shoved one at his companion. He had his doubts about taking Wesley out into the field, but the Englishman had proved capable enough in the past. At times, anyway; once he found his rhythm, and stopped tripping over his own feet. "He's not going to ring. Time we all accepted that, and moved on."
"I suppose." With a small smile that might have meant anything, Wesley shrugged into a jacket, and followed Gunn to the door. In his heart of hearts, he was still sure that Angel would call them. Not today, no, but tomorrow, or the day after... perhaps the day after that. This wasn't the way that it ended; it couldn't be. But then, as his life had proven so painfully in the past, he was particularly adept at being wrong.
"You coming?" called Gunn from the door. Wesley nodded, trying hard not to look at the phone one more time as he left. He failed. He wasn't terribly surprised. If Gunn's eyes also strayed towards the phone though, as he pulled the door shut behind them, then that was pure coincidence. Gunn was not like Wesley; he didn't need Angel. He wasn't waiting on that one particular call.
And yet, as they headed down the stairs, they were both listening to the silence in the room above them, straining to hear it for as long as they could; and whatever either one of them might have wanted the world to believe, they were both waiting impatiently for it to end.
The End
Fandom: Angel
Characters: Wes, Gunn
Gen, c. 1000 words
They had begun by arguing. Wesley was sure that he would call, and Gunn was sure that he would not. He had fired them after all; told them to get out; to leave him alone and not come back. To Gunn that seemed pretty final. He had even convinced himself that he wasn't bothered by it; that he wasn't annoyed, or even a little hurt. It was just one of those things. The battle went on. Gunn had been fighting vampires long before he had heard of Angel Investigations, and if need be he would carry on the fight alone. So if he sat in the quiet of the apartment, with one eye on the telephone, it wasn't because he was waiting for Angel to ring. It certainly wasn't at all as though he cared.
A few feet away, a huge, ancient book open in front of him, Wesley's mind was travelling down similar pathways. Angel would ring. Angel wouldn't ring. Angel had to, must do, might do, couldn't... it did matter, it didn't, it shouldn't. Wesley rubbed his eyes, his fingers getting in a tangle with the glasses that should be a familiar part of him. He shouldn't be stumbling over them by now. He felt even more unco-ordinated that usual lately though. The book was too heavy on his lap. The words swam in front of his eyes, his concentration shot to hell. Loyalty - it was a curious cross to bear. He had switched his from the Watchers, an ancient organisation that was once all he had known - all that he had had in the world - to a vampire. Everything he had been raised to fight had become everything he lived to fight with; and now that too was gone. Angel had thrown him out, and loyalty and duty and reason were as muddled a blur as the ancient demonic alphabet that kept swirling before his eyes. Maybe Angel would call today. Deep inside, Wesley knew that he wouldn't. Deep inside, Wesley feared that they might never speak again. He didn't want to face up to how much that would hurt, nor how much he hoped that it wasn't true.
"You want pizza?" Gunn didn't, not especially, but he asked the question anyway. The heavy silence of the room was starting to annoy him, endlessly reminding him that there was a sound he was trying not to wait to hear. Blinking up at him, Wesley frowned, as though the simple English were too much to comprehend.
"Pizza?" repeated Gunn. The Englishman shook his head.
"No thank you. I, er... no. But you go ahead. I can man the fort."
"Yeah, 'cause that's taking a lot of work. Our bank of secretaries can barely handle the stress."
"Things will pick up." Wesley's eyes strayed to the phone, then snapped back to the book on his lap as though guilty. Not that Angel's was the only telephone call that they were waiting for. They needed for Cordelia to report in with one of her visions; or better yet for a paying customer, if he was to carry on meeting his rent; if they were all to continue doing those pesky, unimportant little things like eating. It was just that Angel was the obstacle; the heavy stumbling block that needed negotiating if they were to carry on in their work without him. A demon that needed laying to rest. Gunn sighed, and pushing himself to his feet, went over to the window. He had no idea what time it was. Somewhere between dusk and dawn at least, the subtleties lost to the endless lights of the city.
"Where's Cordelia?" he asked, more as a way to prevent the silence from crashing back down, than because he truly cared for the answer. Wesley frowned, still preoccupied with a book that Gunn was well aware hadn't been properly read in hours.
"She said something about retail therapy. Or... retail therapy without the retail, due to funds. That was quite some time ago now though."
"Yeah, like two days." Gunn struggled with the window, eager for fresh air to combat the increasingly stuffy apartment. They had been here what seemed like forever, killing time, talking of nothing, frustrating themselves with inaction. The air had become as stale as the conversation. The window fought him, but he forced it up in the end, letting in a gentle breeze, warm and carrying the scent of hot dogs. Car horns blared, people shouted, doors slammed. Normal sounds. A whole world of normal, masking their more exotic world beneath. "Maybe we should go out on patrol. Bound to be something out there we can be doing. Might even be somebody who'll pay us."
"I very much doubt the latter. But certainly." Wesley rose to his feet, laying the book extra carefully on his chair. His eyes strayed to the phone again, but it stayed silent. It was mocking them now, determined to keep its peace whatever happened.
"Forget it, man." Grabbing a pair of stakes, Gunn shoved one at his companion. He had his doubts about taking Wesley out into the field, but the Englishman had proved capable enough in the past. At times, anyway; once he found his rhythm, and stopped tripping over his own feet. "He's not going to ring. Time we all accepted that, and moved on."
"I suppose." With a small smile that might have meant anything, Wesley shrugged into a jacket, and followed Gunn to the door. In his heart of hearts, he was still sure that Angel would call them. Not today, no, but tomorrow, or the day after... perhaps the day after that. This wasn't the way that it ended; it couldn't be. But then, as his life had proven so painfully in the past, he was particularly adept at being wrong.
"You coming?" called Gunn from the door. Wesley nodded, trying hard not to look at the phone one more time as he left. He failed. He wasn't terribly surprised. If Gunn's eyes also strayed towards the phone though, as he pulled the door shut behind them, then that was pure coincidence. Gunn was not like Wesley; he didn't need Angel. He wasn't waiting on that one particular call.
And yet, as they headed down the stairs, they were both listening to the silence in the room above them, straining to hear it for as long as they could; and whatever either one of them might have wanted the world to believe, they were both waiting impatiently for it to end.
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