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Wesley  (PG)                                                                                            1     2     4     5

Blue and Alone by Weeping Willow

 

Post- Shells

 

Blue and Alone, 

I saw your face in a dream last night 

A vision so bright and so clear 

Though you were lost in the city lights 

I felt as if you were here 

In my dreams I hold you tight 

I wish that I never let go 

In my dreams I have no fright 

'Cause I'm am no longer alone 

We will never touch again 

I'm under a spell since you've gone 

We will never kiss again 

I'm under a curse and I'm done 

I feel so blue and alone 

You had fire in your eyes 

And magic was in your touch 

I want you back and I despise 

That what I want is so much 

In my dreams. . .

We will never touch again 

I'm under a spell since you've gone 

We will never kiss again 

I'm under a curse and I'm done 

I feel so blue and alone

 

 

What was the point of it all?

 

When all was said and done, what was the point?  You did your duty, you fought, you sacrificed because it was the only thing to do.  Wesley understood that better than most.  He had a deeply ingrained sense of honor and duty and purpose.  One stood against evil because the alternative was unacceptable.  One defended those that could not defend themselves because it was the right thing to do.

 

Once aware of the evil that lurked in the underbelly of the world, he dedicated his life to fighting it.  How could he not?  But no matter how much evil they eradicated, there was always more.  It just kept coming—a neverending tide of cruelty and violence and depravity.  A miasma attempting to encompass the innocent, who didn’t even sense its existence.

 

It was incumbent upon those who were aware to do something about it, and they tried.  They fought and they died for the cause.  Doyle. . . Cordelia. . . and now, Fred.  It was never finished.  It just kept coming.  And Wesley was so very tired.

 

He dreamed of Fred often.  Nearly every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face, begging him, “Why can’t I stay?”  So he stopped closing his eyes.

 

Once he realized that the Scotch made him too vulnerable to sleep. . . and dreams, he began drinking numerous pots of coffee in an attempt to stave off the need for sleep.  And then he discovered a marvelous concoction Spike had left in Angel’s office, called Red Bull.  He immediately purchased a case.

 

He had driven himself to find the answer to the question that haunted him: Why can’t I stay?  But deep inside, he knew it was useless.  He would never have Fred back the way she had been.

 

He had loved her as soon as he met her.  He had looked into those terrified eyes, fighting so hard to stay alive, to stay sane, to get home, and he knew.  Fred was the strongest woman he had ever known.  Stronger than Faith, stronger than Buffy; because Fred’s strength did not come from some mystical choosing that imbued her with power—it came from her own essence.  She was strong and beautiful and brilliant, and kind and loving.  He had never even dared to dream he would meet a woman like Fred. 

 

But if he had dared, Fred was the epitome of. . . everything he had ever wanted.  She made him whole.  She made him feel like a new man.  She made him better than he was.  And now she was gone.  And he was empty inside.

 

He had waited so long for Fred.  He had been waiting his entire life.  And then he met her.  It was magic!  The cosmos had given him a gift for which he hadn’t even dared to hope.  She had chosen Gunn, but that was bearable, because she was happy.  Her happiness was more important to Wesley than his own.

 

And then. . . she chose him!  Winifred Burkle had looked at him and seen. . . him.  And for one brief, shining week, he had everything he had ever wanted from life.  All of his pain, uncertainties and past trauma was burned away by the fire of her love.

 

“Why can’t I stay?”

 

Wesley was afraid to sleep. . . to dream.  He now longer knew if the being who came to him in dreams was really his Fred or only the interloper who had stolen her body.  His dreams were the last part of Fred that he had and he would not give them over to her murderer.

 

“To sleep, perchance to dream. . .”  Not while Illyria had the power to enter his dreams, to confuse him.  He would not release this last soupcon of Fred to her.

 

That was the point of it all.

 

While he zealously guarded his memories of Fred, she was not completely gone.  She lived on in his mind, and he would not surrender that to Illyria or anyone else.

 

So he would fight, and research, and sacrifice, but he wouldn’t sleep. . . he wouldn’t dream.  Because he still had no answer to the only question that mattered.

 

“Wesley, why can’t I stay?”

 

 

The End

 

 

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Part Four:  Anya

 

 

 

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