Gunn: Marathon to Waterloo

[doyle]

kindkit organized Gloss Day in tribute to glossing. Since she's one of my favourite LJ people I had to get me some of that. Unfortunately, all I've managed to produce is a gen Gunn ficlet which I wish was, um, better or longer or Giles/Oz, but anyway.

Title: Marathon to Waterloo
Author: Doyle
Pairing: none. Gunn gen.
Rating: PG
Notes: For glossing if she wants it.
Summary: Anything you could tell us about the battle with the Black Thorn, he says, anything at all.


Anything you could tell us about the battle with the Black Thorn, the English dude says, anything at all, it would be helpful, and Gunn wishes he was the kind of guy to just pick up something from that big fancy desk and hurl it at the wall. Spike already got the stapler - good aim, took out one of the gold-framed diplomas - but there's a good paperweight right there. Solid, glass, about the size of his fist. Cheap knock-off of an Orb of Thessulah, and he's never going to stop getting that rush of guilt every time he just knows that kind of stuff.

"Wish I could help," he says, hands tight on his knees. "All went down pretty fast."

The deskplate says Robson. Robson seems a nice guy and looks like he really hates his job as he says, "I know it must be… difficult to remember."

See, it is and it isn't. He doesn't remember the last thing he ever said to Wesley. He does remember that back then it didn't seem like such a stupid plan. He remembers Rondell offering to help take out the Senator but not why he thought he had to say no. Angel's influence, he thinks, solitary hero riding into the valley of death.

"I was out," he says. "Lost a lot of blood. Don't remember anything past seeing Angel get ripped to itty-bitty pieces, and Spike already told you that part, so can I go?"

Robson looks at him with way too much pity. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

Takes a lot of time and pain to walk anywhere these days. Robson's office isn't all that big, but it feels it. Gunn sticks close to the wall and doesn't ask the guy to help him, is glad when he doesn't offer.

The Council's been good with helping clean up the mess in LA, bad with asking questions none of them want to answer. He doesn't tell them what he does remember; waking up smelling dirt and rain and death, Illyria holding onto him, and he was so out of it he missed the blue and the blood on her face. And he thought he'd died like she said he would and he was in heaven with Fred (Wes, Cordy, Alonna, more people, a lot more than he'd stood with in that alley) till Spike leaned over him and said, "Still with us, Charlie-boy?"

Just the three of them, now. Spike's got the big destiny. Illyria's the muscle. His legs don't work so good any more but everybody thinks that's okay because he's got his place in the team. He's the brains. Knows all the demon languages, all the history, can translate a prophecy faster and more accurate than Wes ever did.

He's been thinking a lot, lately, about that story with the monkey's paw.

At the door he says, "You know Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

Robson's kneeling by his desk, putting shards of glass from his diploma into the trash. Handling them carefully, dropping them carefully, looking carefully at Gunn when he answers. Feels like he's living inside bubble-wrap.

"Roger Wyndam-Pryce's son? No - I mean, he was a couple of years below me at the Academy, but I don't really remember… no, I didn't know him."

"Okay," Gunn says, thinking didn’t, thinking don't really remember. Must be nice.

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[sunlit5.livejournal.com]

mmm gunn

and mmm icon


guh


Sun