Title: Shattered
Author: DangerMouse
E-mail: dangermouse42@yahoo.com
Feedback: Will be taken with great joy, but no flames, please.
Summary: Wesley is not quite coping with what he saw in "Waiting in the Wings"
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Distribution: List archives, otherwise, let me know.
Disclaimer: Don't own them, wish I did. Joss, WB, Mutant Enemy, Fox, and whomever else does. I'm just messing around with them for a while.
A/N: Fairly short. I'd almost venture to say ficlet length. But I like it. This is my first fic posting to this list. Be fair.

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Wesley had always heard that one should never drink to forget, one should never drink when depressed, and one should never, ever drink alone.

Fuck that.

Wesley downed his shot of scotch, relishing in the burning sensation crawling down his throat and settling in his belly. The digital clock on his VCR read 2:13, the harsh green glow blurring in his eyes. Somewhere outside, a cat was screaming at another cat, their yowling a decent accompaniment to the steady dripping coming from the bathroom faucet and the low hum of the air conditioner springing to life. Wesley lifted the now empty glass to eye-level, gazing through its faceted edges, cracking his view of his apartment like a broken mirror.

Gunn and Fred.

He couldn't believe it. It was unfathomable. Inconceivable. Impossible. Remarkably unfair.

Fred and Gunn.

How could this have happened? How could he have missed it? Did he really miss it? Or was he being blind and stupid on purpose? What could they possibly see in each other? They were as different as night and day, tea and coffee, round and square. What could he see in her that he couldn't see in him? It just wasn't right, wasn't fair.

Gunn and Fred. Fred and Gunn.

Gunn and gun. Fred and gun.

This was definitely no good and definitely required another drink.

Wesley stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly as he made his way over to his makeshift bar. It was really nothing more than a wobbly, folding card table, upon which rested numerous bottles of a variety of extremely potent alcoholic drinks, purchased just hours before. Some of them were empty.

Fred and Gunn.

Wesley quickly poured himself a shot of whiskey, his movements angry and jerky and a little sloppy. Drops of the bitter drink spilled onto the card table as he lifted the glass, downing the contents in one deep gulp. Picking up the bottle and glass in one hand, he worked his way through the dark apartment, flopping ungracefully back on his old couch.

Gunn and Fred.

Wesley thought his heart had stopped when he saw the two of them kissing. It was like being shot in the gut, as he knew from personal experience. Their lips locked together, hands touching each other, sharing an incredibly intimate moment while Wesley watched from the shadows. He remembered tightening his grip on the sword in his hand, visions of running them through with it clearly in his mind. A horrible thought, to be sure. But if felt so right at the time.

Fred and Gunn.

Another drink passed through his lips, mingling violently with the ones that had gone before it. The clock was now completely unreadable, incomprehensible, like so much else in his life. He lifted the glass once again, gazing through it and the twisted, broken image it produced. He squeezed it, suddenly angry, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. Squeezed and clutched the sparkly container, angry at its perfection, the way the glass fit so perfectly together.

Gunn and Fred.


--- The End.

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