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Aug. 7th, 2003 06:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
selenakIt’s done. Does anyone know who issued the Five Things… challenge to begin with, so I can thank this person? Also, having written this in close proximity to my Babylon 5 tale produced odd conversations in my head. G’kar thinks Warren needs that soul-searching trip a deux even more urgently than Lyta did, and Londo considered introducing Warren to Mr. Morden, but then, in the interest of the galaxy at large, thought better of it. He took him off to the Zocalo instead.
If anyone is interested in the discussion which started this Warren exploration, it’s here. And the last chapter, like the first, is dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
andrastewhite for inspiring it with her comments. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the fifth of the Five Things Which Never Happened To Warren. The one with… you’ll see.
V.
It was hell. He didn’t know where she started and he ended, and he hadn’t known ever since she killed him. It was only the quality of pain that changed, going from every inch of his body screaming out to a kind of throbbing, numb horror which went on constantly. It was only recently that he realised he was himself, not her, of course, but that didn’t help one bit. The rage and pain inside him, which came from both of them, still ate him alive, and there was no death to escape into anymore. Looking in the mirror, seeing her seeing him, he saw his tomb, and since she thought his thoughts, or he thought hers, he knew she saw the same.
So he had brought them to this garden, with the bright sun and the trampled grass being eternally the same as well. Bloody California. They were like flies caught in amber, nothing but treacly, yellow light streaming around them, imprisoning them in one body, and no chance to break out. Her admirer was there, or was it his? He didn’t know the difference anymore. The kid that looked up to him with awe and adoration and enough lust to make it clear it wasn’t just a platonic crush. Right now, the faith expressed here maddened him even further.
“You were there,” he screamed. “You were there when I killed her.”
He could almost feel his dead lover’s body again, the generous curves he had know so well, her eyes staring up at him empty, eternally empty, where they had once been filled with affection and belief. With anger, too, at times. That memory hurt almost as much, the memory of his lover accusing him of violating her. She didn’t understand then. He had just wanted everything to be the way it had been, he wanted them to be together again, and why should she not forget the memories of their quarrel? They only meant pain for both of them.
But of course he had been wrong, and had lost her again when she found out. What he had done next was even worse, and it brought him to his knees now, shaking with grief and hate and self-loathing. The kid kept talking to him, but he didn’t want to listen. He didn’t even want to look. If that fool ever understood, he’d see the disgust and damnation mirrored there, too, and really, didn’t he deserve it? The mystery was why the kid hadn’t realised this yet. Wasn’t it obvious that anyone close to him would be used, and betrayed, and destroyed, sooner or later?
“I’m sorry,” he cried, and the tears he felt running down his face knew no difference of identity anymore, either. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry…”
But there wasn’t anyone who heard, and who would ever separate them. They would fuel each others hell, Siamese twins who would melt into one. It would drive him completely insane, he knew it, and the power he had always wanted, she had always wanted, that power which was now woven into ever fibre of their being, made sure nobody would ever be able to take them down to free them.
He heard his name, or her name, repeated, and then, he felt the kid pulling him up. “I think I know how this works now,” the kid said. “It’s a fairy tale.” There was something different about the voice, still young, still with the same naïve persistance that life would always work out in the end, but there was also an understanding which was new.
“I know what you did,” the other continued, “but that’s over. Come back to life, Warren. Come back to me.”
He felt the kiss first, tender, full of longing and much surer than he had believed Andrew to be capable of. When he started to return the embrace, clumsy, still shaking, he felt her retreat. She withdrew in the back of his mind, vanished like her own echo, and suddenly he knew who he was again. The relief made him dizzy, and he gasped for air.
Andrew stepped back a little, smiling at him, tears in his eyes as well.
“I knew it would work,” he said triumphantly. “That’s why I stayed here. To make this happen.” A little more uncertain, he added: “Am I good?”
Warren stared at him, stared at his own real, flesh-and-blood-and-skin hands. The air of the lazy sunlit afternoon wasn’t stifling amber anymore, it was liquid gold, and he breathed in deeply. Then he hugged Andrew, for the first time without any calculation, condescension, pitying amusement or any kind of second thoughts at all beyond the overwhelming gratitude at being alive again, at being given another chance.
“You’re perfect,” he said.
If anyone is interested in the discussion which started this Warren exploration, it’s here. And the last chapter, like the first, is dedicated to
andrastewhite for inspiring it with her comments. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present the fifth of the Five Things Which Never Happened To Warren. The one with… you’ll see. V.
It was hell. He didn’t know where she started and he ended, and he hadn’t known ever since she killed him. It was only the quality of pain that changed, going from every inch of his body screaming out to a kind of throbbing, numb horror which went on constantly. It was only recently that he realised he was himself, not her, of course, but that didn’t help one bit. The rage and pain inside him, which came from both of them, still ate him alive, and there was no death to escape into anymore. Looking in the mirror, seeing her seeing him, he saw his tomb, and since she thought his thoughts, or he thought hers, he knew she saw the same.
So he had brought them to this garden, with the bright sun and the trampled grass being eternally the same as well. Bloody California. They were like flies caught in amber, nothing but treacly, yellow light streaming around them, imprisoning them in one body, and no chance to break out. Her admirer was there, or was it his? He didn’t know the difference anymore. The kid that looked up to him with awe and adoration and enough lust to make it clear it wasn’t just a platonic crush. Right now, the faith expressed here maddened him even further.
“You were there,” he screamed. “You were there when I killed her.”
He could almost feel his dead lover’s body again, the generous curves he had know so well, her eyes staring up at him empty, eternally empty, where they had once been filled with affection and belief. With anger, too, at times. That memory hurt almost as much, the memory of his lover accusing him of violating her. She didn’t understand then. He had just wanted everything to be the way it had been, he wanted them to be together again, and why should she not forget the memories of their quarrel? They only meant pain for both of them.
But of course he had been wrong, and had lost her again when she found out. What he had done next was even worse, and it brought him to his knees now, shaking with grief and hate and self-loathing. The kid kept talking to him, but he didn’t want to listen. He didn’t even want to look. If that fool ever understood, he’d see the disgust and damnation mirrored there, too, and really, didn’t he deserve it? The mystery was why the kid hadn’t realised this yet. Wasn’t it obvious that anyone close to him would be used, and betrayed, and destroyed, sooner or later?
“I’m sorry,” he cried, and the tears he felt running down his face knew no difference of identity anymore, either. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry…”
But there wasn’t anyone who heard, and who would ever separate them. They would fuel each others hell, Siamese twins who would melt into one. It would drive him completely insane, he knew it, and the power he had always wanted, she had always wanted, that power which was now woven into ever fibre of their being, made sure nobody would ever be able to take them down to free them.
He heard his name, or her name, repeated, and then, he felt the kid pulling him up. “I think I know how this works now,” the kid said. “It’s a fairy tale.” There was something different about the voice, still young, still with the same naïve persistance that life would always work out in the end, but there was also an understanding which was new.
“I know what you did,” the other continued, “but that’s over. Come back to life, Warren. Come back to me.”
He felt the kiss first, tender, full of longing and much surer than he had believed Andrew to be capable of. When he started to return the embrace, clumsy, still shaking, he felt her retreat. She withdrew in the back of his mind, vanished like her own echo, and suddenly he knew who he was again. The relief made him dizzy, and he gasped for air.
Andrew stepped back a little, smiling at him, tears in his eyes as well.
“I knew it would work,” he said triumphantly. “That’s why I stayed here. To make this happen.” A little more uncertain, he added: “Am I good?”
Warren stared at him, stared at his own real, flesh-and-blood-and-skin hands. The air of the lazy sunlit afternoon wasn’t stifling amber anymore, it was liquid gold, and he breathed in deeply. Then he hugged Andrew, for the first time without any calculation, condescension, pitying amusement or any kind of second thoughts at all beyond the overwhelming gratitude at being alive again, at being given another chance.
“You’re perfect,” he said.
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no subject
Date: 2003-08-06 11:45 pm (UTC)Well yes. *g*
Date: 2003-08-07 05:07 am (UTC)Anyway, now you know why I had to have a pitch black IV between this one and the Buffybot tale. One has to keep a balance.
Re: Well yes. *g*
Date: 2003-08-07 12:51 pm (UTC)And you did.
Date: 2003-08-07 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-07 02:13 pm (UTC)Have to say - beautiful finish!
no subject
Date: 2003-08-08 04:31 am (UTC)It's almost impossible to make Warren/Andrew turn out even slightly well, as the price here indicates. The dead girl truly isn't Warren's fault for once, but she's still obliterated. This forms a perfect circle with the first Willow-and-Warren story, showing both how frighteningly similar they are and how they can't possibly coexist in this situation.
It’s done. Does anyone know who issued the Five Things… challenge to begin with, so I can thank this person?
The details are here along with many of the stories. Technically the page is for stories by invitation only, although the rule gets suspended for stories Te likes *g*. That should tell you who to credit in the author notes, anyway.
Also, having written this in close proximity to my Babylon 5 tale produced odd conversations in my head.
I try to keep my Troika muses far, far away from the rest. There's a downside to having fanboys inhabiting your head - they tend to bug the other characters. (I know enough B5 to understand why introducing Warren to Morden would be a seriously terrible idea, but Zocalo doesn't ring any bells.)
And the last chapter, like the first, is dedicated to andrastewhite for inspiring it with her comments.
It's much appreciated *g*. This is why I love livejournal and the fanfic discussions it inspires - it leads to stories that might never have happened otherwise. (I might have come up with Andrew and the unicorn and my own, but Buffy enhances the idea remarkably and I'd probably never have thought of putting her in there on my own.)
Bloody California.
You know, these stories have really made me aware of how much of Warren's problem was Sunnydale itself. He's drawn to it as much as many of the demonic villains (although the lure is psychological rather than mystical) in his desire to own the town, but he clearly loathes the place as well.
“I’m sorry,” he cried, and the tears he felt running down his face knew no difference of identity anymore, either. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry ...”
Ah, yes. Same story, different details. When I first saw this scene, I immediately leapt to the other interpretation of 'Please, baby, I'm so sorry.'
“It’s a fairy tale.”
And everyone knows that witches die in fairytales, right?
flesh-and-blood-and-skin
... skin being of particular importance to Warren now ...
Then he hugged Andrew, for the first time without any calculation, condescension, pitying amusement or any kind of second thoughts at all beyond the overwhelming gratitude at being alive again, at being given another chance.
“You’re perfect,” he said.
*melts into puddle of goop again*
I just hope one of them is in a fit state to figure out that they need to get the hell out of there and head for Canada (since Andrew wasn't too keen on Mexico) before Buffy or the gang get home. Somehow I doubt they'd be sharing in the joy at Warren's return.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-08 09:09 pm (UTC)Yes. In the first story, they could save each other from supervillain and superwitchdom respectively. Here, it's too late for that, but not because they've grown less similar - only more.
I know enough B5 to understand why introducing Warren to Morden would be a seriously terrible idea, but Zocalo doesn't ring any bells.
The Zocalo is basically B5's Ten Forward, or Quark's. Londo has this tendency to wine and dine (and gamble) with people.
This is why I love livejournal and the fanfic discussions it inspires - it leads to stories that might never have happened otherwise.
Oh yes. It was talking to
Also:
Ah, yes. Same story, different details. When I first saw this scene, I immediately leapt to the other interpretation of 'Please, baby, I'm so sorry.'
The irony is, when I first saw The Killer in Me I didn't think Warren was present at all. I thought the way Amy's spell worked was that Willow's subconscious picked Warren's form to express all she thought was unacceptable in herself. (Precisely because they were so similar which she consciously would never been able to acknowledge.) However, rewatching the episode, I noticed that we see Willow whenever a violent, angry thought is spoken, not Warren, except in the final breakdown when it's all about remorse and we see both express it. And then your comment that Andrew should have been there instead of going with the others after Giles made me think. What if Willow had somehow managed to channel the real thing? And wouldn't it have been hell for Warren as much as for Willow, being melted into one another? And what if Andrew HAD been there? And then, voilá.
I just hope one of them is in a fit state to figure out that they need to get the hell out of there and head for Canada (since Andrew wasn't too keen on Mexico) before Buffy or the gang get home. Somehow I doubt they'd be sharing in the joy at Warren's return.
Indeed. I'm not sure there is much they could do about it, without Willow's magic, but what they would do to Warren and Andrew would decidedly not be pleasant. But the optimist in me thinks they made it to Canada.