The Glass Onion Text too small or too big? You can change it! Ctrl+ (bigger), Ctrl- (smaller)
or click on View in your browser and look for font or text size settings.

Home/Quicksearch  +   Random  +   Upload  +   Search  +   Contact  +   GO List

A Nameless Horror
Author: Jennifer-Oksana
Rating: NC-17 (please see author's note)
Spoilers: Billy
Summary: Wesley discovers a very dark thing within. And this is not in any way a good thing. Part one of a three-part series of standalone Wesley stories.
Archive: lists and those already given permissions; others ask.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Mutant Enemy, he does.
Note: In no way do I support assault on women, domestic violence, or anything mentioned within, nor do I think the Angel characters are secretly primally misogynistic. But given the attitudes shown in Billy, I was curious to explore what might have sparked it, not to excuse, but to explain.

The first time he'd had sex, he'd been sixteen years old. It had been, to his father's everlasting disappointment, with an absolutely gorgeous, possibly noble, high prospect boy at his school. Not that Wesley's father had ever been told this was the case, but being who he was, Wesley's father had never needed to be told. He'd simply known just by looking at Wesley the next time Wesley'd come home for holiday.

"I see," his father had said, looking at him with utter contempt from his leather wing chair. "Francesca, do get Master Wesley's suitcase. He's decided that he's not staying for the holiday after all."

Three years later, at a summer institute for prospective Watchers in London, his father had sent her. Wesley, like all the other young Watcherlings, was stuck in a dingy, dim little flat with poor wiring and a shower stall barely large enough to turn around in. He had not, rather surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, given Wyndham-Pryce pere's anxieties about his son), been given a roommate.

Wesley had never been happier. He was finally being given instruction in spellwork that would protect him against his father's dreadful snooping habits, his marks at Magdalen had been extraordinary, and everyone at the Council had been extremely welcoming and friendly.

It had been an ordinary Wednesday evening so far. He'd gone for a round at the pub with his classmates, flirting shamelessly with the pretty blonde American candidate with the horrible name of Bethanie. Then he'd slipped out early to go enjoy the solitude in his flat and relax with his radio and a good book not about linguistics or magicks.

Someone had knocked on the door and Wesley, thinking it one of his mates, had opened the door to find a girl standing there, maybe a year or so his elder or junior.

"You Wesley?" she asked in a thick East End accent.

"Yes, I am," he said, feeling very strange. The warning spell he'd set on the threshold was reacting in a way he hadn't heard described in class. Perhaps he'd done it wrong. "Who might you be?"

She cackled a little, pushing back impeccably feathered platinum blonde hair from her face. The girl wasn't unattractive--a bit on the skinny side, perhaps, but so was Wesley himself. Her dress was bright green and skin-tight and she had, or at least he felt she had, extraordinarily pretty hands with nicely manicured nails.

"Me? I'm a bit of fun," she said, laughing again. "But if you want, you can call me Nanette. Or Christine. Or whatever you fancy--your dad's paid enough."

He was almost sick, but he kept his composition. There had to be some mistake. No matter how strange or angry his father was, he wouldn't have paid a call girl to come to his flat. That was simply too grotesque to be imagined--and Wesley could immediately imagine the reasons why.

"My father?" he said. "Did my father pay you to come here?"

"Paid my agency," she said with a smile that was beginning to show its cracks. "What's a-matter, Master Wesley? Don't you know all work and no play makes you a dull boy?"

He blinked, and suddenly a hot, almost desperate wave of anger broke in his head and Nanette or Christine or Moll-bollocksing-Flanders' hopeful smile looked like a leer. Very quietly, he'd clenched his left hand in a fist, and his own dazed half-smile had remained in place.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is just--rather unexpected."

Her smile warmed a few degrees. "Oy, I understand," she said. "I expect your dad's just worried about you is all, wanted to give you a bit of a treat."

The grumbling in his stomach had grown warmer, too, but not in a pleasant way. Wesley could not believe that this--this this this--creature--was standing there, chittering at him (probably in hopes of an extra fiver or so for a fix) while his head tried to explode. Was she utterly blind? Couldn't she see that he was in no way interested in this sordid scenario? Why wouldn't she go away?

"Of course," he said. "Yes, of course."

"Well, then?" she said. "What're you thinkin' of?"

"I'm thinking," he said softly, making very sure to pronounce the g, "That you should get out of my flat."

She obviously wasn't really all that bright--or whatever brains she had were addled by some chemical or other. It took her a good thirty seconds to realize what he'd said, and a sour expression replaced her false smile.

"What's your problem?" she asked with a scowl. "It ain't your quid, is it? Why don't you just sit down and let Nanette give you a nice massage? I promise I don't bite, ickle boy."

Wesley shook his head, unsure of why she was pressing him to do something he wasn't interested in. "I'm not interested. Please, go away," he said again.

"What's wrong? Bloody hell, you don't have to do a bloody thing if you don't want, an' you're givin' me shite," she said, suddenly as angry as he was. Wesley was aware that perhaps something unnatural was involved, but his rational mind was drowned out by a thousand angry howls, natural and not-so. "What's wrong with you? You a bloody poofter? That why your dad was so insistent? You want me to give it to you up the--?"

The thousand angry howls became one murderous one, and it all focused on the girl's face. Pale, slightly flabby for all its fashionable thinness, rather too much blue eyeshadow, mascara gobbed on, lips glossed like a bleeding drag queen's, primed for sucking or blowing or whatever he ordered. Whore. This girl was a bloody whore, cursing at him like he was her fucking boyfriend or fellow prostitute.

Who the bloody hell did she think she was?

For the first time in his life, Wesley wanted to see blood. He wanted to slam the girl into the wall and hit her until she wept blood and snot along with her tears. The desire was shimmering, brilliant, more powerful than anything he'd ever felt in his life and it was lodged in his throat, ready to burn them both to cinders if he opened his mouth.

Instead he advanced on her, his eyes speaking for him as she scrambled away from him, backing down his hallway, desperately clinging to his grimy walls with her fingernails--rather like a crawling insect, the murderous, utterly urbane voice in his head thought. He pursued her, not motivated by anything with a name, just the howl and the maddening desire lodged in his throat.

The girl, her blonde hair trailing behind her, wrenched open the bathroom door. He followed mercilessly, a funny sort of smile on his lips, an almost pleasant smile, as he closed and locked the door behind them. She started to sniffle and howl, cringing into the shower.

"Don't you touch me!" she shouted. "Don't you touch me, you fucking poof!"

He didn't open his mouth. He was still afraid they'd burn up. Instead, he turned the shower on full blast, the water churning out in a steamy, heated miasma that filled the tiny room in less than a minute. The girl wailed a little more and then sank down, hiding her melting face in her hands as he watched.

It was then that he noticed the bruises and scars. There was a faded scar on the pale inside of her right arm, which matched one or two that he himself had, a yellowing bruise on the other arm, a few cuts and scrapes up her legs, including a bright purple shiner on her left shin. Finally, there were the matching abrasions on her inner thighs, right before the tease of dark curls, confronting him without words.

The malevolent burning thing in his throat turned to ice and slid into his stomach. He rather dazedly sat on the toilet, trying not to break into tears or anything ridiculous like that in front of the wet, bruised, and thoroughly tormented girl. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair, looking at his knees, trying to figure out what he had just done, what spell that was, what horrific demon had possessed him to act like that.

"Bloody hell," the girl said loudly. He looked up to see her, hair and outfit utterly ruined, staring at him with arms akimbo. "What the fuck's your kink? I didn't get paid enough for this shite. You get yours from menacing women? Well, fuck you, you posh wanking fuck. Just cuz you've got your daddy's checkbook and a public school education don't mean you can treat people like things."

His stomach turned and squeezed in a way he didn't think was possible and he looked away from her, ashamed and embarrassed and terrified.

"I'm sorry," he muttered into his hands. "I'll give you an extra twenty if you'll please go away now. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But please--"

"Give it over," the girl said. Wesley thrust his hands into his pockets and came up with a rather crumpled twenty-pound note. She snatched it from him without any ceremony. "Fuck, you posh types is all the same. Money don't buy class, arsehole."

She soddenly clumped away, leaving the bathroom door open. In the distance, Wesley heard the door slam, completely failing to hear the crying and the cursing. Instead, he looked at his hands for a while before getting sick.

There wasn't any spell, he realized. The horrible murderous thing, the thing that had almost assaulted that girl--that had only been him. He got a little sicker, and then, wiping his mouth, wondered almost naively--was it normal? To have this ugly, horrible, murderous thing within you that of course needed to be controlled, kept out of view?

Was it in his father? His mother? Quentin Travers and all the other Watchers? Or was it just his sin, his self-loathing and wrath turning on an innocent out of shame and fear? Would he ever be able to escape it?

The questions tormented him, and sick or not, Wesley sat in place for another three hours, trying to find questions and answers for the horrible, bad, sinful thing he'd almost done.

Before going to bed, Wesley promised himself that no matter what else, he'd never try to hurt a woman again. He'd never have the answers about anyone else, that much he knew. But at least he knew that no matter if the ugly thing was an overreaction to sore issues in his soul or a much darker thing, he could control himself.

The thought offered up to heaven and himself like a prayer, Wesley turned over and went to sleep. And completely ceased to think of it for a very long time.

Home/QuickSearch  +   Random  +   Upload  +   Search  +   Contact  +   GO List