Author: Kate Bolin
Summary: Wesley remembers childhood. A slashy vignette.
Feedback: Private is always nice.
Archive: List sites, my site, that's really it, but I'm not against asking.
Disclaimer: Characters and universe belong to Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, Tim Minear, et al. No intentional offense.
Author's note: For Sheila. Who wanted more W/G in her life. And for Jennifer-Oksana, who has currently reduced me to a drooling babbling wreck unable to do more than inane vignettes.
Wesley's lied before.
He said that he grew up next to a large Jamaican family, that he listened to their music and ate their dinners, fell in love with their eldest daughter, and associated with People Of Colour for most of his life.
He grew up in the countryside with nothing but his pale relatives nearby, twin cousins always prowling to torment him, his grandmother criticizing the adulteration of pure British blood, old roast beef and tough Yorkshire puddings.
Mild boring British blood, as Wesley now knows, his body curled up against over six feet of coffee brown skin and muscle. His lies about his childhood, that perfect cheery world he supposedly grew up in, fade against dark deaf skin and, when he's whispered his last lie, he's finally able to fall asleep.
"It was just high spirits."
Kate Bolin | ICQ: 3326944
Dymph-No-Mania: http://www.dymphna.net | email@example.com
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