By Fabrisse
Wesley/His right hand
Summary: Wesley writes his first fanfic. Was there supposed to be a plot?
Dedication: With thanks to Jen, it's all her fault. Really.
Rating: R for speculation
Disclaimer: All hail Joss sole owner and profiter from the below named characters. Not me. Man from UNCLE doesn't belong to me either.
. . . Angelique had Napoleon strapped to the table. "This time Mr. Solo, you will tell me what I need to know."
"Now, Angelique, baby, surely there are more pleasant ways to get me to cooperate."
"But Mr. Solo, may I call you Napoleon ?, your prowess is legendary and I only have an hour."
Wesley looked up from his computer screen. Something was wrong with what he'd just written but he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Well, besides the question mark followed by the comma. How did Americans just ignore punctuation so blithely?
If you had told Wesley six months ago that the high point of his day was going to be sitting in front of a computer writing X-rated fanfiction, he'd have laughed til he choked. But that was when Virginia was still around, before he was shot, back when life still made sense. Somewhere during that time, he'd taken to watching television when he got home from destroying fire-farting demons or whatever the day had brought him.
Who knew that there were so many old TV series on at the wee small hours. He'd really gotten into Man from UNCLE. It made sense. When he was growing up he'd wanted to be Bond, James Bond and have all the cool gadgets and neat cars. So a series that gave him cool cars and neat gadgets every day had a certain level of appeal. Not to mention all the pretty girls that Napoleon got to bed.
Better yet, there were fans of the series who posited all sorts of adventures for Napoleon. Now he was trying to write some and having a difficult time of it. One problem was that Wesley just didn't really know how it felt to get the girl. Well, other than Virginia and that had only lasted a few months. Face it, very few of the women who came into Angel Investigations were interested in him. If they weren't already involved, they were demons or worse, interested in Angel. All of which made it difficult to imagine himself as Napoleon.
Nor was he aloof like Illya. Although, neither of them ever seemed to get the girl and they both had advanced degrees from Cambridge in obscure subjects, not to mention being far more lethal than anyone ever supposed them to be. Oh yes, and they were both blue eyed. Not really much in common at all. Just because Illya did all the research and the grunt work, well, all the real work. Illya was always the one getting beaten up and tortured or taking the bullet. How could anyone identify with that?
. . . Angelique unstrapped Napoleon's hands
Dammit, why would she do something that stupid? After all, no one ever did that for Illya. Illya always got out of things on his own, usually just before Napoleon rescued him. Napoleon got out of things because the villains were dumb. Or maybe there was just something about being handsome that made people act foolishly around him. Except the one time Cordy had stayed around and watched TV with him, she'd said that the blond was the good looking one. So, what did Cordy know about what women liked anyway.
Maybe Wesley should try writing it from Illya's point of view. The rescuer coming in the nick of time.
Four hours later Wesley was getting to the denouement. Approaching the adventure from another point of view had helped tremendously. He'd spent a little time cutting back to Angelique's interrogation of Napoleon. She'd predictably ended up under his sway and then under him. Now all that was left was the final convergence.
. . . Angelique didn't like letting her minions know about the type of 'interrogation techniques' she used with Napoleon. Not that Mr. Solo wasn't very cooperative about some things.
. . . Illya observed the scene below him. It figured. He got whipped nearly to death by Mother Fear and Napoleon's torture consisted of sleeping with a beautiful woman. Well, not exactly sleeping. Napoleon's eyes met Illya's over Angelique's shoulder. As Napoleon pulled her back down for a passionate kiss, Illya lifted the screen to the air duct and quietly slithered to the floor. The quiet snick of a sleep dart found Angelique's thigh and she passed out almost instantly.
. . . "No, Napoleon, you aren't responsible for her passing out. At least not this time. Do you know where your clothes are?"
. . . "Of course not. Torture tends to be more effective if the victim is naked."
. . . Illya took off his jacket. "Wear this, that air duct is cold. And sometime soon we're going to have to discuss the precise definitions of 'torture' and 'victim.'"
. . . Napoleon's eyes met Illya's for an amused moment. An arc of electricity seemed to. . .
Wait a minute. Wesley looked at what he was writing. Nothing like that had happened to him since boarding school. And he certainly didn't want to write about Napoleon getting together with Illya. That would be like him getting together with Angel. To quote Cordelia, 'Yech!' Right?
~ End ~