Numb and Number: Prologue
Oct. 31st, 2008 02:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jesterladyficTitle: Numb and Number
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A post NFA fic about Spike, Wesley and Oz. Illyria proves to be a problem.
Warning: This is darker than my normal fare and involves major character death! But I promise a happy ending. Spoilers for all Buffy and Angel.
Disclaimer: I own neither Buffy nor Angel.
Prologue
The three men sat at a table and drank pints of beer. At first glance there was nothing extraordinary about them, and in themselves they fit individual stereotypes with ease; but when they were looked at as a collective, there was a strange air to their solidarity.
The first man was young, about twenty five. His hair was platinum blonde and offset his blue eyes and sharply
angled cheekbones. He was slim, but definitely well muscled and proportioned. He wore an ancient black leather
duster, which seemed to be like a second skin, over a black t-shirt, black jeans and combat boots. It was a classic
bad boy look, but his eyes spoke of emotions and experiences far beyond evil or boyhood.
The second man was old, probably about seventy. His gray hair had streaks of brown but his eyes shone blue with
vitality startling in someone his age. His vitality was accompanied by a strong and fit, though slightly decaying and
slim, body. A scruffy beard covered his chin and he bore a scar on his throat just peeking up over the rim of his
shirt. He wore a brown suede leather jacket over a purple shirt and jeans. He was rugged, though anciently rugged
would be a better way to put it, and pain lines showed around his eyes.
The third man was also old, though only about sixty to the other man’s seventy. He was a tiny person. His
white hair carried traces of black dye at the tips and his green eyes glowed with an almost feral amber glint. He wore
a faded t-shirt with nondescript markings on it and jeans. A closer look could discover deep calluses on the
fingertips of his left hand and his shoes could hardly be seen under the cuff of his jeans. His face spoke of travel and
suppressed emotion.
There seemed to be nothing to bring these three men together, but circumstances, or perhaps more, had tied them with binds they could not break. Their journey towards this day had started long before they met each other and it had been long and wearisome and nothing short of extraordinary.
For two of them it had started with a bite and the other with a new job.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A post NFA fic about Spike, Wesley and Oz. Illyria proves to be a problem.
Warning: This is darker than my normal fare and involves major character death! But I promise a happy ending. Spoilers for all Buffy and Angel.
Disclaimer: I own neither Buffy nor Angel.
Prologue
The three men sat at a table and drank pints of beer. At first glance there was nothing extraordinary about them, and in themselves they fit individual stereotypes with ease; but when they were looked at as a collective, there was a strange air to their solidarity.
The first man was young, about twenty five. His hair was platinum blonde and offset his blue eyes and sharply
angled cheekbones. He was slim, but definitely well muscled and proportioned. He wore an ancient black leather
duster, which seemed to be like a second skin, over a black t-shirt, black jeans and combat boots. It was a classic
bad boy look, but his eyes spoke of emotions and experiences far beyond evil or boyhood.
The second man was old, probably about seventy. His gray hair had streaks of brown but his eyes shone blue with
vitality startling in someone his age. His vitality was accompanied by a strong and fit, though slightly decaying and
slim, body. A scruffy beard covered his chin and he bore a scar on his throat just peeking up over the rim of his
shirt. He wore a brown suede leather jacket over a purple shirt and jeans. He was rugged, though anciently rugged
would be a better way to put it, and pain lines showed around his eyes.
The third man was also old, though only about sixty to the other man’s seventy. He was a tiny person. His
white hair carried traces of black dye at the tips and his green eyes glowed with an almost feral amber glint. He wore
a faded t-shirt with nondescript markings on it and jeans. A closer look could discover deep calluses on the
fingertips of his left hand and his shoes could hardly be seen under the cuff of his jeans. His face spoke of travel and
suppressed emotion.
There seemed to be nothing to bring these three men together, but circumstances, or perhaps more, had tied them with binds they could not break. Their journey towards this day had started long before they met each other and it had been long and wearisome and nothing short of extraordinary.
For two of them it had started with a bite and the other with a new job.
