Wesley Fairchild

A list of Wesley’s Character Tropes

Southern Gentleman

"Alabama man's family tree resembles wreath"

Jewel Collector

Product of Assault

Second-Hand Victim

Therapist Heal Thyself

Photographs Don't Lie

"'Don't touch me,' says man who has unexplained scars from childhood"

"Science proves the right accent can make any insult sound like a compliment"

Vacation Idea: Dissociation. Escape Today!

Sex by Proxy

there was only one person in her life that she would have trusted with the question of ring, though she has her innate guesses, the knowledge of what she thinks she wants. but to articulate it so, to get it so exactly right that it had the hope of matching what’s already been given to her, is not yet her strength. “i’d hit you if you weren’t still holding it.” she wouldn’t, whatever malice in the past might have warranted such a response has been poured out of her, she is violent in retrospect only. the upper-hand is an illusion. 

the box of gems is set in front of her, given with only the mention of asking not even a full please and thank you. she doesn’t know where to start with these things, the options presented look as good as any. “it should be black.” she says, the dear friend allowed into the thoughts that had been spinning in her mind. each gem sparkles at her, offering possibility compared to her own red gem. “but it has to be as good as that.”

"As good as that, now..." he echoes back the words in nearly a contemplating hum, eyes shifting up from the borrowed ring of hers to the true owner's gaze. "You might have to take stock of the blessings you've already gotten before asking for another, darling," he tells her with a smirk. He may have some in a vault or two, but they're not for barter. Black is more than reasonable, though, and with it being said, he's able to pop open the jewel case and filter between those inside.

"I had an inkling you'd have your heart set between one or the other," he goes on, sliding aside the reds from the blacks. Of all the years he's been witness to their courtship of sorts, some trends do stay remarkably the same. "This one here lets you have a little of both." Wesley's fingers pinch around a black opal, fiery tones playing beneath its smooth surface, an exploding glint even in the most gentle of lighting. "Suits him, I'd have to say." It lays in his palm, welcoming her to take it and have a look for herself. "Has a good heaping of hellfire and damnation to match."

“sure there will be. that’s the bound part.” there’s still no ease to the jokes that she makes, but the fact that she can get through them at all is a testament to some relaxation. they circle the same topics, the questions remain always the same. she doesn’t answer it seriously, but she does not entertain the idea either. 

“i actually— i hadn’t,” the concept of another ring, especially right after this one has become a cemented part of her, had yet to truly cross her mind. there would have to be something equally as marvelous waiting for him, though she couldn’t imagine what. luckily she’s in the one place where such conversations might find knowledgable footing. “i’ll tell you when i get mine back.”

Wesley's lips curve while his eyes stay on the ring that's found company on his pinkie. The digit rises and falls, catching a different shard of light from the lanterns that hang above in his courtyard. It's Claudia's gaze that's stricken with something else, even in the face of a friend, there is something so precious to her missing from her grasp. It shows on her and in her words, which only cause him to eventually sway his attention back to her.

"Oh, darling, you're awfully bad at keeping an upper-hand," he teases while standing up, advantage of his coming with, glinting all the way to the side table he moves towards. He returns with the box that has been awaiting its moment, a short but wide one with a glass top. When he reclaims his seat, the loose gems are displayed between them from his lap. "There's no shame in asking for a little help from a dear friend."

she has tried to reason before, in various states of well and unwell, the sober to the delirious. she thinks of her wails against the unfairness of a washington life, the quiet sanctimonious logic that crept its way into los angeles. that there was a different way to survive everything. but she had never been faced with this before. who could say that they had. the knife which had once been just a facet of the situation she walked into now swung into the foreground, glinting and dangerous. there are split seconds between death and disaster, her reflexes have been softened over the years, transformed into those of someone who tries to throw the punch first instead of receive it. that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten how to read the signs— lunging for the knife a mere second after its intention is clear. 

she shoves it off course, hand open and prepared to be sliced by the steel that would have otherwise found itself coated in wes’s blood. of the two to spill, she gives little thought to which would be the more favorable. “what are you doing!” she takes little stock of what might be injuries, she cares more about the preventing it from happening again. “wes!”

He is not aiming to die. There is a knife for that. What intention of the body is not of the sound mind. Though a hand is holding tight onto a kitchen knife, there is no consciousness that claims ownership over it. It hovers on its own, floating, an entity on its own, guided by something else. He feels that. He feels his mother's undead ghost is in the room. It's the ghost of who she was, who she could have been, who she will never be allowed to become. This may have even been the room where her soul was murdered, where the blood leaked out on the floor, where the night swallowed her whole and spat her back out like the being he is now: a used up shell of a bullet, not even fired by their own hands.

And then there is the shot. The shot of a yell. Higher than he could be responsible for. His fingers squeeze. Nails dig into the palm without anything to stop them. An empty hand. His vision ebbs and flows, capturing, recapturing. A knife at the baseboard. Droplets of red like rubies falling. The fog remains, though lighter, enough to see a face.

"We're not meant to be here."

“well if it’s so obvious.” she matches his smirk with her own eye roll, as though they’re playing with equal knowledge. of course she doesn’t know, but if she were to ask the answer would be there. even if she didn’t know the stone or the jeweler, or anything about it other than the words tucked into every engraved particle. if there was something obvious about it to her, it was that it was red, and it was done with love. she has learned to stop expecting more in life. to expect this much was already unheard— would have made a younger version of herself laugh with equal parts derision and disbelief. 

“you think gagged and bound was enough?” she can’t help her eyes tracking back to the ring for the moment. it’s not distrust, simply the separation of it has already endured far too long to be considered comfortable. and it wouldn’t change for a single day more in her life. she points to her ring, “he’s usually not so subtle.”

"It's a great misfortune of mine not to be as familiar with his passion for bondage, but you have my trust." Her vision hardly ventures far from what he's holding hostage, and while her attention is there, his attention is on her, even when her bare finger points forward. No, he's not subtle in the slightest, never has been for as long as he's met him.

"Now, if this is yours to have and to hold," he goes on, speaking of her possession while keeping it among his own, "is it that he'll be awaiting with handcuffs at the end of the aisle?--There ought to be something just as subtle for him to be wearing, would you say?"

“why wesley, i should consider the pedestal firmly for you.” a note of humor, settled in between what usually finds itself a refined politeness. snuck in between the ribbing, turning her somewhat more human, bit by bit. it had been the case in youth at the least, she saw no harm in acknowledging the truth of their matter. now they were equals, it had taken one a great deal more work than the other, but such games were par for their recollection. “i do so appreciate the hand.”

and the acknowledgement that indeed what might await those who forgot to factor in more than just financials. lessons learned once, need not be learned twice. “what proclivities within a household might force you to say such a thing?” it might be metaphor, it might not. axel reeves has a firm grip and unmatched control in an already influential industry. who was to say what powerful men did in the comfort of their own homes— she had ideas to spare. 

but there’s no use in dwelling on the negatives, the speculation, the memories that could have been built on unhappy marriages. she might give herself the thought that there was no escape if her thoughts continued in such a direction. “there is no pain in such discovery.” love was not handed over to simply anyone who might wish it, it was earned in the same way as all glories. even if she might wish for an easier route, there was not one to be found. “but you still must be sure that you have earned such a thing. there is only downfall in presumption.” 

"You'd about be the last one to need any help from above, dearheart." His tone sounds as divine as the perch he's been elevated to, as teasing as the one that least deserves it. "The good Lord might could use an alexandrite if it's my hand you'd rather be lifted on up by." The stone glimmers in chandelier light from the way they curl back around his glass, a gradual raise that finally reaches curving lips.

Talk of the Reeves does nothing to sway his expression, keeps southern hospitality sparkling, not one bad word to say. "All types of hellacious predilections happen behind closed doors," he simply says, as innocent as can be. "You'd be able to bring color to the picture more vividly than I'd could ever. What is it that we should ought to think goes on should we have a peek through the windows?"

He already has his rounds of gossip, pieces of a child's puzzle from company and relations, a marriage buried in a palace is an interest that's already approaching maturity. This is the table where another lies, unripened and still forming. "Who's in need of knowing what they've gone and earned?" he asks in wonder, green eyes attaching themselves to her gaze. "Is it that we're still speaking of Felix, or have we taken a detour to the mirror?-- It’s awfully hard to come to a fall when you have the hand of the divine."

“melting.” the word is a scoff, as though it couldn’t possibly be true. the ability to melt was subject to a kind of whimsical notion that she could feel an emotion so strongly it was no longer contained. it had happened before, in words of anger, blacked out rage and studded anxiety. the high stress that resulted in physical outbursts, that she hadn’t felt in months. “you just lost your chance to make an offer.” everything instead was peace— there was no need for such spillage. 

or did it? heartstrings tighten evermore as she saw him hold up the ring again, viewer instead of wearer, the details seen in a new light with every passing word. “the ring is not worth millions.” although she’s not quite sure she believes it herself. surely if there was a hidden message in the cut of the ring, a loving detail laid out in middle name and stone, then there was certainly more that she would never have found on her own. there is no distrust in the statement, she would have gone on wearing marianna’s citrine for the next hundred years, but there is confusion. “come on. give it back if you’re just going to mess around.”

An amusing tone rings in his throat at her words, no threat to be found, and possibly very little of one to be made. It is not from the lack of meaning towards the object in question; he knows his privilege all too well. It's what lets him wear it in the first place, allows him to inform her of a truth that clearly hasn't been shared with her already. His lips turn into fine wire, curling at the corners, faceted in place, just as his free hand does around the ring as if she may take the additional step next in means of stripping it from his possession. Habitual hazard.

"No wonder you've gone and toted it all around the city without a care in the world," he muses, as if the revelation has shown itself at last. "There must be a jeweler out there out of sorts from being gagged and bound thanks to your intended. Shaking themselves silly to keep you from knowing what price tag hung off of it.--You've never thought to find out?"

she imagines a world where they had not ventured out of california, had not dared to ruin the perfect landscape that had been created finally. if they had just let the world extend into every sunset beach and never more hope to cure whatever ails. but it simply hadn’t been the case, she had pushed for this and now she was face to face with the consequences. the amount of times that she had stared at wes with the same message crawling under her skin, trying to find its way out with words and whiskey, the nights that were marked by the hopeless thoughts that there might never be a way out.

but there had been, has been, will be. she need only look down at her steady hand to know. the proof proves to be more illusive. how should she say that it was okay— the weight of never having to before is heavy. “not what i asked.” she managed to say, as though sin could neither mean positive or negative, nor answer the question. i am sin, weren’t they all. “did you get dinner?”

Momma wasn't skilled with a knife. A whisper of a butcher crept in his drug-induced consciousness with hospital lights covering his healing body, but butchers cleave cleanly; they're as precise as surgeons. No butcher touched his torso that night, only a woman whose womb haunted her more than he had ever known before. A reminder of violation, a sin that could not be forgiven, but was unjustly hers to bear.

Claudia dissipates easily, barely existing to begin with. A peripheral figment that morphs into a memory that is decades old, one that not a single speck of dust has landed on and stayed. The wooden handle is curved around, the palm holding it allowing any splinter to sink its teeth into itself. He is sin. He is sin. He is sin. Her very words are becoming his own, circling over and over again until they're engraved into bone, riddling his twisted DNA, churning in the stomach the tip of the blade is pointing towards, and then lurched for.

“come on.” she huffs, but there’s little to say in the way of defense. she’s too sober to even entertain the conversation that has to do with that part of her relationship. she didn’t need to talk about time or anything of the like, not when her engagement ring was still being held up for inspection. other pieces of the puzzle take precedent over banter in the direction that he’s headed. 

“no.” she finally has her out, and seizes it to redirect the conversation back to what she could talk about with actively wanting to run out of the room. “i’m marrying for money.” the quantifiable whys of her engagement had yet to cross her mind. he had asked, and beyond that the world didn’t need to know a thing. she wasn’t even sure that she could find the words to explain everything that had been rolled into the yes that she’d given. “you knew that.”

but if there was room for another smart remark on her whys, they were wiped away in the next moment. she knew she didn’t want a princess cut, the word volleyed around too much to ever be anything that she could wear proudly. but instead it’s the opposite. “rose cut?” the edge has seeped out of her voice, the toughness out of her expression. she’s come to believe that there are corners of julian’s mind that she was never meant to understand, and still they reveal themselves to be about her all the same. as though for every thought of him that she had, it was matched and amplified. “it’s a rose?”

"This ring of yours does lend a helping hand to the notion," he plays with her, unable to detach from the object in question, a perfect addition to his collection if he had the chance to make it his own. He knows better than to make it into anything more than a joke. She'd sooner claw out of her skin than part from it permanently. Fortunately for her, every speck of it undeniably belongs to no one else but her, even if the weight of the news is a recent revelation cleared up for her to see.

"You sound awfully touched, darling. You'll be little more than a puddle if you keep melting around the edges like you are." The token of her engagement is slipped back on his pinkie, the knuckle making the fit. "Then who would be left to wear your husband’s millions on their little finger?"

she thinks over the suggestions he’s given her, although she wonders why every time there was another mention of his prior plans she should find more annoyance instead of less. why it should matter that he considered jade bellamy to be a suitable match, it had not happened. and the prick of any emotion at all, there was still an adjustment to be made— control indeed. “perhaps there’s some room for equality.” a dangerous notion, but one she could finally consider. she was no longer hoping to escape the debts that trailed a family name, she could consider the possibility of modes other than survival. 

but it was ever a romantic notion, and he was right to say so, the metaphoric reigns pulled back before she might say something even more controversial. “you wouldn’t curse me to such an existence.” whether the true horror is to be framed forever or to be left to the reeves is for wesley to decide. she has no particular tie to either. all it serves is the small talk that she’s learned are supposed to pad polite conversation if she ever hopes to be anything close to what hollywood expects.

“do you consider me a follower of the heart?” she knew the answer was to the negative, there was hardly a decision in her life that hadn’t been meticulously thought through. weighed on the scales of justice and reverence, every detail kept in check. “it would be a change. if proven worth it.” but it certainly remained to be seen, and she was in no position to press forward with a half-guess. “there is a world of difference between notice and action.”

Eyebrows peaked, the head attached angling to let those words of hers funnel themselves deep inside his hearing, destination predetermined, meaning awaiting to wrap itself around them. Equality was a curious thing to say, finding one to regard as your equal was even more curious. "Is that you coming down from your pedestal, Miss Mary, or are we finding ourselves lifting one other up to join us?"

The night was growing fonder with entertainment, shining in the eyes that held Mary, a reflection swimming in green irises, a snapshot well enough for a frame of its own. "It'd be a frightful fate." There didn't seem to be a genuinely concerned muscle in that slight, half-cocked smile. "A fly on any one of their walls has a hard enough time as it is without being bound and gagged."

But the Reeves had their Goyas and Titians; adding an Astor was too greedy for even the head of the household himself. There was no threat, not one that nearly weighed as much as the one nestled inside of her, aching to devour without knowing what food was. A crumb was rolled out, wondering what it'd do. "You've done some noticing, then, have you?” he wondered aloud. “You ought to know it’s no cross to bear."

@wesleyfairchild​

there are few people in the world who she trusts. there is inarguably a hierarchy to this word now, the number one spot declared for the entire world to know. but still wes has managed to stay near for almost as long, to gain just enough confidence, to see and in turn be seen. which is how she knows that there is something wrong with the fairchild house. it is not house itself, she could easily see them making a few adjustments and using it as their location. aesthetically it works just as well as any of the other houses they have longed for and realized on film. but there is something wrong with how the house feels. and that is something that can only be attributed to the people within it. 

she knocks on the doorframe of the room she’s found him in, “you alright?”

Static is overflowing. It's crawling out of every pore in his body, can feel the tiny legs of some invisible creature pulling and scraping along his skin in its escape. Millipedes of revulsion. Maggots of repugnance. Spiders weaving webs to trap them all in and wrap himself alongside them, feasting on the scars that have been all the proof he's ever needed this entire time.

There is no ground beneath his feet. No walls around him. No gravity. No air. Wesley Fairchild has been missing since his conception, a fate only something on this earth suffers from when it has been uprooted from the dirt like any one of the bugs his flesh now houses. He wants to be consumed, digested, cleansed of all that is wrong.

There is no telling how long he has been watched, how or if any words have been spoken to him, but the voice that finally answers back is no one he has ever met before. He doesn't know this thing that's slithering from his lungs and out his mouth, perhaps it is from the same place as the knife that dangles from a hand he cannot sense.

"I am sin."

if wes were anyone else, she would be ripping the ring out of his hands, ensuring its safety away from anyone who wished ill or insulting. but he’s done far more than enough to earn the extra patience, the joking in his words underscored by expression that might have taken years to note, but was noted all the same. she thinks of the times sitting on uncomfortable sets, where she looked across the room and saw him gazing back at her all the same. and besides, it’s only a loan. 

“fuck off” but there’s only the resulting humored exhaustion, no malice to be found in the syllables. “you know what those are for.” not for reading the engravings that made up the band of her ring, those could be felt instinctively. she didn’t need to look down to know what she’d missed. did she want to know what she had overlooked or did she want to protect the last of her own secrets. the smile that she sees waiting for her answer doesn’t give her much pause.

“let’s go.” first word answered for without preamble as though it might have been her own thought rather than what had been chosen for her. that it had been breathed at stifling parties and late night run ins. that there was a history tied up in six letters that while could be hinted at, she would certainly not just hand over to know the cut of a stone. the word was enough for that. “come closer.” and if the first word was already an avalanche of memory, the second might turn her world on its axis. the sun-sweetened whisper that insisted her morning was starting, that she was loved, to be brought in ever closer.

 the pause is more than enough to indicated that it’s meaningful. gratuitous even. the break of someone who’s never said it out loud in such a context. of someone who never will do so again. “happy?”

"Gives very little time for arousal. Bless your poor to-be-husband." This is a match of ping pong, save the ball, save the net, save the paddles, leaving only the swings drawn through the air with a diamond ring to keep count. It's only an easy game between friends, and friends do love to share amongst themselves. The latter simply is a matter of patience, and Wesley has plenty of time to extend.

He muses over the translations with a self-satisfied curve to his lips. "Let's go, my heart. Come closer, my wife," he pieces together, the puzzlework made for preschoolers with big interlocking blocks to form the final picture. "There's much to read into with words like them. Might could even say they're hopelessly romantic. No wonder at all why you had me work so hard to know them; may have one know you're about to marry for love of all the silly things."

Is he happy? He's pleased. It shows on his face as he drags out the time, running his thumb along the stone while watching her. There is much to say about honoring agreements when the incentive of seeing her reaction is payment enough. "Not much of a coincidence to having it in a rose-cut, would you say?"

she’s never considered herself a fiancée of any kind, still adjusting to the word as if it were a new job to fill. a stretching skill set that means that she will one day have to learn how to be a wife. if there is no cheap fiancée, certainly there is a new list of adjectives that she will have to choose from. she only wants to be loved, a startling thought that is shoved down quickly before it can be commented on. he has the ring still in his hand, that’s certainly more than enough without the speculation on her own emotions. “it’s my ring.” hinted at that there are details that she hasn’t even considered yet. of course she’s attached to it, regardless of stone or cut. 

“my heart, my wife.” It’s only half of each phrase, as though she’s trying to keep just a single part of it still for herself. or maybe she’s holding out in the means of bartering— but they both know that’s not the case. she’s never been able to hold out parts of herself that he seemed willing to see. “you’ve had more practice with appraisal.” it’s not exactly an insult, there’s facts that come to the forefront. he knows more than she does about how the ring was made, it’s only a matter of if she wants to learn that lesson or snatch it back from him. but wes has never merited such treatment, she finds that she’s only able to deliver a heavy sigh to signal impatience. “so?”

"It does so happen to be on loan at the moment," he reminds in a tone that mirrors hers, the polished glass found from the nearest hall of mirrors with painted clowns on the outside walls, distorted reflection thrown back for amusement's sake. She has declared ownership. After all, this is her ring, but it is not on her finger. A little detail that is lorded over with pride.

"Does it say just that, now?" One eye closes, examining the inside of the band superficially this time, vaguely tracing over the extra words that are missed in translation. His full vision returns, lands squarely on the one he calls friend. "You might could use a new pair of glasses with the words you've missed. Could they have been so torrid to have left you in a state of blindness?"

He has all the more reason for her to share, complete with the winding grin that threatens to overtake his face. Her impatience leaves little impression on him in comparison, only concretes his elevated position. "You'll be wanting to know what cut this is, darling. As soon as your turn finishes up, I'll be more than happy to share every bit that I know with you."