::as requested by katie__pillar::
Wesley had always wondered what posterity would think of him. It wasn't necessarily that he was vain; more that he was so used to learning about people in the past from reading about them in dusty old tomes that it was how he thought the world worked.
When he was seven, Wesley fantasised about being remembered a hero. The world would be overrun by giant demons who rode on dinosaurs (resurrected using some deeply cunning spells he had read about in a little book in a corner of his father’s library) and there would be lots of screaming people and running around and he would be seven feet tall with a cowboy hat and a sword, and would save them all.
When he was sixteen, Wesley fantasised about being remembered a hero. The world would be overrun by demons who were controlled by intelligent, homicidal robots, and Wesley would prop himself up in a corner, looking nonchalant, with a decent amount of stubble, and defeat the evil demon/robot combination through his superior intellect without batting an eye, receiving the undying thanks of very many rather attractive young women. He would save them all. And get laid.
When he was twenty-five, Wesley fantasised about being remembered a hero. The world was full of demons, and there was one girl to save them all. He would guide her. He would lead her. He would inspire her. The demons were rising, and they would save them all.
When he was thirty, Wesley realised he would never be a hero. Because Wesley just didn’t fucking care any more.