A nice little arrangement

A nice little arrangement.

(Set just before City of…)

PG-13 rating, no real spoilers a couple of references to Graduation Day part II and that's it.

'Down these mean streets a man must go, who is not himself mean…' Raymond Chandler.

Elke Lawson came from a law-abiding family; in fact no one from the extensive Lawson clan had ever been in serious trouble with the police. Oh, there had been a couple of youthful indiscretions on the part of some peripheral cousins twice-removed but the core family was whiter than white and that was how they liked it in Legion, Kentucky.

Up until half-an-hour ago the flashing red light of the slowly approaching police prowler would never have bothered her. Why should it? She hadn't done anything wrong.

But as she cowered behind a dumpster in the darkened alleyway, injured and bleeding and with her blouse half torn off, the only thing running through her petrified mind was: red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger red = danger……………………….

'Elke? Elke, honey are you there? C'mon, it's Harvey.'

Harvey?

'Elke?'

HARVEY!

She scrabbled out from her hiding place and ran sobbing into the arms of one of the local deputies.

'Hey, hey,' said Harvey, as the girl cried her eyes out. 'We heard all the noise, what happened?'

It took several minutes for the terrified teen to calm down and form a coherent sentence. 'Steve, it was Steve. He tried to hurt me, he was like an animal, he-he bit me,' she shrieked hysterically and pointed at the mark on her neck.

Harvey shined his touch and winced when he saw the angry looking wound. 'Goddamn kids,' he swore. 'They don't know how to act these days.' He gave the girl a sympathetic smile. 'It's a shame it's happened but don't you worry, we'll get this sorted out real soon.'

Elke tried to give him a brave smile, which quickly turned into a puzzled frown as she watched him handcuff her. 'Harvey?'

The deputy shook his head. 'Few years back there wouldn't have been all this running around and unnecessary upset,' he muttered to himself.

He looked over at his parked prowler. 'Hey! Git your sorry ass out here!'

Elke screamed for all she was worth as Steve clambered out of the car's back seat and limped towards her. As he got closer, Elke got her first good look at her boyfriend's ridged forehead and yellow eyes.

She tried to flee but Harvey grabbed her and held out at arm length towards the approaching vampire.

'Shouldn't have tried to run, honey,' he whispered.

As the sun rose, Wesley Wyndham-Price's new leather trousers creaked alarmingly while he knelt down and tried a bit of precision tinkering with his recently purchased motorbike.

'Work you bastard!' He yelled and hit the engine with a large spanner. The engine made a cute gurgling noise and then leaked oil onto his boot. 'Bugger!'

He stood up, more creaking, and looked around at the desolate landscape. The only thing in view that was not manmade was a road sign which read 'Welcome to Legion County, birthplace of Ezekiel Hausner. Population 1009.'

Clinton McClellan, Legion's one and only mechanic, watched the unshaved and leather clad biker struggling down main street with his obviously broken motorcycle. The machine had left a trail of oilspots as far Clinton's only working eye could see.

'Mornin,' he said as the man hauled the bike into the garage and spent a few seconds getting his breath back.

'Good morning,' said Wesley. 'Lovely day for it isn't it. Wonder if I could prevail on you to lend a hand in sorting the old bike out?'

Clinton gave him a bemused look. 'Sure,' he walked around the bike a couple of times and then struck the regulation pose. 'Weeeellllllll,' he said and put his hands on his hips and sucked air through his teeth. 'I dunno, Mister. I mean, I ain't a miracle worker now am I. I can't raise things from the dead. There's a local high school kid comes in and helps me once a week, I ought to let him take a gander - show him a bit of history like.'

'Can you fix it?' Wesley asked with such a worried and above all naïve tone that Clinton mentally added a couple of hundred dollars to the couple of hundred dollars he'd already been planning to overcharge.

'Yeah, I reckon,' he said after a few seconds. 'Might take a few days and it won't be cheap but I can do it.'

Wesley sighed with relief. 'Oh good. Er, when you say 'not cheap…'

'I mean it won't be cheap.'

'Ah…are there any other mechanics in town?'

'Nope. That's how I know it won't be cheap.'

'Right, right.' Wesley fidgeted slightly and did a bit more creaking. 'Is there a hotel nearby?'

'Sure is. Go left out of here and take the next left. We got us a genuine Holiday Inn a coupla year back. Only hotel in town, that aint' cheap neither.'

'Oh I just love your accent,' trilled the woman in the shaded lobby of the small Holiday Inn when Wesley tried to check in.

'Oh, thank you,' he said glumly.

'I've always wanted to visit Australia.'

'Me too, I'm from England actually.' When he said this the woman made a noise that was close to one only dogs could hear.

'England,' she shrieked. 'Oh wow, where Rowdy Roddy Piper comes from?'

'Who?'

'The wrestler, the one who wears a skirt in the ring.'

'Er…' Wesley delved into his miniscule knowledge of American pop culture and stumbled across a memory from his one and only visit to Xander Harris's ramshackle white trash family sty. Aside from the fact he spent the entire time trying not to touch anything for fear of contracting something he'd also had to misfortune to meet Xander's Uncle Rory. The man was drunkenly trying to stuff the family cat, which had been killed after Uncle Rory ran it over on his way back from the bar the other night. Conversation was out of the question so Wesley stared at the TV as if his life depended on it and spent a thoroughly boring afternoon watching WWF.

'Oh yes, the er, Scotsman.'

'That's him, he's English right?'

Wesley was too tired to argue. 'That's right, he was born in the kitchens at Buckingham Palace. Can someone show me to my room please?'

In his room the ex-watcher peeled off his leathers and laid down on the bed. Ex-watcher he thought as he stared at the ceiling. I am an ex-watcher. More than that, I'm an ex-watcher who got himself exed on his very first field assignment.

He looked over at the leather bag by the room door. The letter was in there; he could actually hear it speaking its words out loud, reminding of him that moment in Atlanta Airport…

After Graduation Day he had spent several weeks in the Richard Wilkins Ward (!) at Sunnydale Memorial Hospital. During which time he had received just one visit, five minutes from Rupert Giles. Giles had made some polite small talk and then gave him a cheap 'get well soon card' from the Slayer and her friends, who had all simply signed their names - except for Willow and the best she could manage was 'I'm glad you're not dead').

Once he was discharged the call finally came from the Watchers Council, and from Quinten Travers himself: Do not have any further contact with the Slayer. Get to Atlanta Airport by the 15th and someone will meet you at the British Airways check-in desk.

Someone was there all right. Collins, the Council's chief hitman, appeared at his side. 'Allo Wesley, got summing fer you, a message from the Council.' He thought Collins was going to shoot him there and then. Instead the assassin handed him an envelope and with an evil smirk, walked off. 'Stay lucky, Wesley.'

He'd torn open the envelope, read its contents, and needed a stiff drink and a place to sit down so he could read it again:

Dear Wesley,

Your family has always served the Watchers Council with distinction in the struggle against the forces of darkness. Your father, your father's father, your father's father's father, your father's father's…well, needless to say there's been a lot of you and you've all done your bit. Till now.

Out of respect to your noble family line we'll sort this out quickly and painlessly, and I here I must point out that the 'painlessly' option was carried by a majority of just one vote on the Council. You, my dear Wesley, are fired.

Two slayers, I'll write that again, TWO SLAYERS and you lost them both! No Watcher has ever been given the honour you were given and what happens? After months of slaughter one is now a vegetable and the other one, the true Slayer, is refusing to work with the Council. No Slayer has ever operated independently of the Council, Wesley.

I suppose I only have myself to blame, I thought you were ready for such a demanding assignment and I shouldn't have permitted Rupert Giles to remain in Sunnydale, I imagine the bloody man interfered at every opportunity. Nonetheless, you should have coped. I am deeply disappointed in you Wesley but out of respect to your father we have taken care of your medical expenses in Sunnydale and have arranged a more or less permanent American work visa for you. Please use it!

Yours sincerely,

Quinten Travers.

Out of respect to your father…That was the one that stung. To be honest he couldn't blame them for firing him after his calamitous tenure as Watcher, although there was no need to drag him to the other side of the country at his own expense to tell him he was fired.

Out of respect to your father…Old Travers wouldn't have written that if he'd known his dad outside of the Council boozer, seen how the man interacted with his family when he staggered in, pissed as a fart, through the front door every night to dish out the daily beating

The Wyndam-Price's did have a glorious history not only with the Council but in England's imperial times as well. The Wyndam-Price who had fought alongside Wellington, the Wyndam-Price who had served as Lord Chamberlain from 1827-1847, the Wyndam-Price who had been Viceroy of India, the Wyndam-Price who had won the Military Cross at the Battle of the Somme. And his grandfather, the man had lost his leg at the Battle of Normandy and had crawled over another wounded comrade to try and shield him from enemy fire.

Wesley's father on the other hand was nothing more than a brutish, narrow minded, little Englander and he had just looked at the family history as an excuse to drunkenly rant on about how everyone but the English, correction, everyone but the English in the South East, were genetically inferior.

'Bloody jungle bunnies,' the man would slur at the TV when a report on an African Civil War was on the news. 'Need an Englishman to sort em out, that's what.' This from a man who had never served in the Army and could only be relied on at the Council as a researcher, he claimed his flat feet had always stopped him from getting combat duty.

Wesley had first learnt of his fathers' opinions when he was seven. He'd bought a friend from school, an Indian lad called Preash, home one day. He'd gotten the first of many hidings for that. His dad had been incandescent with fury. 'NEVER, NEVER, NEVER BRING ONE OF THOSE, THOSE, THOSE COONS!!! INTO MY HOUSE AGAIN!' The man had screamed in between the kicks and punches and then locked his terrified son in the cupboard under the stairs and left him there for two days with nothing but a small bottle of water.

Out of respect for your father…

After a few hours of troubled sleep, Wesley changed into his white suit (and in a moment of unemployed rebellion, discarded the tie) and then wandered into the hotel lobby and asked if there was a bar or somewhere in town he could eat.

'Oh there's no bar, sir,' said the Anglophile receptionist. 'Legion County has been dry for years. But we've got a Dennys, it opened here last year,' she said with no small measure of pride.

Wesley did his best to look impressed. 'Really.'

'Oh yes, the Mayor even thinks we might get a MacDonalds by the end of the year,' she said conspiratorially.

'What a day that'll be. The, er, Dennys?'

'Head back down Main Street and it's on the second left past Clinton's workshop.'

Wesley turned to leave and walked into a six foot six wall of muscle covered by a deputy's uniform. 'Oops, I beg your pardon.'

He tried to walk round but the deputy simply sidestepped into his way. 'Are you blind boy?'

'Harvey,' the receptionist said warningly.

'Mind your business Joan,' snapped the deputy. He leaned forward until he was well inside Wesley's personal space. 'I asked you if you were blind?'

Wesley responded in the worst possible way. 'No, only a bit shortsighted,' he joked and waggled his eyebrows.

The deputy prodded him in the chest. 'Smart limey. There used to be a lot of smart limeys in America. Do you know what we did to all the smart limeys? We kicked them out that's what!'

Oh god Wesley thought. I'm being threatened by the archetype redneck cop who doesn't like strangers in these here parts.

'Yes, well,' he said aloud. 'You don't need to worry about kicking me anywhere. Mr. McClellan said my motorcycle will be ready in a couple of days and then I seriously doubt we'll ever meet again.'

Harvey the deputy just curled his top lip and then stood aside and let the Englishman by. When Wesley had left he turned his attention to Joan. 'We need to talk about your boy.'

'Stevie?' The woman said. 'What about him?'

'When your shift is finished, Sheriff Early would like a word,' said Harvey and then he turned and walked out.

After being told by the entire staff of the local Dennys that his accent was just super, Wesley settled down in a booth and started to tuck into a chicken salad.

'Howdy.'

He looked up from his meal to watch a slim and rather dapper looking individual slide on to the seat opposite. 'How you doing today friend?' The man asked.

'Fine,' said Wesley and he tried to work out which official small town stereotype this man was: early to mid thirties, cleanly pressed dark blue suit, crisply ironed white shirt, dark red tie with a perfect knot, a look of perpetual contentment.

'I'm sorry,' said Wesley. 'I really have no room for Jesus in my life at the moment.'

'Me either,' said the man. 'Although I'm told he's a good listener if you're not expecting a reply.' He reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a small gold star. 'Larry Early, sheriff o'Legion County.'

'Oh,' Wesley fixed him with a stare. 'I'm afraid if you're here to tell me that you don't like foreigners, bikers or strangers or strange foreign bikers in your town then a brute called Harvey has already relayed that message.'

Early smiled. 'Love that accent. I'm afraid Harvey does play up to the expected image a bit too well for most peoples tastes, mine included, truth be told. But no, I'm not here to run you out of town on a rail, partly because we ain't go no rails. I'm just here to chat, find out if you're trouble and, plainly, you're not. It's the curse of small towns to be suspicious of what they don't know and unshaved bikers riding in several hundred miles out of the way brings out the worst in the locals. Where you heading?'

Wesley shrugged. 'I honestly don't know.'

'Drifting huh?' Said Early in a conversational tone.

'I guess…but in a solvent and university educated kind of way.'

The sheriff grinned. 'Relax pal, as I said, you're plainly not trouble. So what's the deal with the leather? You don't strike me as someone who's rebelling 'gainst whatever I got.'

Wesley gave him a grim smile. 'The man I bought the bike off said it was the safest stuff to wear. Can't stand the bloody things, very uncomfortable in all the wrong places.'

Early chuckled and then made to leave. 'Hope you have yourself a nice time with us in Legion. Anything you need just call my name, and don't worry about Harvey. He's just making sure everyone knows he's still the biggest jerk in Kentucky.'

As night fell, Wesley decided to go for a walk around the town. There wasn't much else to do; no pub, no cinema and if even if there were he didn't really have the money to spare.

Why did he buy that wretched motorcycle, he should have just bought a one-way ticket back to England be done with it, Watchers Council be damned.

Then he remembered his time in Sunnydale and Xander Harris' grand plans to see America on the road if they survived Graduation Day. Sounded like a pretty good idea at the time, he'd travelled straight from London to California back to Atlanta and seen nothing of the place.

Of course it would be nicer to see America from the observation deck of an Amtrak Train rather than chugging along on a clapped out old bike that needed a complete overhaul two weeks after he'd bought it.

And of course he really couldn't have gone back to England…Out of respect for your father. Bastards.

He carried on down Main Street, where the hell were all the people? It was a small town but there must be something to do at night. He had paused by the hardware store to do a bit of window shopping to see if there was anything he might be able to use for the bike when he heard the footsteps behind him.

He looked at his reflection in the window, saw only himself and the empty street behind him, and slowly reached into his jacket pocket.

'Back foul creature,' he yelled as he span round and thrust the cross out at arms length. The cross grazed the face of the large vampire sneaking up on him and caused the thing to yelp in pain.

'Ahhh,' it roared and leapt back. There was an ugly smoldering wound on its chin. 'Watch what you're doing with that.'

'Begone, spawn of Satan. Back into the black night whence you came.'

'Have you got a permit for that?' Snapped the vampire, still rubbing his sore chin. 'You could have someone's eye out with it.'

'Avert your demonic gaze from the symbol of…' Wesley sighed and gave up; this was the sort of Hammer Horror babble that had damaged his relationship with the Slayer as soon as he arrived in Sunnydale.

'Look will you please just bugger off, no offence. You've caught me at something of a low ebb.'

The vampire stayed its ground, although it was looking away from the cross. 'When did they say you could carry that, this is totally irregular, I pay my taxes you know.'

Wesley was baffled. 'What? What are you prattling about, this is a cross and you are vampire so will you please just…'

Wailing sirens caused both the vampire and the ex-watcher turn and see a police prowler trundling down the Main Street towards them. Wesley gave the vampire a triumphant grin. 'I really think you ought to leave old chum.' The vampire folded its arms and affected a nonchalant air.

The prowler came to a halt and Harvey the deputy got out along with another law enforcer. To Wesley's astonishment they both drew their guns and aimed directly at his head.

'Okay limey,' said Harvey. 'Put the cross on the ground and step away.'

'What? Are you mad?'

'C'mon man,' said the other deputy. 'Lets not do this.'

'You want me to put the cross down?' Wesley couldn't believe it. 'He'll kill us all,' he said and gestured toward the vamp, which snarled and took an extra step or two backwards.

Harvey cocked his revolver. 'Put the cross down now or I'll shoot your fingers off.' He wasn't bluffing.

Wesley nervously glanced at the vampire and it was smiling.

Harvey fired off a round that whizzed past Wesley's left ear and shattered the window of the hardware store. 'Put the goddamn cross down right now!'

Wesley threw the cross on the floor and held his hands up. 'S'okay, s'okay it's down.'

Harvey breathed a sigh of relief and reholstered his weapon. 'Smart limey,' he said and then he looked at the vampire. 'This guy ain't a resident.'

The vampire glared back. 'He never gave me the chance to find that out and where the hell does he get off carrying that cross?'

Harvey looked back at Wesley, then to the other deputy and then back to the vampire. 'Good point,' he said and started toward Wesley. The other deputy reacted with alarm. 'Harvey!'

'Shut up Mark,' the larger deputy said and in one swift move he had Wesley in a headlock.

'Gah,' cried the ex-watcher. 'What the hell are you doing?'

'It's against Legion County statutes to carry an unlicensed cross anywhere within the town boundaries,' said Harvey and he grabbed hold of one of Wesley's arms and held it out. 'You got a choice, one thousand-dollar fine - which I'm betting you don't have. Or…' and at that point Wesley screamed as the vampire sunk its teeth into his arm, 'you can pay something on account.'

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Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the Series, and all characters are created by Joss Whedon and owned by him, Kazui Sandollar®, Mutant Enemy®, 20th Century Fox® and the Warner Bros. Network®. No copyright infringment is intended anywhere. This is a story purely for entertainment purposes. No profit is gained from this story. The author has no connection to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel the Series, except having a complete love for the show. No harm or copyright infringement is intended.