A Life Once Lived
By Jenevieve
Summary: Wes past-fic. Wes/Fred fic. When a single-paged letter arrives at Wolfram & Hart for Wesley it revives memories long forgotten, shedding light on a man whose journey through life has been anything but straight and narrow.
Rating: PG-13 for sexual situations and violence
Warning: Temporary pair of Wes with another character but only in relation to his past.
Disclaimer: I sadly do not own any of the characters. They are all the wonderful creations from the wacky mind of Joss Whedon, and I am only taking advantage of my love of the show to play with them for a little while.
Spoilers: This fic takes place between "Lineage" and "Smile Time" during Angel Season 5, so it covers the entire Angel and Buffy series in relation to Wesley's history and relationships to date.
Dedicated: Kristen (lj user vampwill) – One of the biggest Wes fans I know, and a wonderful friend. I love you passion. You're an inspiration to me and I'm so grateful we've become such good friends!
A/N: Lyrics used in this fanfiction are from Marc Cohn's song "Man of the World". This fic is told through a series of flashbacks from the present timeline and was written for February's Character Challenge at the live journal community 12monthsofbtvs. Puck and Falstaff refer to characters in Shakespearean works. All phrases in Latin were taken from "Smile Time" (Angel Season 5). Also since Wesley's age is never officially identified, I placed him as being 20 or so when he joined the Buffy cast which would put him at about 25 years old when the Angel series ended.
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I want to be a man of the world
With blood in my veins and a hurt in my heart
Out in the street with the noise and the dirt
And the ones still looking for a brand new start...
Show me how to come alive
Show me how to make you mine…
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Chapter 1: A Bittersweet Reunion
It was late, nearly 1 a.m., and the executive level of Wolfram & Hart was abandoned for the night, the soft glow of a few computer screens and low-night time lighting the only illumination among the quiet halls. He sat alone in his office amidst the shadows, the small desk lamp he had on and the blank pages of one of his many source books were his only companions.
"The Saitama Codex," he whispered over the blank pages.
Slowly the neat lines of text began to magically appear across the worn sheets of paper. As they spread, he reached into the lower drawer of his desk and retrieved a bottle of scotch. Pouring himself a glass, he downed the auburn liquor in one long gulp before pouring himself a second. The scruffy stubble of a few days growth clung to the smooth line of his jaw giving him a haunting tortured look. Here and there the faint color of gray dusted the stubble, a constant reminder of the slow passage of his life. Leaning forward in his seat he rested his jaw on the back of his folded fists. His tired blood-shot eyes tried to focus on the words before him but to no avail. Rubbing violently at his eyes he let out a long sigh of frustration. He just couldn't concentrate.
With a growl he slammed the source book shut and shoved it back into its place on his desk. Again his hands found the glass of alcohol and he finished off another two glasses before leaning back in his overstuffed chair and letting out a long breath. After everything that had happened over the last few weeks, hell over the last year and half a part of him was surprised at how heavy things still seemed to hang on his shoulders. He'd lost the friendship and trust of the only friends he had really had, lost his accreditation with the Watcher's Council, and managed to kill his father in cold blood.
Ok, so he had earned back the trust and friendship of his colleagues and friends and the father he had killed had turned out to be a cyborg instead of the real flesh and blood man, but even all that didn't seem to take the edge off. No, the life of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was nothing more than a long laundry list of one failure after another, one long –running cosmic comedy of errors except there was no Puck, no Falstaff to bring it all together, to deliver up a happy ending. Just a man, sitting alone with his books watching his life pass by, his only focus on doing what needed to be done to maintain the world for those whose lives still held promise. Not some champion, not someone's lover, not even someone's beloved son, just a man forgotten and forsaken by world.
Turning his chair, he stared out at the silent blinking skyline of L.A., his hand retrieving the single-paged letter that had been abandoned but not forgotten on the corner of his desk. As he stared out the window he could feel the smooth sheet of paper in his hand that had arrived earlier in the day. He'd been so busy with gathering materials for a case Gunn was working on he hadn't open the letter until an hour earlier. He'd been so preoccupied he hadn't even taken notice of the return address: Paris, France. There were only two people he knew who lived in Paris and the letter was definitely personal not business related, with its carefully penned envelop.
Again he was acutely aware of how tired he felt. His resolve broken, he soon found his eyes moving over the hand-writing once again:
Wesley,
Jacquelyn is dead. Considering your exclusion from the Council I wasn't certain you would have heard, and despite our differences I felt you should know. She never truly spoke ill of you, even considering all that happened, though she spoke of you rarely. By the time you receive this she will have been buried here in Paris which she so loved. If it is any comfort know that her death was fast and painless, and she died among her friends and family where she always belonged. Professionally speaking, I hope this letter finds you in good health and happiness, and though I am writing you I would advice against any trips to visit her grave. Jacquelyn may have born no ill will towards you in the end, but speaking on behalf of her family I think it would be most respectful and in the best interest of all that you stay where you are. There are moments when I wish things could have ended differently between us, but there is little we can do about that now. I just thought you had a right to know.
- Michael Thomas
Senior Chair of the Watchers Council
Jacquelyn was dead. Again he felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. Closing his eyes, he let the letter drop soundlessly to the floor, Jacquelyn's smiling laughing face dancing before his eyes. How many years had it been since he'd seen her or Michael? Too many, far too many to count. Opening his eyes he was startled by the gaunt sallow reflection of his own face. He stared harder into his eyes, through the glass passed the L.A. skyline. Rapidly he feel deeper and deeper into the darkness, his memories flowing like a river dragging him under…
"Hey Pryce!"
Pushing up the bridge of his glasses, he pulled his nose from the book he'd been so engrossed in. Michael Thomas stood peering down at him, his hair impeccably combed, his school uniform spotless. Michael was the very picture of British upbringing and the perfect poster-boy for the Watcher's Council, and considering his father's position as the Council President, expectations were high for Michael to do great things once he graduated in the spring.
Wesley on the other hand was far from the top, an embarrassment his father, the acting Vice-President, reminded him of daily. Often rumpled and disheveled in appearance, his soft boyish features demanded little in way of respect, and his quiet nature was viewed as more submissive than a gentle respect for others and their ideas. Oh he had the grades; he was the youngest and most intelligent candidate to begin Watcher training in the Council's history but his curiosity and recently expressed ideas on how the Watcher-Slayer relationship should be structured had evoked shock and concern from many of his instructors and members of the council. Like Michael, he would be graduating and receiving his assignment in a few months, there was little faith in his future. His fascination with the occult had led him to refused to be content with simply watching, a practical carnal sin as far as the Council was concerned, and considering the competitive nature of the training, Wesley had turned himself into a bit of pariah among his peers, making his friendship with Michael all the more surprising.
Many believed Michael hung around with Wesley as nothing more than an overt rebellious act directed at his father. But the truth was that the two young Watchers-to-be complimented one another in that way that often produced close brotherly friendships. And whether he hung around him out of genuine friendship or to irritate his father, Wesley really didn't care. Michael was his best friend and that's all that mattered.
"Seriously, Pryce, give the books a break for ten seconds!" Michael teased, offering his friend a hand up.
"Sorry," Wesley mumbled as Michael pulled him to his feet.
"And for the last time, quit apologizing to me. You need to save each of those for your old man, not me." Glancing around, Michael stretched his arms lazily in the warm April sunshine. "Who says we never get sun in England," he mused to himself. "So Wes, what do you feel like doing today?"
Wesley finished collecting his pile of books before offering up a shrug.
"Well I'll tell you what, first thing we are doing is dumping off all these books of yours in your room. You're never going to be much of a watcher if you end up crippled in some wheelchair from tooting all these books around," Michael laughed, clapping Wesley as the two headed off towards the dorms.
A half hour later the two boys had lost their books, jacket, and ties, and lounged on the bleachers of the school's rugby field, the top buttons of their collared shirts undone, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. A soft breeze blew carrying the sweet warm smells of late spring.
"Hey Wes?"
"Mmm?" Wesley replied, his eyes closed, glassed stowed away in the breast pocket of his shirt.
"You think we'll ever have, you know, normal lives considering becoming Watchers. I mean, do you see yourself being married?" Michael leaned forward on his elbows, glancing side-long at his friend.
"I don't see why not. My parents are married."
"Yeah but they are both Watchers with potential slayers both living here in England. Most of us don't have that situation. Besides could you consider that even normal?"
"Sure," Wesley sat forward frowning. "That is normal."
Michael burst in to laughter. "Pryce you are priceless! Have you even looked at girl before?"
Wesley opened his mouth to speak but the soft laughter of approaching voices made him turn. Michael's younger sister Annabelle and dark-haired girl were walking towards them.
"Hey Mike. Hi Wesley!" Annabelle waved as the two grew closer.
Wesley watched the girls in silence, his eyes transfixed on the dark-haired girl beside Annabelle. She was beautiful. Her hair was so dark brown it was almost black and had been swept back in a neat ponytail, a wispy layer of bangs falling about her face. Her eyes were the deep swirling green of jade and her skin was like porcelain, perfectly smooth and white with just the hint of pink along her cheekbone. Long lashes enhanced the green of her eyes, and her smile was a radiant light.
"This is Jacquelyn Privett," Annabelle grinned. "She's new to the school and Dad's having me give her the tour. Jacquelyn, this is my brother Michael and his friend Wesley."
"Pleasure to meet you," Jacquelyn bestowed her radiant smile upon each of the boys as she gently took their hands. As she shook Wesley's hand her eyes narrowed, "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"
"Yes," the word tumbled from his lips.
"I've heard of you, Mr. Pryce," Jacquelyn raised and eyebrow. "Brilliant prodigy with a habit of sticking his foot down his throat."
Michael broke out into peels of laughter. "That our Wesley," he slapped his friend on the back again. Wesley turned a vibrant shade of red, as he fumbled to pull his glasses from his pocket, his eyes focused on his feet.
"By the way, Mike. Dad's been looking for us both. I was going to head over to his office as soon as I finished showing Jacquelyn around…"
"Oh go ahead, Annabelle. I'm sure Wesley can finish giving me the tour." Her eyes were watching him carefully and Wes made sure to look everywhere but her face.
"Ok then, come on Mike."
"Save me a seat at dinner, Pryce!" Michael called over his shoulder as he followed his sister.
"Shall we?" Jacquelyn offered her arm to Wesley, but he was oblivious to it.
"Where else did you have need to go?" His voice was unusually shaky.
"Are you always this nervous with new people or is it because I'm female?" Jacquelyn's voice held a hint of amusement that stung.
"I'm not very good with people," Wesley confessed, his words falling despite his better judgment.
"You seemed fine with Michael."
Wesley just stared at the ground in front of him.
"Well I'll just have to show you that you can be fine with me too," Jacquelyn smiled. "Now can you please show me where the library is? I here there are more volumes in there than all the libraries in Europe combined!"
A smile pulled at the edges of Wesley's lips at the mention of the library he loved so. "It really is unparalleled," he smiled slightly.
"Ah huh, I thought there was real voice in there somewhere," Jacquelyn teased, and Wesley couldn't help but grin wider. "Now show me this literary paradise."