Stepping out of the terminal, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun, Wesley looks around

Stepping out of the terminal, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun, Wesley looks around. His other hand tightens around the handle of his case. He has actually done it. He is finally here. An official Watcher.

A nudge from behind suggests his travel companions aren't as interested in savouring their new surroundings. He moves down the steps, wondering if it would be unseemly to wish to remove his tie and jacket. It really is rather hot.

"Ah, Wesley." Turns at the familiar voice, finds Travers smiling coolly at him. "I hope your journey wasn't too uncomfortable." Clearly the older man doesn't expect an answer. He gestures to the waiting car. "Your Slayer is waiting for you."

"Y-you aren't staying, Sir?" Shifting his case to his other arm, he fumbles with his glasses.

Travers gravely folds his hands behind his back. "I believe you are competent enough on your own, Wesley." He states, voice neutral. Competent? Is that better than adequate or...? "Anyone would be an improvement on Mister Giles." Perhaps not.

"Very well, Sir." Aware of the animosity between Travers and Giles, Wesley says nothing. If his father taught him anything, it was when to keep his mouth firmly closed. He offers a hand, feels the familiar knuckle-cracking squeeze.

"Don't forget everything the Council taught you." The elder man moved away from the car, allows Wesley to place his case in the boot. "If you ignored our orders, I'm afraid we would have to..." He pauses. Wesley cringes. Images of belts, of dark places, of hospitals rise in his mind. "Deal with you accordingly."

Mouth dry, the Watcher nods, unable to form words. Its times like these that he needs a touch from Sall. A reproving word. A reassuring kiss. His teeth grind together as his hand is shaken once more.

"We will be in contact as soon as you are in place." His hand falls limply by his side, fights the urge to flex, to get the blood circulating again. "Good luck, Mister Wyndham-Pryce."

He slides into the car, watches absently as Travers slams the door firmly behind him. The older man always had unnerved him. He folds his hand in his lap, watches buildings flit passed as they speed out of the infamous city.

*

"New Watcher?" Oh God! As if facing the old Watcher wasn't bad enough. Forcing a pleasant smile onto his lips, he looks over the Slayer. Not what he expected, that is a certainty. Small and pretty, blonde and ever so American.

"New Watcher." Sitting on the edge of the table, the former Watcher seems reluctant to give up his previous role.

Introducing himself, Wesley tries not walk away and slam his head against a brick wall. The affection that Travers had warned him of is rolling off the pair, their disapproval of an interloper more than apparent. Her mockery, while subtler than that of her Watcher earlier, is just as biting and painful.

The door swings inwards, revealing a dark girl. Also pretty, but she looks a good deal tougher than the blonde.

"Ah. This is, perhaps, Faith." This is his chance. Giles may have Buffy's affection and support, but he will be Faith's Watcher. He will prove he can do what the Council expect of him. He will be good enough. He *will*.

She pauses, looks him up and down. Its looks like she intends to laugh out loud at him. Never a good sign. "New Watcher?"

"New Watcher." The other two sound bored, disgruntled. This isn't how its meant to work! He was told that the Slayer would respect him and that his fellow-Englishman would treat him with some measure of courtesy. He isn't meant to be treated like a piece of dirt. Not again.

The girl looks at him again. "Screw that." Then she turns and walks away! Wesley feels like he's been punched in the gut, all air rushing from his body. He wasn't told this would happen, that he would be ignored, rejected.

He is still staring after her when Buffy walks passed, saying something about bringing the other girl back. He can practically feel Mister Giles smirking, knowing that he has one up on him, the newcomer.

*

Hanging his suit along with the others in the closet, Wesley sighs. Slowly pushing the door shut, his hand spreads on the rough surface of the wood.

How he longs to go home, to be able to creep into Sall's room during the night, to feel her soft, reassuring arms cradling him, soothing him. She was the only thing that held his nightmares at bay, for so long.

Crossing the floor, he sinks down on the creaky bed, his hands resting in his lap. He tries not to notice that they are trembling, have been since the run in that he and the other watcher had with that...that thing.

Balthasar.

Retrieving his cooling cup of tea from the bedside cabinet, Wesley sips the stale tasting liquid, his eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed. Mister Giles had seemed so calm, so flippant and glib and he, Wesley...hadn't.

The cup falls from his shaking hands, the dirty-looking liquid spilling invisibly on the dark carpet. His fingers curl around his knees, his fingertips biting into the flesh, his teeth worrying painfully at his lower lip.

The stinging pain and the metallic taste of blood stir him, a silent tear running from one eye, unwanted, yet unstoppable.

He knows why.

The demon. The supposedly-demised demon had reminded him of where he had come from, of his damnable weakness, of his lunacy for ever wanting to follow in father's footsteps and being a good Watcher.

Slumping back on the bed, he raises his hands and runs them through his short hair, snagging his glasses with his fingers and rubbing his tired eyes between his forefinger and thumb, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him all too swiftly.

All right. He has survived several short and excruciatingly depressing days with the Slayers and the former Watcher. He will survive more, he tells himself, although with a lot less conviction than he intended.

He sighs once again, stretching his arms out on the bed spread. The material is rough against the scars that decorate his bare back, but he doesn't care anymore. He has far too much to contemplate now.

For one, that mysterious chap that he saw the Slayer fraternising with. It is he who is meant to be in charge, meant to have the authority, not some black-clad stranger who's eyes carry more experience than a dozen lifetimes.

And, a small smile plays on Wesley's lips for the first time in hours, there is of course the delightful Miss Chase.

Rolling onto his side, Wesley draws his legs up onto the bed and gazes at the clock for a long moment. Three a.m.

He picks up the phone, dials with a familiarity born of three days of solitude. "Hello, Sall? How are you doing, luv?" He laughs, but his blue eyes reflect none of the humour, more the lingering despair. "Me? Oh, I'm fine."

He catches a glimpse of his tear-streaked face in the mirror. Just fine.