Die Trying

Author's Note: I know that in the episode The Wish, Buffy was a bit of a bitch, but I personally feel it was a bit of a façade. So this is my interpretation of the "real" Buffy in The Wish. Although she's not actually in this fic, there is a lot about her relationship with her Watcher that portrays her as a little different to what we saw in the episode. But this is just my interpretation.

Giles: I have to believe in a better world.

Buffy: Go ahead. I have to live in this one.

- The Wish

He didn't even that the guts to call himself. That was the only train of thought Wesley Wyndham-Pryce could catch a hold of as it drifted by tossed up in the torrent of emotions. His hand tightened on the phone as Quentin Travers went on, trying to break the news as easily as he could. But Wesley had known what he would say as soon as he heard Travers voice on the line.

"… It's an awful tragedy, of course, Pryce. But I'm sure it was… quick. And she would have died a Hero. We're all very upset here at the Council, she was a… a good Slayer. I daresay her replacement, Kendra, won't be able to fill her boots. Again, awfully sorry, old chap. But, well, that is the way things go, isn't it?"

"One Slayer dies, another is called?" Wesley asked coldly.

"Exactly. You always were a wonderful Watcher, Pryce. But I always suspected your attachment to her would end in -"

"Tears?"

"Yes. Well, we'll give you a few days to clear up your affairs in Cleveland and then you can return to England. Business class, of course. No less."

"No less," Wesley repeated. "Thank you, Travers. That means so much to me."

Travers heard the bite of bitter sarcasm in the Watcher's voice and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well. Again, I'm very sorry, Pryce. I'll, uh, see you soon."

"Yes, I daresay you will."

And he lowered the phone slowly, glaring at it. He stood up slowly; straightening a back usually hunched over books. His knuckles were white, fingers twisted into a claw. Suddenly, he swept the phone violently from his desk with a yell. He knocked his chair over as he moved out from his desk to slam his foot repeatedly on the phone, before turning his attention to the wall, which received a severe beating.

"Jeez, Wes. You gotta learn to chill, I'm the one with the violence issues. Slayer, remember?"

He slumped against the wall and let out a strangled sob. She had been his Slayer for three years after her first Watcher, Merrick, had died. And he had been all she had when her mother died two years ago. And in turn, she had been all he had. They lived as cousins in his house; at least that's what they told the authorities. But they had been friends. He wasn't sure when that happened.

He hadn't liked America. Too big and brash for his tastes, he preferred the bustling warmth of London. America was too easy to get lost in. It came as rather a surprise to him to find that his Slayer was just a girl. A tiny little thing, impossibly young. Not what he'd been expecting at all. Not that he had known what he was expecting.

He had tried to keep a modicum of distance. But he had failed miserably. She had nothing in Cleveland and was finding it hard to make friends. She was the only person he could talk to and after a while, he grew to learn that she was the only person he could talk to.

And then, when her mother died, he had to be everything to her. He was the one that had to make sure she was up in time for school, did all her homework and didn't get in too late from Slaying. And in return, she made sure he ate enough, didn't go out of his way to be a hero on patrols and remembered to do the weekly shop.

They worked together. He had gotton used to taking care of someone and someone taking care of him.

He hadn't wanted her to go to Sunnydale. As soon as he heard Rupert Giles voice on the other end of the phone, he was terrified for her. He asked her not to go. Told her that he believed the vampire population in Cleveland were plotting something. By the time she came home from patrol, he had even drawn a little chart, having channelled his nervous energy.

But she had just laughed.

"Wes, the vamps'll still be here when I get back. And you and me can take care of 'em together, ok? So make me a packed lunch and I'll be on my way. Sacred duty, Wes, isn't that what you've always told me?"

And he wished he hadn't always lectured her on sacred duty. He didn't really think that she ever listened to his lectures. She always rolled her eyes and spit shined her boots. Dear God, she could be an aggravating bitch sometimes. But he cared about her anyway.

He promised her a pizza and popcorn for when she got back. Pizza, popcorn and a stupid movie. A night off before they went to take out whatever the Cleveland nightlife had to offer.

He turned slowly away from the wall. The video lay on his desk. Some stupid romantic comedy that she loved to cynically dissect.

It wasn't fair. One girl in all the world.

He remembered when he believed in that. Really believed in it. Understood the reasoning behind it, acknowledging the sad fact that the line would continue after the Slayer died. Sad, but true. And always accepted with hushed voices and nods.

He remembered the last three Slayers' deaths. How a hush had fallen over the Council building and the Elders could be heard muttering in the corridors.

"A sad, sad business. Awful. Just awful."

"Yes. Terribly sad. But what of her successor? Has she been found? Is it a Potential? Has she been assigned a Watcher?"

Oh, yes. An awful, sad business. But, well, the girl was gone, the evil wasn't. The conversation about the new Slayer was always far more important than paying lip service to a dead girl.

Wesley had never seen anything wrong with that.

Until he came to Cleveland and realised that despite the Council's protestations that there was black and there was white, there were in fact, shades of grey. Wesley had found himself lost in it. He remembered the first major battle they fought was against a dying boy, willing to sacrifice his friends to become a vampire. And suddenly, he was plunged into a world of grey. But it didn't seem to matter to him; he could still distinguish between the rights and wrongs.

Mostly because Buffy was so damned good at distinguishing between good and evil and he just followed her lead.

Now what the hell was he supposed to do? Make his own decisions? And where had that got him in the past? Up shit creak without a paddle, that's where.

He left his study and slammed the door behind him, silently telling their miserable neighbour to stick his protests where the sun don't shine.

He crossed the hall to his room, but stopped short.

Her room was just next door to his. He knew she hated people waiting up for her, so he would sit up and wait until he heard her clamber through her window at the end of patrol. He didn't know how many nights he fell asleep telling himself that the next day he would have to ask her why she persisted in climbing through the window at the end of the night. Only, he always forgot. In the mornings, he would get up and be far too sleepy to remember anything. He only properly woke up after he had seen her off to school and spent an age under a hot shower.

He leaned in the doorway of the room. It was small, containing a bed and closet. Posters covered walls and a pin board over her bed was covered in pictures. There were many pictures of her mom, some of her friends in LA and a few of he and her celebrating her birthday the previous year in ridiculous hats. School books were piled on her vanity table with make up scatted across it. There was a chest at the bottom of the bed and he entered the room, falling to his knees in front of it. Easing it open, he stared at the contents. There were two stakes, two more almost carved, a small axe, a dagger, a crossbow and some bolts.

He let the chest fall shut with a load bang and got up, stumbling backward out of the room. He forced himself down the hall to his room. His room was emptier than hers.

Just a bed, a closet and a bedside table holding a lamp and a book. His domain had been his study which was chock full of books, a CD player and its own private museum of coffee mugs he never got round to taking down to the kitchen. She had refused to clean up after him. She would curl her lip in disgust as she stared at the piles of mugs, before muttering "men" and turning on her heel to leave his study.

He stood in front of his closet and opened it. There was a leather bag at the bottom of it, containing stakes, a cross and a crossbow. But it was half empty, so he grabbed it and threw it onto the bed.

And before he even asked himself why or what the hell he was doing, he had grabbed a bundle of clothes and had thrown them into the bag on top of the weapons.

He grabbed hold of it and left the room, jogging down the stairs. He grabbed his leather jacket and pulled it on. He paused as he pulled on the leather gloves slowly.

God, what was he doing?

He was going to Sunnydale, the thought came out of no where and he realised that he had intended to do this all along, ever since hearing Travers on the phone.

But to do what exactly? Have a go at the Master? Give Rupert Giles a pasting for ever dragging her into his problems? For some reason, these thoughts did nothing to dissuade him from leaving. In fact, the idea of revenge overrode the gut wrenching grief.

And right now, that was all he wanted. So he picked up the keys to his motorcycle and left the house, taking his bag with him. He closed the door and locked it behind him.

He was going to avenge her death.

Or die trying.

The End.