Disclaimers and story info located at Chapters 1 and 4.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce sat in an armchair in his living room, glass of scotch in hand, TV illuminating his unshaven face. He was seriously considering ordering a "Pure Soul" CD by phone, when it rang shrilly. It had been months since he'd heard the sound without the end result having been a damn telemarketer, but they usually didn't call this late. He dreaded to think it might be Lilah, that she'd sunk so low as to call him on the phone, but that wasn't her style. She just showed up on his doorstep when she wanted to fuck. And he wouldn't allow himself to so much as entertain the notion of who it might be, who he secretly needed it to be.
"Cut the foreplay, Wesley." The former watcher muttered, removing the phone from its cradle and bringing it to his ear. He cleared his throat, out of necessity or habit, he honestly couldn't remember. Nor could he tell whether the pain from doing so was real or imagined.
"Hello?" He asked.
"Wesley?" Came a familiar voice, a relic from times past, a long-ago life. "Wesley, is that you?" Trick question.
"Yes. Hello, Buffy." His mind spun slightly, curious as to whether or not she knew what had happened, if she'd called to give voice to the silent condemnation he'd received over the past months.
"Oh, good. I need your help." He wondered what it was like to live in a world where pleasantries existed. "Can you meet me?" She continued.
"That depends. Where are you?" Scrambling for a pen and paper, Wes wrote down the name of the hotel; it wasn't far. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"See you then." Click. Conversation over. Happened so quickly; his responses automatic. If he'd had time to think, it may have gone differently. Or not. He'd been a Watcher, or one in training, for years. It may not be possible for him to refuse a request to aid the active slayer. A jarring tone shook him out of his reverie, a reminder that he still held the receiver in his hand. Returning it to the cradle, he drained his glass of scotch, unsure if it was his first or second glass, and how full it (they) had been. Wandered into his bedroom to change into a fresh shirt. One not rumpled from hours of sitting in the armchair. He decided to brush his teeth, although he doubted it would fool a breathalyzer, or a slayer.
Exactly twenty-eight minutes later the former Watcher strode through the hotel lobby toward a petite blonde who had risen to her feet. The undisguised hope written across her face quickly turned to a kind of shocked horror, the closer he got to her table. The stubble on his face just didn't extend far enough down his neck.
"Wesley, God, what happened?" The slayer asked, nodding to the chair across the table and sitting down hard. Her eyes hadn't moved from the shiny connective tissue below his chin.
"You haven't heard?" He asked, a little too casually, while taking a seat. "Had my throat slit. Nasty business. Rather not talk about it."
Buffy nodded, grimacing slightly, and that cinched it. He would do whatever the girl asked of him. Hers was the first look of concern he'd seen on a familiar face since. There was almost a flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. Almost.
"So what can I do for you?"
She took a deep breath. "Faith's pregnant. Quentin's arranged for me to adopt the baby, which is what I'm in town to do, but I had a- I don't know. A dream, or something, tonight, and I think she's in trouble." Buffy trailed off, noticing how Wesley's eyes had glazed over. "I recognize that look. I wore it all day yesterday."
He blinked in response, focusing on the woman on the other side of the table. "I'm sorry. I just- Faith? Pregnant? It seems to be an epidemic among those you'd least suspect, doesn't it?"
"Huh?"
With this response he realized it was quite possible that Buffy had absolutely no knowledge of the events of the past six months. Which suited him just fine. But he'd heard this tune before. He'd memorized the words. Familiar territory. "We were taught that slayers could not have children. Of course, we were also taught that there could be only one. Now what of this dream?"
"Let me give you the slightly less abridged version." Buffy started with Faith's letter, and ended with the disappearing girl on the balcony, including her deal with Quentin and the Council. Wesley merely sat with his hands folded in his lap, listening patiently, face unreadable.
When she'd finished, he leaned forward, interest piqued, voice dropped to a whisper. "This girl on the balcony, you've no clue as to who she may be?"
"Well, I have a clue, but not a sane one."
"It sounds as if she's a future version of yourself."
"I'm glad you said it first. But that's not possible, right?"
"It's certainly not impossible, but I doubt that an older you has time- traveled to deliver an extremely vague warning. It must be a portent."
"An awake one?"
"Perhaps you've merely sublimated a key detail that your subconscious wants you to remember."
"Which is.?"
"Quentin is sending you slayers to train."
"Yes." The word came slowly as warning lights flashed in her brain; they'd gone unnoticed the day before.
"But the only way for a new slayer to be called-"
"Is for the previous one to die. Damn it!"
"The Council has already made two attempts on her life."
"And I'll just be walking out of there, baby in tow, leaving Faith unprotected."
"Exactly."
"God, how could I be so stupid?" Before he realized what he was doing, Wesley had reached across the table and covered her hand with his own, only to remove it as if he'd touched hot coals.
"They're masters of deception," he muttered, returning his hand to his lap, "you're not the first they've fooled." He got to his feet quickly, a guilty look on his face. "I'll go to my car, make a call, see what I can do." He was gone before Buffy could reply, leaving her to wonder what had happened to her former watcher.
TBC
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce sat in an armchair in his living room, glass of scotch in hand, TV illuminating his unshaven face. He was seriously considering ordering a "Pure Soul" CD by phone, when it rang shrilly. It had been months since he'd heard the sound without the end result having been a damn telemarketer, but they usually didn't call this late. He dreaded to think it might be Lilah, that she'd sunk so low as to call him on the phone, but that wasn't her style. She just showed up on his doorstep when she wanted to fuck. And he wouldn't allow himself to so much as entertain the notion of who it might be, who he secretly needed it to be.
"Cut the foreplay, Wesley." The former watcher muttered, removing the phone from its cradle and bringing it to his ear. He cleared his throat, out of necessity or habit, he honestly couldn't remember. Nor could he tell whether the pain from doing so was real or imagined.
"Hello?" He asked.
"Wesley?" Came a familiar voice, a relic from times past, a long-ago life. "Wesley, is that you?" Trick question.
"Yes. Hello, Buffy." His mind spun slightly, curious as to whether or not she knew what had happened, if she'd called to give voice to the silent condemnation he'd received over the past months.
"Oh, good. I need your help." He wondered what it was like to live in a world where pleasantries existed. "Can you meet me?" She continued.
"That depends. Where are you?" Scrambling for a pen and paper, Wes wrote down the name of the hotel; it wasn't far. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"See you then." Click. Conversation over. Happened so quickly; his responses automatic. If he'd had time to think, it may have gone differently. Or not. He'd been a Watcher, or one in training, for years. It may not be possible for him to refuse a request to aid the active slayer. A jarring tone shook him out of his reverie, a reminder that he still held the receiver in his hand. Returning it to the cradle, he drained his glass of scotch, unsure if it was his first or second glass, and how full it (they) had been. Wandered into his bedroom to change into a fresh shirt. One not rumpled from hours of sitting in the armchair. He decided to brush his teeth, although he doubted it would fool a breathalyzer, or a slayer.
Exactly twenty-eight minutes later the former Watcher strode through the hotel lobby toward a petite blonde who had risen to her feet. The undisguised hope written across her face quickly turned to a kind of shocked horror, the closer he got to her table. The stubble on his face just didn't extend far enough down his neck.
"Wesley, God, what happened?" The slayer asked, nodding to the chair across the table and sitting down hard. Her eyes hadn't moved from the shiny connective tissue below his chin.
"You haven't heard?" He asked, a little too casually, while taking a seat. "Had my throat slit. Nasty business. Rather not talk about it."
Buffy nodded, grimacing slightly, and that cinched it. He would do whatever the girl asked of him. Hers was the first look of concern he'd seen on a familiar face since. There was almost a flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. Almost.
"So what can I do for you?"
She took a deep breath. "Faith's pregnant. Quentin's arranged for me to adopt the baby, which is what I'm in town to do, but I had a- I don't know. A dream, or something, tonight, and I think she's in trouble." Buffy trailed off, noticing how Wesley's eyes had glazed over. "I recognize that look. I wore it all day yesterday."
He blinked in response, focusing on the woman on the other side of the table. "I'm sorry. I just- Faith? Pregnant? It seems to be an epidemic among those you'd least suspect, doesn't it?"
"Huh?"
With this response he realized it was quite possible that Buffy had absolutely no knowledge of the events of the past six months. Which suited him just fine. But he'd heard this tune before. He'd memorized the words. Familiar territory. "We were taught that slayers could not have children. Of course, we were also taught that there could be only one. Now what of this dream?"
"Let me give you the slightly less abridged version." Buffy started with Faith's letter, and ended with the disappearing girl on the balcony, including her deal with Quentin and the Council. Wesley merely sat with his hands folded in his lap, listening patiently, face unreadable.
When she'd finished, he leaned forward, interest piqued, voice dropped to a whisper. "This girl on the balcony, you've no clue as to who she may be?"
"Well, I have a clue, but not a sane one."
"It sounds as if she's a future version of yourself."
"I'm glad you said it first. But that's not possible, right?"
"It's certainly not impossible, but I doubt that an older you has time- traveled to deliver an extremely vague warning. It must be a portent."
"An awake one?"
"Perhaps you've merely sublimated a key detail that your subconscious wants you to remember."
"Which is.?"
"Quentin is sending you slayers to train."
"Yes." The word came slowly as warning lights flashed in her brain; they'd gone unnoticed the day before.
"But the only way for a new slayer to be called-"
"Is for the previous one to die. Damn it!"
"The Council has already made two attempts on her life."
"And I'll just be walking out of there, baby in tow, leaving Faith unprotected."
"Exactly."
"God, how could I be so stupid?" Before he realized what he was doing, Wesley had reached across the table and covered her hand with his own, only to remove it as if he'd touched hot coals.
"They're masters of deception," he muttered, returning his hand to his lap, "you're not the first they've fooled." He got to his feet quickly, a guilty look on his face. "I'll go to my car, make a call, see what I can do." He was gone before Buffy could reply, leaving her to wonder what had happened to her former watcher.
TBC