********AUTHOR'S NOTE********

First of all, thanks so much to everyone who wants to follow this story and me, and of course to the reviewers for Chapter 1! This is my first fanfic I'm actually trying to post, not just write for myself, and I'm such a n00b that I forgot to include an author's note on the first chapter.

I am hoping to expand this story out to many chapters, maybe even write some follow-up fics, (tease tease,) but I am unfortunately extremely busy so these might take a while to get out. I'm also very critical of my own writing and tend to agonize over every word. Please bear with me and what I'm sure will be a very erratic posting schedule. I was motivated to get back to writing by those lovely reviews. =)

Finally, I should have mentioned before that I am merely an ardent admirer of Joss Whedon's characters and stories. I do not own either, and this is purely written for fun.

***********ON TO THE STORY!*************

CHAPTER 2

Some time later that night, after helping to serve pizza to a pack of hungry Slayerettes and organize the sleeping arrangements, Wesley excused himself and climbed the stairs to the third floor, lost in thought. He reached the landing across from his door and found himself gazing down the hallway to room number 319. Why is this troubling me, the arrival of the Slayers? Wesley had an analytical mind by nature and a talent bordering upon obsession with words as well. No, it's not troubling, per se. It's, what's the word… it could almost be called –

Wesley shook his head as the trance he had fallen into broke. He hurriedly wrestled his keys out of his pocket, embarrassed at the word that had come to him unbidden. I am NOT going to think about what that means.

The lock clicked and the door swung open silently on oiled hinges into the darkened suite. Wesley absent-mindedly flipped a light switch on the wall nearby and dropped his keys on a side table as he strode in. His rooms were sparsely but tastefully furnished, like a page out of a Brooks Brothers catalog: classic navy and white cotton bedding, a comfortable old English-looking leather chair near the fireplace, a neat desk with several large tomes piled on top of it in orderly stacks. The more observant would have noticed what the room distinctly lacked: personal touches. No photographs adorned the surfaces. The books were almost certainly not for recreational reading, unless a study of the nastier rituals of Vietnamese demonic cults could be considered entertainment.

He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over the desk chair, still distracted and a little disturbed by the word that had popped into his mind in the hall. Well, it's not like it is a bad word in and of itself. If one ignores the only connotation that popular culture has come to allow it and focuses instead upon the denotation, the technical, absolute definition, it's… possibly appropriate. Maybe.

Wesley sighed and hung his jeans in the closet, pulling a pair of pajama pants from a drawer. Again, the attentive might have marked how few garments hung on the racks, and the half-emptiness of the drawers in the chest. He wasn't living a Spartan existence, but it was clear that he didn't particularly care about worldly possessions. If the building caught fire and anyone inside only had five minutes to get out, Wesley would be able to throw a few changes of clothes into a bag and walk out with two minutes to spare. There was almost no clutter, and there certainly wasn't anything personal to agonize over leaving.

Long after he turned out the light in the bathroom and had gotten into bed, he lay awake, listening to the elevator running the young Slayers upstairs, footsteps echoing and doors slamming faintly. His mind wandered, and he found himself trying to recall details from earlier on that evening, like what earrings Buffy had been wearing, and how her perfume mixed with her sweat from the morning's battle had smelled when he had knelt down before her. That hair – would the color best be described as a honey or a sun-kissed blonde? And most importantly, what had happened in her life since he had first known her to make her so serious, so determined, so strong? He imagined he could almost feel her presence now, even asleep, down the hall and through two doors…

He shuddered, covered his head with a pillow and groaned loudly into it. The word that had floated into his mind, seemingly out of nowhere, had been arousing. The arrival of the Slayers was almost arousing…