Wesley discovered that the generous terms of his employment included a 'small apartment on campus', which proved to be easily larger than the flat he'd shared with two other Watcher-trainees when he'd attended Oxford, and larger than the flat he'd rented in Sunnydale. There was also a much better view than either of those locations, a stand of trees, with glimpses of the lake between the branches. He assumed that the salary was comparable to the other recently hired instructors, and as it was quite sufficient for his needs, he didn't pry. After all, with the flat provided, all he needed to cover were his utilities and personal expenses. Personal expenses that he vowed would soon include some form of transportation, a car or perhaps a motorcycle.
As he'd arrived in the middle of the quarter, he was not in charge of any of the regular classes, though the Director of Languages did have him substitute on a few occasions for the Greek, French and German lessons. Wesley suspected that the requests were as much about the senior professor needing the afternoon or morning for some other errand as it was about testing him to see if he measured up to their standards and expectations.
While the contract didn't mention it, it hadn't taken long for Wesley to decide that Ms Frost's wardrobe was a benefit of his position. The day he'd interviewed, she'd worn white linen trousers and a matching jacket over a white corset, and he'd been impressed. But after a few weeks, he discovered that she'd actually been in one of her tamer outfits that day... All he could say without being distracted by vivid and inappropriate image was that Ms Frost was certainly self-confident and not in the least body-conscious.
Almost as interesting as Ms Frost's wardrobe, Wesley found himself giving fencing lessons to a select trio of students. Haroun al-Rahman was the easiest to work with, having a decent level of skill and being willing to listen to Wesley when he offered correction or advice. Amara Aquila was quick, nimble, and had a fiery temper, which frequently caused her to let forth streams of Latin that would have shocked and appalled most of his instructors. He tended to let her rant before observing that most of that would be quite anatomically impossible. Manuel de la Rocha... he was skilled, handsome, rich and utterly spoiled. Teaching him was a frustration, in part because he felt there was little he needed to learn and in part because he seemed to delight in playing games with the emotions of others.
More than once, Wesley had found his emotions in a tangle after talking with Manuel. After the fourth time that he noticed his emotions were not as they should be, he started using the techniques that he'd studied to focus and protect his mind, though they did leave him with a bit of a headache. If he was fortunate, practice would reduce the headaches, or at least increase the time that he could shield himself. He was certain that Manuel was some sort of empath, or perhaps a focus for empathic disruption. There were several demonic species that had such capabilities, though none of them could pass for human. That led him to conclude that either Manuel was part demonic, or perhaps an aspected sorcerous adept.
Wesley had been presented with a marking guide and a stack of reports on Chaucer, and requested to help with the grading. Considering the lovely weather, he'd opted to go outside, and was seated at one of the stone tables on the grounds. He flipped the pages of a report on Chaucer, not quite annoyed that he'd been roped into helping grade papers for a class he wasn't officially teaching, though he'd substituted for this professor twice. Soon enough, he would be the professor for classes, and he would be the one assigning reports and presentations.
"He's not a demon," the voice of Emma Frost interrupted Wesley's marking.
"Pardon?" He looked up, delighted to see her, clad as usual in form fitting leather trousers and a low-cut blouse that appeared to be made entirely of white lace. A tiny corner of his mind reflected that he couldn't recall seeing her in anything that wasn't white.
"Manuel. He's not a demon, or part demon," she clarified, settling herself on the bench near Wesley, though not quite close enough to disturb the stack of papers. "He's a mutant."
He blinked, considering her words. Manuel, a mutant? She had mentioned the fencing classes were for 'a few special students', one of which was Manuel, did that mean some of the other students were also mutants? Amara and Haroun? Neither of them had caused his emotions to behave in unusual ways, though if he was remembering correctly, mutants had considerable variety in their abilities.
Attempting to focus, Wesley glanced at Emma's hand, knowing that if he looked at her lovely long legs or that lacy top that didn't quite seem to conceal her, all rational thought would go away for a while. "Is that the reason he keeps playing with people's emotions? A mutant ability? It seems a most irresponsible way to keep himself entertained…"
"Yes, that is how he's entertaining himself. He's quite convinced that nobody will ever do anything to him about it," Emma sighed before commenting, "You seem to have found a way to remain unaffected by his power."
"An imperfect method, designed to permit members of the Watchers Council to fight empathic demons without finding themselves slaughtering each other," Wesley rubbed at his temple, pushing down the complicated knot of emotions that thinking about the Council brought up. Thinking about the Council, his family, his entire past…
"It seems to work well enough," Her voice was smooth, like the thinnest ice over a still pond.
"It has a limited duration. An ideal defense would be simple to maintain, require minimal preparation, and wouldn't leave a headache to rival a concussion afterwards," His smile was a little forced, but Wesley was getting tired of the headaches that Manuel left, not just from defending himself from the boy's abilities but the chaos and turmoil the boy left in his wake, the broken hearts and outraged acquaintances.
"An understandable definition. Of course, such things are often easier said than done." Emma's voice seemed a bit warmer, only cool instead of frozen.
"Such is life," Wesley murmured. "All too often, things are far more difficult and more complicated than they sound."
"Does knowing that already make things easier?" Her hand moved, brushing against his own, her fingers surprisingly warm.
"No. It hasn't made things easier yet," he looked at her, quickly moving his eyes to her face, where he was less likely to be distracted by interesting and passionate images. "Of course, classrooms and lessons in fencing are a good deal easier to handle than fighting vampires in alleys."
"You mentioned that your family has been involved with the Watchers Council for a very long time. Do you have anyone in your family that you can still talk to, or have the all washed their hands of you?" Emma Frost's voice was almost soft.
"For the past few centuries, the real jobs of the men in the Wyndham family have been Watchers, with their daughters becoming the wives of Watchers, sometimes being permitted to help maintain the records and the libraries. The Prices have been the same way, at least the branch that I'm related to. Recent decades have permitted more women to become Watchers themselves, but… The official records may list them as Professors, as scholars and translators, but they are Watchers. Everything else has been a cover, a secondary occupation at best. The letter that was sent, informing me that I had been stricken from the roles…" Wesley paused, hesitant to share so much of his past. They weren't terribly close, and years of ingrained habit urged him to maintain the Council's secrecy.
But he'd devoted himself to the Council only to be sent into failure and cast aside in disgrace. None of what he'd revealed was exactly top secret. "My father was the one who wrote the letter informing me that I was cast out, my name stricken from the lists, and I was dead to the Council."
"How terrible, for you," her hand curled around his. "My father just had me taken away and locked in a mental asylum for three years. He never tried to deny my existence, or claimed that I was dead."
"It doesn't sound like families are a good topic for either of us," Wesley's smile was bitter, but more real than the last one.
"I suppose they aren't," Emma's smile wasn't joyful. "More than a few of the mutants that I've brought here have unpleasantness in their pasts, often from their families dealing poorly with their mutation. I should be glad that you'll understand if they aren't talking with their families, or calling their parents for advice."
Wesley refrained from mentioning that she didn't look glad at all, or that he would think her a bit less human to rejoice in someone's family woes. He also found himself wondering if she was a mutant, and if her father's actions had a connection to an irregularity of genetics, rather than actions. He didn't voice those questions.
"I am pleased that you're fitting into the languages and literature departments so well. Amara has also mentioned that you deal much more calmly with her temper than most of the professors," Emma seemed to want to leave the sticky topic of emotions and families behind.
"Yes," Wesley fidgeted a moment before making this confession. "I've taken notes on a few of her more colorful turns of phrase. My own instructors never used the Latin language quite like that. But instead of telling her that such language or temper is unbecoming of a young lady – which I am certain she's already heard – I have taken to reminding her that the human body does not bend in such ways, or that certain actions are anatomically impossible."
"You might be the only instructor who can make sense out of some of her more colorful phrases," Emma looked as if she was fighting back laughter. "Don't worry, I won't tell her about you taking notes on her insults and curses."
"Thank you," as Wesley smiled back at Emma Frost, he realized that he was starting to feel like he had a place at the Frost Academy. Somewhere that he belonged, not by the coincidence of his family, or by Council fiat, but on his own merits. It was a nice feeling.
End part 5.