The fire continued to burn brightly as Jackter added more and more firewood. He sat wearily on the ground, surveying the crowd of intruders.
"Well?" he asked them.
Wesley looked around, and seeing as how no one looked about to speak, stepped forward.
"May I go next?" he asked, somewhat timidly.
There were some murmurs of assent and some nods.
"What do you wish to know?" Jackter asked him.
Wesley cleared his throat. "I’d like to see my life had I not been adopted by the Wyndam-Prices."
Now there were gasps amongst his friends.
"You were adopted?" Cordelia asked incredulously. "I didn’t know that!"
Wesley nodded. "Yes, I was. My biological parents were killed in a boating accident, they drowned when I was two. Christopher and Jeannetta Wyndam-Price adopted me when I was seven years old. Christopher was a member of the Watchers Council…and as they were unable to have children of their own, they had the foster homes scouted for the best and the brightest, academically. Someone who was pleasing and didn’t argue, who would do as they were told."
"And they picked you," Gunn concluded.
"Yes, I’m afraid so. My parents are…rather cold people. Quite unhappily married, but unwilling to do anything to change their lives. They needed an heir. My father needed an heir," he corrected, "to continue the line of Watchers. As I had the highest marks in my classes, I was selected. We didn’t get along…I was a disappointment to them, particularly when I left the Council." He turned back to Jackter. "That is my wish."
Jackter nodded and faced the fire.
Cinder and ash, flame and fire
‘Tis the other’s life to see we desire
Two roads before us, but one to take
Show the other, the choice not made.
*~*~*
FLASH
*~*~*
Westchester Home for Boys, 1974
"Wesley you idiot…can’t you even pretend you can hit the ball?" Archie Gibbons called from the makeshift pitcher’s mound. "I swear…God really intended for you to be a girl, with the way you hit."
"You mean swing! ‘e never ‘its it!" Niles Brighton shouted back from third base. The entire team giggled appreciatively.
Wesley squinted his eyes and dug his feet into the ground. He would hit it this time. Show that stupid git Archie Gibbons that he wasn’t a girl.
"Oh, all right. I’ll throw it again, but you might as well just save yourself the embarrassment, Wes," Archie sighed, and wound up for the pitch. The moment the ball was released Wesley caught his breath, closed his eyes, and swung.
The sound of the ball hitting the catchers mitt forced his eyes open. "Bollocks," he swore, and slunk off the field to the sounds of merry laughter coming from behind him.
Mercifully the bus came a moment later to pick them up and take them back to the home. Wesley chose the front seat, away from the more rowdy boys in the back, and stared out of the window, alone in his thoughts, ignoring the ridicule of the others. Someday, someday he’d get out of that house and make his own way. Someone was going to adopt him soon…he just knew it. A young couple, kind and gentle who would play with him. A father that would teach him how to hit and a mum that would bake him cookies and have tea ready at precisely the right time. Wesley wasn’t even sure he liked tea, but if she was making it, he knew it would be perfect.
The old bus rambled up to the house and they all climbed out. Lining up against the side of the bus they were counted, as was tradition ever since Charles Livington had gotten left at the British Museum for nine whole hours, and waited to see who would be given the duty of bringing in the sports equipment.
Mr. Brack, the bus driver and caretaker of the house, asked for a volunteer, something he never got. Except for this day. Wesley’s hand was in the air. If he was taking the bags down into the basement then he would avoid the other boys for a good hour. By the time he was finished they would have vacated the bathroom and he could shower without being further teased for his lack of athletic skill.
"Good man, Wes. You enjoy lugging those bags down to the cellar," Archie grinned, thumping him on the back as he sailed into the house with the other boys.
Wesley heaved the bags of bats and balls down the stairs and into the equipment room next to the furnace. It smelled like mothballs down here…mothballs and sewage. Huffing and puffing he made his way back up the stairs and to the back of the bus, hefting down yet another bag.
Something was brushing his leg as he walked, he noted, and glanced down to find the shoelace on one of his oxford’s untied. Cautiously he began to take the steps into the dank cellar when he heard commotion behind him. Autos. People were pulling up, car after car. Of course! Visiting Day! Once every six months the house had a free day where people from the town came in and talked and played with the boys. That was why they’d had the impromptu baseball game…Master Crydell and the other guardians had gotten them out of the house to tidy it up.
He had to hurry and get cleaned up so that he was presentable for the townspeople. They would have a meeting first, to discuss the progress of the house and the funds that were still needed to maintain it and the boys that resided there, but then…the luncheon. It was like Christmas to the boys. The townspeople came and brought sweets and presents. They pretended it was just another day, but the boys knew…they were being looked over. And some of them, if they made a good impression, would be adopted.
Wesley lifted the bag and began to move double-time to get down the cement stairs into the cellar. Just one more trip and he’d have it finished, plenty of time to get his area doubly neat and himself a quick shower. That was his last thought before his right foot planted itself firmly on top of the stray shoelace on his left, and sent him careening down the cement stairs.
When he woke up several hours later he discovered himself in the infirmary with a broken leg and a concussion. Visiting Day was over. He’d missed his chance.
*~*~*
"So by volunteering that day, I chose my path," Wesley mused more to himself than to the crowd watching alongside him.
"Never in my life did I expect to find you all dirty, playing ball," Gunn teased. "But this confirms that you’ve always been a klutz."
*~*~*
London, 1989
On his eighteenth birthday Wesley Oliver Martin was released into the world with only a few pounds to his name, but with more ambition than was surely legal. He headed directly to the flat he would be living in for the time being; it was more like Westchester House for adults, he thought, but this time he could come and go as he pleased. And he had only six months to stay there before he would be required to leave. It was the mission of the flat owners to get the men on their feet financially and then to help them find their own place to live, making room for the next group to move in.
He would be working in a bookstore, something he was rather looking forward to. He’d always enjoyed books, preferring to sit under a tree and read, or in the window seat on the fourth floor of Westchester, rather than engage in the sports the other boys had so loved. Eventually he hoped to attend some classes at the university level, though he doubted he would be able to afford that for some time.
The apartment was small, but clean, and he would be sharing it with a man named Barney, an unfortunate name in Wesley’s opinion, but he seemed nice enough. He unpacked quickly and made his bed, then started out to explore the city he’d lived in all his life and had been unable to explore as he’d liked. Plus, he wanted to find the bookstore he would be working in.
Wesley spent the better part of the day wandering the streets on this damp London day, wrapped tightly in the jacket he’d been given for his birthday by his hall Master, Jon. It was the nicest thing he’d ever owned, and he felt very snappy as he walked confidently into the bookstore, noting the musty but comforting smell of the old books. Incense burned, lavender, he presumed. It smelled familiar, but he didn’t know why.
"Hello?" he called to the deserted store. No one answered. He walked up two short stairs onto the main landing and began to read over the book titles when he heard the floor creak behind him. He whirled around to find a short, stout old woman smiling at him.
"Mr. Martin, I presume," she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Wesley smiled and extended his hand. "Yes, Mrs. Hoffington? How do you do?"
"I am Evangenia Hoffington, and I am very well, child, very well. As well as can be expected, anyway. Do sit down. The school said you would be arriving today," she said as she shifted around the room.
Wesley took a seat on an ancient bench. "Yes, m’am. Thank you very much for the opportunity."
"Tsk. I could see it the moment you walked in. You’ll do just fine, Wesley Oliver Martin. Just find indeed." She eyed him seriously. "Martin…did you know your parents at all?"
Wesley sobered. "No m’am, not really. They died when I was two, I don’t remember them at all."
Mrs. Hoffington nodded. "No, of course you wouldn’t. I knew some Martin’s, back in my day," she told him. "Lovely people."
"I’m sure they were."
"Well, you’re wanting to know your duties, I’d imagine," she said, shuffling around the room. Wesley followed her as she recited his jobs. It didn’t seem too complicated, until she went into the back and revealed a heavy wooden, and quite well locked, door.
"Back here are specialty books," she said to him. If possible, her voice became even lower than before. "You sell nothing from here without permission from me. And even then, it takes a lot more for me to part with what texts and other items I keep in here. No one has the key but me."
Wesley gulped and nodded. "What do you keep back there?"
Shrewd eyes looked into his nervous ones. "Nothing you need to know about. You must take this on faith." Wesley glanced back at the door, the tickle of fear creeping up his spine, and nodded.
*~*~*
1999
"Evie, the truck’s here," Wesley called from his perch on the stepladder. He was cataloging the inventory for the year, as he had every year for the past ten he’d worked at the store. He did it now, however, as the part owner. Six years into his tenure at Hoffington Books Mrs. Hoffington, now affectionately called Evie, had proposed to him a partnership. "I’m not going to be around forever, Wesley," she told him. "And what we do is important."
She referred not to the rare books that she sold in the main section of shop, but the well-guarded back room. After two years of employment Evie had trusted him with the secret. She housed one of the finest collections of mystical references and objects of power in the world. It was a well-kept secret, even in the underground of the black arts, and one which Wesley had soon become enthralled with. He was Evie’s prized pupil, and a fast learner. She commented more than once that it was a shame he had to live his life in a bookstore when he could be doing so much more with his aptitude for magic and the mystical. But Wesley just laughed and told her there was no place else he’d rather be.
His life was comfortable. He enjoyed his work, relished in his new hobby. There was nothing else in the world he felt he was cut out for.
"Thank you, Wesley. They’re late again," Evie told him, glowering at the front door.
"Do you really expect any different?" he joked, giving her a smile.
"Humph," she replied, and went to meet them. Before she could reach the door it opened for her and in walked a rather winded looking man.
"Why Rupert Giles!" Evie exclaimed happily. "What on earth are you doing here?!"
The man smiled at her warmly. "I’m afraid it’s only a business trip," he told her meaningfully. Her expression immediately changed.
"Of course. Can you be kind enough to give me just a moment to deal with the delivery truck? My partner, Mr. Martin, can offer you come refreshment," she said, turning to Wesley.
Wesley climbed down from the ladder. "Wesley Martin," he said, extending a hand.
Mr. Giles shook it. "Yes, how do you do? Rupert Giles."
"You know Mrs. Hoffington?" he asked, moving to the teacart and beginning to pour.
The man took off his glasses and began to clean them. "Yes, we go back quite a long ways."
"Interesting," Wesley said offhand. "I’ve worked here ten years and don’t believe we’ve met."
"No, ah…we haven’t. I’ve been living in America now for quite some time," Mr. Giles told him.
Wesley grinned. "Really? Which part? I’ve always wanted to see the States."
"California, actually."
"How exciting. Will you be returning there after your trip?" Wesley handed him a cup.
"Y-yes, I will be."
The door behind them opened and Evie stepped back indoors. "Well now, Rupert, shall we adjourn to the back?"
"That would be wonderful, thank you, Evie," Mr. Giles said graciously.
"Wesley, please join us," Evie instructed.
The three faced the door to the back room and Evie took an amulet out of her skirt pocket. Muttering the incantation that would disable the mystical lock, the door swung open, and closed soundly on its own when they were all inside.
"Now, Rupert, what may I assist you in?" Evie asked as they sat at an old oak table.
"Ethan’s back," Mr. Giles told her.
Evie gasped. "No. That boy just can’t stay out of trouble, can he? Has he contacted you?"
Giles nodded. "Yes, I’m afraid so. Things in California are troublesome now. Ethan has cast a spell on the Slayer, disabling her. It’s part of the Council’s dark magic, the kind we were educated of but naturally, never allowed to use. We are fortunate enough to have another Slayer on our hands but with the spell, demons around the world are flocking to Sunnydale. It’s getting to be too much. And it’s destroying Buffy, mentally. She is left unable to fight, after knowing nothing else for years now."
Evie tsked. "I can see how that might be a problem. What spell did he perform?"
"The Everlast," Giles told her gravely.
Evie sighed. "I suspected as much from what you’ve told me. You’ll be needed the Talisman of Gouldar."
"Yes," Giles nodded. "You’re the only person I know who can get it, and as quickly as I need it. I fear the longer I’m gone, the worse things at home will become."
"What of her Watcher, the other Slayer’s Watcher?"
"If I may interrupt…what exactly is going on?" Wesley asked, breaking into the conversation.
Evie gave Giles an apologetic smile. "I’m afraid I have not discussed all the Council’s secrets with Wesley yet." She turned to her partner. "Wesley, you know about Ms. Summers, the current Slayer. You know that she is no longer working for the Council. What you don’t know is that the Council made a rather dangerous mistake. Ms. Summers died a few years back, but was revived within a matter of minutes. As it turns out, those few minutes were long enough to call a second Slayer."
"So there are two?" Wesley asked, impressed.
"Yes Ms. Buffy Summers and Ms. Alicia Jordan. And Rupert was Ms. Summers’ Watcher, until an unfortunate…rebellion, would you call it?" she asked Giles.
Giles smiled softly. "Yes, that might be the perfect word. Ms. Summers, Buffy, quit the Council, shortly after I was fired."
"Fired? From the Council of Watchers?" Wesley asked incredulously.
"Yes, I’m afraid."
"This is not the point. The point is there are two Slayers now, being looked after by Sheldon Masters, and one of them is incapacitated. We cannot have this," Evie said sharply. "I’m afraid it will take me a day or two to get what you need, Rupert. Can you wait that long?"
"I’ll have to. Thank you, Evie," he told her gratefully.
"Nonsense. I’ve known you since you were a child, nursed you through those horrid days when you were running with Ethan. That boy, in my opinion, has always needed a good boxing of the ears. And perhaps some jail time," she said, as an afterthought.
"He’s since disappeared," Giles informed her.
*~*~*
"Good lord," Giles said softly. "Sheldon Masters would have been your new Watcher?"
"Who’s Sheldon Masters?" Buffy asked.
"I attended Oxford with him, and went through the Council’s studies with. He was-"
"Far worse than me," Wesley offered with a grin. "As a Watcher, that is."
"Yes, quite. Much, much worse," Giles smiled back. "Amazing, though…the coincidence with Evie. I really do know her, you know. She passed on two years ago."
"Wait," Buffy interrupted. "What happened to Faith? Who’s Alicia Jordan?"
*~*~*
Evie obtained the talisman within a day and called Rupert that night at his hotel room to have him pick it up at the shop.
"Rupert will be over shortly," she said to an empty shop, shuffling nervously around the store.
She glanced at the clock, muttering to herself as old women tend to do. "The talisman is quite old, and can be very dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands."
"Like, mine?" a voice came from behind them.
Evie turned quickly. "Ethan."
"Hello, Evie," Ethan drawled. "It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?"
"Not long enough, I’m afraid, boy," she replied, sternly.
"Now, now," Ethan said, strolling around the room. "Let’s not take that tone…after all the years we go back?"
"Yes, after all those years you did nothing but violate every rule the art of magic has, after you nearly killed most of your friends with your blunders, and after you ignored all of the tutoring I gave you."
"Well…there is that," he admitted. "I want the talisman, Evie. You can’t give it to Rupert. It’s no fun when he enters the playing field. He’s so, stalwart and noble."
"So very unfamiliar to you, isn’t it?" Evie said evenly.
Ethan flashed her a grin. "I know you have it, Evie."
"You’re quite wrong, Ethan, as usual."
"I know you made a phone call to Rupert at his hotel, which he left quickly after receiving."
"And you are correct. However, he left and went straight to the airport where he will board a plane and return to America."
Ethan cocked an eyebrow. "Without the talisman? Do you think I’m a complete idiot?"
"Actually, I have no doubt of it. You see, last night I gave the talisman to my partner, who then flew to America to revive the Slayer. Rupert merely stayed to throw you off the trail, which seems to have worked like a…well, you know."
Ethan watched her carefully. "I don’t believe you."
"That’s too bad."
He took a step forward and she held up a hand to stop him. "You don’t want to get involved with me, Ethan. Even you know that much."
Ethan stared at her for a minute, then two. Then, "Dammit!" he shouted, and ran out of the store and into the night.
*~*~*
Just as Rupert had said, a group of teenagers was waiting for him at the gate, along with a glowery young man in a black duster. Introductions were hastily made, and Angel, the brute in the coat, quickly ushered them to his car.
Willow, the shy redhead, asked to see the talisman. Wesley hesitated a moment, when Angel growled, "Give it to her." He quickly complied, Oz, the boy in the backseat with him, didn’t react at all.
"It’s real," she told the passengers. "I can feel the energy in it."
"Good," Angel said, and sped up.
"When’s Giles coming back again?" Oz asked.
"Tonight, later flight. Had to throw Ethan off. Hopefully, he’ll follow Giles back here…so I can gut him," Angel said calmly.
Wesley choked.
*~*~*
The entire group around the fireplace grinned.
*~*~*
Willow performed the ritual, with some rather impressive magic, and Buffy was soon revived. Giles returned that evening, sure that Ethan was on his tail, but unconcerned about it for the meantime, so glad was he that Buffy had been, or would soon be, returned to full strength.
"Buffy," Giles said, stepping into the room at Angel’s mansion that she was resting in. "I’d like you to meet Mr. Wesley Martin. He was the courier for our little scheme."
Buffy smiled weakly at him. She’s so little, he thought.
"And this," Giles said, turning to the rather muscular girl walking into the room, "is Alicia."
"Thank you," Alicia told him sincerely. "It’ll be nice to have her back in the game. She’s going crazy in here, just sitting back, watching me do her job better than she did," she teased affectionately.
"And God knows, we don’t need another crazy Slayer," Xander muttered.
"Second that," Oz told them.
"Another?" Wesley asked.
"Faith. She…had some mental issues. Liked to kill people, for one. Ended up getting her dead," Alicia told him. "Then I was called."
"Oh my gosh," Wesley gasped.
"Tell us about it," Xander joked. "Faith was okay at first…but Sheldon in there…" he said, jerking a finger disdainfully, "not exactly up to par as far as Watcher’s go. He slacked off on her, backed off, thinking if he gave her space she’d come around. What she needed, if you ask me, was some jail time."
"Can we not talk about this?" Buffy asked uncomfortably.
"Of course," Giles said smoothly. "Wesley, will you be returning to England?"
"Uh, yes, I will, thank you. Though, I must say, your life here seems rather exciting. Perhaps I’ll come back and visit sometime."
"That would be wonderful. We certainly owe you a huge debt of gratitude," Giles told him.
*~*~*
"That’s enough, please," Wesley said shakily.
"But you haven’t seen all I’m to show you," Jackter told him.
"It doesn’t matter."
Cordelia placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Wow…so if you hadn’t come to Sunnydale, Faith would have ended up dead," Buffy said softly.
"We can’t know that…for sure…" Wesley told her.
Angel walked to him. "But we can believe it."
