Author: Samantha
Email: samfic@aol.com
RATING: PG
IMPROV: #28, half - conscience - bitter - optional
SUMMARY: Wes works out some issues.
SPOILERS: A little tiny bit for "Fredless"
DISCLAIMER: I do not own. I just borrow.
DISTRIBUTION: THC, FINNatics. All others, please ask! :o)
FEEDBACK: Always loved and cherished.
DEDICATION: For Moe, Amy, Nicole, and Lisa.
Wesley was excited to the point of distraction. Tomorrow was his birthday
and his father had promised him that he could go riding. That was, of
course, if he completed his lessons satisfactorily.
Gripping the fountain pen tightly in his still eight-year-old fingers, he
carefully dipped it in the little bottle of black ink sitting in the top
right-hand corner of the blotter. He pressed the tip against the paper,
fully aware that the spelling of the French words must be perfect when he
showed his work to his Father. If it wasn't, or if there were any blemishes
on the page, he would have to do it over. And that would mean no riding
tomorrow.
But his young child's mind couldn't help but wander as he set pen to paper.
His thoughts drifted to Chance, the chestnut mare that he adored and that,
with any luck, he would get to ride as he celebrated his ninth birthday. She
was so beautiful and he simply adored her. He believed she felt the same
about him and was convinced that she smiled when she saw him. Perhaps he
smiled enough for the both of them.
His polished brown loafers made a muted thud as his heels tapped together
beneath him. His spindly legs hung off the edge of the desk chair as he
toiled and dreamed, the tip of his tongue protruding slightly from the corner
of his mouth as he concentrated. Wire-rimmed glasses slid down his nose and
he pushed them up without thinking, blinking his round blue eyes.
One more sentence and he would be finished. Ready to show his father. The
butterflies started their frantic flight in his stomach. He dipped the tip
of the pen in the ink once more and forced every thought from his mind but
how to conjugate a verb.
He smiled to himself upon inspection of his work. His father would be proud
of him. Not one stray drop of ink and every word was perfect. He slid from
the chair, smoothed out the front of his sweater, tightened the knot on his
tie, and grasped the page from the desk, careful not to wrinkle it.
When he entered his father's study, he was confident.
He didn't go riding on his birthday.
**********
Piles of open books were strewn across Wesley's spacious desk. His latest
endeavor involved determining the most efficient means of killing a Vishniak
demon. Angel had stumbled across a nest of them during a cursory patrol of
the sewers beneath Chinatown and had decided that there were too many to
dispose of on his own. So upon his return to the hotel, he had enlisted the
rest of the gang's help which of course meant delving deeply into Wesley's
books.
Currently, Wesley was in the middle of reading a passage about their mating
habits when the phone rang. He ignored it and waited for Cordelia to answer
it. He could hear her cheerful greeting in the background, followed closely
behind by her high-pitched wailing directed at him.
"Wesley! It's for you! An urgent, and might I add, *collect* call from
jolly old England!" She finished off by adding, "You know, if it was so
urgent, the least they could have done was pick up the tab." But Wesley
already had his extension pressed to his ear by the time the last few words
exited her mouth. Perhaps it was the Council calling, though he couldn't
imagine why.
It wasn't the Council.
"Wesley. I have some news," Lydia's curt voice stated. Wesley's sister,
older by two years, never had been one for formalities. She always seemed to
cut to the point. That particular trait seemed to run in the family.
"Good to hear your voice, too, Lydia." Wes' voice was equally unemotional.
"Father's dead." Nothing more, nothing less. The words stuck on the line.
Wesley's mind suddenly started spinning. The old nervous stutter was back
when he spoke. "W-What? W-When?"
"This morning. Greta found him in his room when she went in to give him his
breakfast." Greta was their father's personal servant.
"I s-see." He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lydia's next comment stunned him, though it probably shouldn't have. "I was
going to send you a post, but Mother thought it best to tell you right away.
The funeral's day after tomorrow. There's no need for you to come all this
way. It won't be much of an affair."
"Right." Translation: "You don't want me there."
"Right, then. That's all I had to tell you. Goodbye, Wesley." Click.
Wesley listened to the dead air on the other end for a moment before
replacing the phone in its cradle. Then he returned to his books and
continued his reading. A moment later, he emerged from his office with his
book in hand, and stated evenly, "I think I have found it…."
**********
"I am disappointed in you, Wesley," James Price's low, intimidating voice
intoned smoothly. The older man sat up straight in his stately desk chair
and puffed authoritatively on his pipe, looking at his 17-year-old son over
his glasses.
Wesley stood across the desk, trying hard to keep the bitter tears from
pooling in his eyes while at the same time attempting to control the shaking
in his knees. "Yes, Father," he uttered.
James inhaled from his pipe and exhaled slowly, deliberately. "I don't
understand it, son. I have provided you with all the keys you need to
succeed-a good name, an excellent education, social connections that will
last a lifetime. Yet you still continue to fail me."
"Yes, sir."
"It's a tough world, son. A world that is especially hard for those who fail
to live up to their potential. I am at my wits' end, Wesley. I cannot have
a son who is a failure. You understand that, don't you?"
Wesley swallowed. "Yes, Father."
"I have tried everything. Nothing has worked. That is why I have come to a
decision." James stood up and set his pipe down in his ashtray. Walking
around his desk, he stood in front of his son.
Wesley, though almost three whole inches taller, felt tiny under his father's
scrutinizing stare. "What decision is that, Father?" He tried to look him
in the eye, but only managed to get as close his eyebrows.
"Tomorrow, I am sending you to London. There, you will begin your training."
He laid a cold, unfeeling hand on Wesley's shoulder.
"T-Training, sir?" Damn that nervous stutter.
A flash of annoyance shone in James' eyes at his son's inability to control
his tongue. "Yes. It is highly specialized. That is all you need know at
this time. Now go upstairs and pack your things. No more than one suitcase
and one chest. You leave for the train station quite early. Your mother and
I have a prior engagement, so Geoffrey will see you off." A slight squeeze
of the shoulder and the contact was over. "Perhaps with no outside
distractions you will do well. If this does not work out for you, I see no
hope for your future." He turned then and walked back around to his chair,
sitting down and resuming his perusal of a stack of business papers. Wesley
was already forgotten.
The young man knew better than to linger too long. Once he had been
dismissed that was it. He backed towards the door and uttered softly,
"Goodnight, Father."
There was no reply.
**********
Gunn pushed open the front door to the hotel heavily, holding it open for the
rest of the weary crew as they shuffled inside. "Are you sure that was the
most *efficient* way to kill them, Wes? Didn't seem very efficient to me,"
he commented as he stepped down into the lobby and the door clicked shut
behind him. Plopping his body down onto the sofa, he let his breath out in a
tired hiss.
"I'll admit it did take more effort than I thought, but the important thing
is that they're dead." He rubbed his shoulder and winced slightly. "And
that we're not." He inspected his fingers as he withdrew them, his eyes
widening at the sight of his own blood.
"Eek! Wesley! Are you alright?" Fred ran over to his side, a look of
concern adorning her face. "Does it hurt real bad?"
Wesley brushed off her concern. "It's nothing, really. Just a little
scratch."
Cordelia, the company nursemaid, put on her official face and went over to
have a look. "I'll go get the supplies. Gee Wes, leave it to you to be the
only one to get injured and ruin our perfect record." She winked at him and
smiled before disappearing behind the reception desk to fetch the first aid
kit.
"Yes, that's just like me," he muttered under his breath.
The atmosphere in the lobby was subdued as Cordelia patched up Wesley's
shoulder. Fred and Gunn cleaned and put away the weapons. Angel put away
the books.
"All finished," Cordy proclaimed, snapping off her latex gloves. "You should
be good as new in a couple days." She smiled as she replaced the supplies in
the kit and went to put it away.
Gunn pushed the door to the weapons closet shut. "Hey, Wes. I think I'm
gonna go get a drink before I head home. Wanna come with?" He studied Wes
closely.
Wesley turned to look at Gunn, pausing before replying as he processed Gunn's
invitation. Then he shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm rather tired and
my shoulder is starting to throb a bit. Perhaps another time." He stood and
walked to his office.
"Yeah. Sure thing," Gunn replied softly, watching Wesley disappear into his
office and then emerge a moment later wearing his jacket and carrying a small
brown satchel. "Would you like a ride home at least?"
Wes forced a smile. "No. I think I'll walk. But thanks." Looking around
the lobby, he surveyed his friends. They were all looking back at him
expectantly, waiting, presumably, for him to say something else. All they
got was a succinct, "Goodnight" as he walked through the lobby and out the
front door without another word.
**********
His hands trembled as he dialed the phone. It was an old rotary model and
twice already he had placed his finger in the wrong hole and had had to start
all over. He finally dialed all the numbers in the correct order and held
his breath as he listened to the succession of rings on the other end.
"Price residence," the smooth male voice answered.
"Y-Yes," Wesley replied, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath and
consciously trying to control his stutter. It still happened after all this
time. "This is Wesley. I would like to speak to my father."
"One moment please, Master Wesley." He could hear Geoffrey, the family's
longtime butler, place the phone down on the table. Wesley waited patiently,
tapping his fingers on the arm of the wooden chair he was sitting in.
A moment later, James Price's stern voice cut through the silence. "Wesley.
Please make this brief, I am quite busy."
"Yes, Father." He took another breath before continuing. "I have some
rather exciting news. I have finally been given my assignment." He smiled
to himself.
James didn't respond right away. Then he said, "Yes, I can imagine you are
quite relieved. Quite frankly, I expected this to happen much sooner. But
at least you have a chance to use the skills I paid for."
Wesley's smiled quickly disappeared. "Yes, sir. Well, I leave for America
tomorrow. I just thought you would like to know." He bit down on the inside
of his cheek so hard he tasted the tang of blood.
"Well, if there's nothing else, I must go. Keep me posted about your
progress. Congratulations, son. Goodbye." His father hung up the phone.
Wesley held the phone a few moments longer before replacing it. He looked
towards the door of his flat and at the pile of suitcases next to it. A
flood of relief washed over him. He could not wait to leave.
**********
He sat in a dark corner of the bar, hunched against the wall of the booth.
The place was a dive, one of those places where morals, and good personal
hygiene for that matter, were optional.
The worn brown leather satchel lay on the table in front of him. He kept it
in the bottom drawer of his desk and hadn't taken it out in a long time. The
last time he had had been when Faith came to town, *before* she decided it
was time to change.
Wesley shuddered at the thought and brought the glass to his lips. He
gritted his teeth as he swallowed, the cheap booze burning its way to his
stomach. But he drained the glass despite his aversion and reached for the
bottle again. He couldn't stop now, not when he had already drunk half of it
and especially not when his conscience was still functioning.
He took another sip and set the glass down. Staring up into the dim,
dust-covered lamp that looked like it came from old Pizza Hut, he sighed and
reached for the satchel. He blinked as he squinted down at the buckle
holding the satchel shut, his fingers fumbling to undo it. Succeeding after
a few more seconds of struggle, he flipped open the leather flap and reached
inside.
The stack of papers he gripped in his fingers represented a lifetime of
failures. At least if were to ask his father. Grammar school and high
school progress reports, his Watcher's Council credentials, second place
(always second place!) ribbons, and honorable mention certificates-things
that any other child's parents would be proud of and would display on the
walls of offices and family rooms. But not his parents. To his parents,
these things were simply fodder for their endless disappointment.
He wasn't sure why he still kept all those things, locked up in his desk,
pulling them out only during those times he felt his most worthless. Perhaps
he was hoping that one day he would finally have something to add to it that
would finally make his father proud of him, something that would counteract
the stack of failures.
But that was never to be. His father was dead. And along with him died any
chance Wesley had to make him proud. There were no chances left.
His hand shook as he tilted the neck of the bottle onto the lip of the glass
and poured the remainder of the liquid into it. It sloshed up the sides and
over the edge, soaking into the papers strewn around it. Wesley didn't care
and watched indifferently as the ink pooled and began to run. Smiling
bitterly, he put the glass to his lips.
**********
His father's words echoed through his mind as he sat in the uncomfortable
plastic chair in the terminal. "That was your last chance, Wesley. I am
finished helping you. You are on your own."
And indeed he was. He sat in the airport, waiting for his plane, feeling as
low as he had in his entire life. And considering his track record, that was
no small feat.
The Council had fired him, citing his failure to control his Slayer as the
main reason. It didn't matter that Faith was beyond his control-or anyone's
for that matter. Or that Buffy had never been once to follow their rules.
It was his job to make sure the Slayers did theirs according to Council
protocol. And he had failed.
It was funny how that word seemed to pepper his entire existence.
Okay, so he was a failure. He could finally admit that to himself. His
father had been right all along. Except now, he was a failure without the
luxury of his family's money or their thinly veiled tolerance.
So he was on his way to America, back to the place where he was completely
alone. And anonymous.
He wished he could crawl out of his own skin, discard this body that always
seemed to drag him down.
But there are just some prisons a man cannot escape.
He was Nowhere Man-nothing to anyone. He wasn't anyone's son.
**********
The room was spinning as Wesley sat up in his bed, the cold sweat covering
his body soaking through his clothes. He had staggered home after downing
more than his share of rotgut liquor and had collapsed onto his bed, not
bothering to change his clothes or even remove his shoes.
He swallowed down the rising taste of bile in his throat and groaned at the
pounding in his head. His little dip in the pity pool was coming back to
haunt him and he raced to the bathroom and fell to his knees next to the
toilet.
He threw up until there was nothing left and drew the back of his hand across
his mouth. Squeezing his eyelids shut against the stinging tears, he leaned
against the wall behind him. He started to shake, a tremor that started from
his core and traveled slowly to his limbs. The tears flowed unhindered from
his eyes as Wesley completed his decent to the tile and drew his knees up to
his chest, the pain from his shoulder long ago forgotten. Fresh pain from
deep inside his soul took its place.
Wesley had fallen asleep like that, drowning in his own pain. And when he
opened his eyes and found himself lying on his bathroom floor, he simply sat
up, pulled himself up, stripped off his clothes, and stepped into the shower.
He didn't know what time it was, didn't really care. He didn't stop to
analyze what he had done and what it all meant. It had happened and that was
that.
The water was hot and felt good on his skin and the lungfuls of steam he
inhaled seemed to cleanse him. He stood there until his fingertips wrinkled,
then turned off the water and stepped out. Without a single word or thought,
he dried off, put his dirty clothes in the hamper, brushed his teeth, shaved,
and got dressed.
It was only after he had completed his morning ritual and had walked into the
living room, that he acknowledged the noise in his head. The brown leather
satchel lay abandoned on the couch. He stared at it for a long time,
silently cataloguing its contents, a written history of his failure to meet
his father's expectations.
He walked to the couch and grasped the satchel in his fingers, then turned to
walk into the kitchen. Plopping it on the counter, he reached for the teapot
and filled it with water, set it on the gas burner, and turned the burner on.
Sighing, he reached for the satchel and flipped it open quickly, reaching in
and pulling out the collection of papers. Holding them in his left hand, he
turned on another burner with his right. Without hesitation, he took a paper
from the top of the pile and held it to the ring of blue flames, watching in
rapt silence as the corner of the page began to char and curl up. He held
the paper in his fingers until the flames were at his fingertips, then threw
it in the sink.
The process was repeated until the stack in his hand was gone.
He drank the tea until it was gone, sitting at the table and staring at the
sink. Then he stood, walked over to the edge of the sink, and studied the
pile of ashes. Carefully he dipped his finger into the charred remains and
rubbed the gritty mess against his thumb.
"Ashes to ashes," he muttered. Then he turned on the faucet and watched
unblinking as the ashes disappeared down the drain.
**********
Cordelia was at her computer, Gunn was sharpening his axe, and Fred was
fiddling with another one of her inventions when Wesley strolled into the
lobby.
"Well, it's about time you got here, mister," Cordy teased from her desk. "I
mean, geez, one little scratch and you suddenly think you have the luxury to
stay home all day." She giggled.
Wesley smiled. "Yes, well, it did hurt quite a bit, you know." He looked
around. "Where's Angel?"
"Sewer hopping. Someone should tell him that in this day and age, that's not
a very safe practice," Cordy answered.
"He went back to make sure that none of the Vishniak's family came to ID the
bodies," Gunn quipped. "He'll be back in a little while."
"Any new clients stop by today?" he asked hopefully.
Cordelia's smile widened. "There was a gentleman that came in earlier with a
potential case. I told him we'd have to talk to you first. You are the
boss, after all."
Wesley puffed up a little bit. "Yes. I guess I am."
Wesley Wyndham-Price, only son of Elizabeth Wyndham and James Price, was
finally the boss.
The End
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