May 2002
 
    Wesley sat dozing in his large chair.  His office seemed to come in and out of focus periodically.  He felt his head start to loll back, and he decided to give in and take a real nap.  Wesley was just drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep when someone slammed the office door.
    "Wesley, I need to talk to you, and what are you doing on the floor?" Fred turned her head sideways as she looked at the man who was crawling around on the floor, searching for his glasses.
    "Oh, nothing, nothing at all!  I was just a bit startled when you, uh, when you came in," he replied, replacing his glasses on his nose where they belonged.  "Now, is there something I can do for you, Winifred?"
    "Winifred?" echoed the quirky, brown-haired woman.  "You never call me Winifred."
    "Don’t I?" Wesley sat carefully back in his chair.
    "Not since…"
    "Not since Pylea," he finished.
    "It’s only been a year, but it seems like ten," she mused.
    "Yes.  Yes, it does," he said softly, rubbing his left temple.  "Now, what was it you needed to talk to me about?"
    "What?  Oh, that.  I was just wondering about some things."
    "Things like what?"
    "I wanted to ask you…I wanted to know if you ever got, you know, during one of those awful fights you and Angel and Kate and Gunn get into with demons, if you ever got…" Fred leaned forward and spoke in a slight whisper.  "If you ever got scared."
    "Why are you whispering?"
    "Because some men don’t like other people to hear them talking about this kind of thing," said Fred matter-of-factly.
    "Ah.  Of course I’m afraid during battles.  There hasn’t been a moment yet in which I feel anything but staggering terror," he said in a very serious tone.
    Fred’s mouth turned up in a half smile.
    "Were you afraid when you got this?" She lightly touched the angry red scar running from the bridge of Wesley’s nose to the bottom of his chin on the left side.
    "More angry, actually.  I was, of course, horrified that all my reckless demon fighting had most likely led me to a premature death and that my father might’ve been right after all, but I was rather fond of the pair of glasses that were sliced in half by the Greemoar’s scythe." A small smile touched Wesley’s lips, and then it was gone.
    "Well, I’ll tell you what," said Fred with a nervous giggle.  "I’m afraid, too."
    "That’s only natural," Wesley said in a very understanding tone.
    "But it’s not what you think."
    "Then what is it?"
    "The other night, I was sitting in here, in your chair—"
    "Yes, I noticed it had moved slightly to the right—"
    "Wesley!  Shut up and listen to me!"
    "Sorry.  Please, continue."
    "Anyway, I was sitting here.  And I was thinking of all the possible, horrible ways you and the others could get killed, and it made me crazy.  Well, crazier than usual." She giggled.  "I felt like sobbing my eyes out and biting my fingers off all at the same time."
    "Fred, that’s—"
    "Wait a minute, I’m not done." She sat in the chair across from Wesley and leaned close to him.  "Did you know that I’m like that every single time you go off and fight?  I’ve had so many things taken away from me, what with all that time I spent being a slave in Pylea and everything, I can’t bear to think of suddenly not having one of you with me anymore.  You’ve all become closer to me than my own family ever was."
 Wesley smiled and covered one of Fred’s hands with his own.  She looked at their hands, and her eyes were glassy.
    "Wesley…"
    "Yes?" His voice was so low it was barely audible.
    "I—"
    "Wesley!"
    Wesley’s face dissolved into an annoyed frown.
    "Yes, Cordelia, what is it?"
    "Um, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a very lawyery looking person here for you who stinks of Wolfram & Hart," she said, her voice edged with urgency.
    Wesley was out of his chair and in the lobby in a few seconds.  Standing on the landing just inside the large front doors of the hotel was a smartly dressed young black man holding a manila envelope.  Wesley approached the man slowly.
    "Wesley Wyndam-Price?" His voice was deep and rumbling.
    "Yes, that’s right.  And who are you?" Wesley’s brow began to furrow.  He could hear Angel and Gunn’s footsteps as they came into the lobby.  He put a hand out behind him to make sure they stayed back.
    "You’ll know soon enough." The lawyer stepped forward and handed the Englishman the envelope.
    "What’s all this?" Wesley asked as he looked through the many papers in the envelope.  His voice and mannerisms were fearless, unyielding.
    "Mr. Wyndam-Price, you and your organization are being sued by the law firm of Wolfram & Hart," the man said, and his eyes were smiling.  "See you in court."