Wesley paused at the library doors and peered through the small round window. The library, like the hallway, was dark; it was late and the children had long since left for their homes. The schoolmasters did not waste light on a school that they expected to be empty.

He pushed open the doors silently and limped into the library. If anyone was about right now he had no desire to alert them of his presence. No, right now he had one purpose in mind: to locate Rupert Giles' stash of Jameson's Old Irish and end this day in the only way he could that would make it any less of a complete disaster: by drinking a toast to its passing.

The door to Mr Giles' office was slightly ajar, but there was no sign of the man himself. Wesley pushed it open, wincing as it creaked. He mentally chastised Mr Giles for his laxness, then rolled his eyes at himself. He doubted the man cared a whit if his hinges were oiled. Wesley began his search; Mr Giles would probably care for the loss of fine whiskey, but hell, Wesley was supposed to be the one in charge around here. He suffered Mr Giles' presence in order to ease the transition for the Slayers, and to share what resources he had. As far as Wesley was concerned, this fell into the latter category.

Wesley knelt down next to the filing cabinet and bit back a groan. Lord, he could do with a drink. His entire body seemed to be one glorious bruise and his back ached terribly. He knew he should have worn more padding, but the way they'd laughed at the little he had worn had stung his pride. He had been sent to train the Slayers, and he'd damn well train them even if it killed him. From the glee they'd shown in beating him to a pulp earlier, death might yet win out.

He felt behind the cabinet, straining blindly until his hand wrapped around something cool and smooth. He extracted his arm and clutched his prize eagerly. Robbery was no reason not to drink like a civilized man; by the dim light from the window he found a clean teacup. He sat down at Mr Giles'--no, at his desk, hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair, and invested himself in his work.

Once he felt sufficiently buzzed, he raised a fresh cup.

"To..." Wesley trailed off. He sucked on his tongue, considering, then continued. "To the Hellmouth, and all its resultant horrors." He drank deeply, then looked at the remaining liquid thoughtfully. He topped off the teacup and began another toast.

"To the dubious honour of watching two uncontrollable Slayers who have already seen the deaths of three Watchers." This time he drank the full cup before refilling.

"To my father," he slurred. "And to whatever he blackmailed Quentin Travers with. Father," he addressed the air, waving his teacup a little too wildly. Some of the whiskey slopped over the side and wet his hand. "Oops," he said. He drank until the cup was in less danger of spilling, then licked at the drips running down his wrist. No point in wasting the good stuff.

"Father," Wesley repeated, waving the cup a little less wildly this time, "With my shield or upon it!" With a very wobbly flourish he finished off the remains, then slammed the teacup down upon the desk. It slipped from his hand and rolled off the edge. Wesley lunged for it but his fingers were being terribly uncooperative, and the cup shattered on the floor with a loud crash.

"Oh, bugger," Wesley cursed. He grabbed at one of the larger pieces, then dropped it with a hiss as its sharp edge sliced his palm. Wesley brought his hand up and pressed at the wound with his thumb. Blood seeped from the cut and pooled in his hand; he stared at it, entranced by how it appeared almost black in the darkness of the office. The wound didn't seem to hurt very much, probably because he'd just spent the better part of an hour and over half the bottle on making the rest of him stop hurting.

He watched for a while longer until his hand twitched, causing blood to spill down his wrist in almost the same path as the whiskey had earlier. This time Wesley was not inclined to lick it off, however, so he pawed at his jacket pocket with his uninjured hand until he found his kerchief. He wrapped it tight around his hand and clenched his fist around the white cloth; an almost-black stain radiated out from the centre, fading to a deep red at the edges.

Screw civilisation, he thought, and took a swig right from the bottle.

Giles was tired. He was tired of demons and vampires, tired of impetuous teenagers, and particularly tired of a certain arrogant fool. Wyndam-Pryce was going to drive him to drink, if Giles could only find some spirits. So far he'd unearthed bugger-all and three empty bottles that he didn't entirely remember consuming. Which... wasn't the most healthy sign.

But then, he'd had plenty of reasons to drink of late.

Giles sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. No, he'd just have to face facts. He'd managed to drink himself out of house and home, and he lived in a town that was too bloody small and too bloody American to have an off-license open at this hour. He didn't even have a friend he could beg a bottle off of; he was much too wary of spending time with Joyce since what they referred to as "the chocolate incident," and he strongly suspected his neighbours were avoiding him because he was out at all-hours in the company of schoolchildren. No to mention the visits by the police. Horrific murders in one's flat tended to distress the tenants' association.

He missed Jenny. Sometimes the ache in his heart was still so sharp he felt it might turn him to dust. Time had dulled the worst of it, but yet... he'd come home some evenings and smell the faintest whiff of roses. He couldn't sleep in his bed on those nights.

Jenny would have understood. Giles imagined that if they'd ever had the time together that they'd deserved, he would have come home tonight to her smile and warm embrace. She would tease him about being too serious and wrapped up in his musty old books, and they'd sip wine on the couch and while away the hours together. He could have talked to her and she would have listened.

Giles rubbed at the scars on his fingers, and willed away the memories.

He must have a bottle squirreled away somewhere. He'd been distracted lately, things had been stressful, yes, with Faith and... oh yes, now he remembered. There was a bottle of fine Jameson's whiskey in his office. He'd broken the seal just the other day, after refereeing an argument between Wesley and Faith, but he'd only had a shot or two. He'd pop round the library, bring the Jameson's back, and write himself a note to restock tomorrow when the shops were open.

It was an excellent plan, and Giles managed to execute exactly one step of it before it came to a screeching halt. When he finally reached his office and found the Jameson's, it was in the hands of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, rumpled, quite drunk, and bleeding on the linoleum.

"Good lord, Wesley?" Giles said, not quite believing his eyes.

Wesley almost dropped the bottle in shock. It splashed a bit as he grabbed it one-handed and pressed it his chest. He curled furtively around it, as if he was trying to hide it. Considering how much it had cost Giles to have that shipped overseas, Wesley should damn well feel guilty for making off with it.

"What on earth is going on?" Giles asked, putting his hands on his hips and giving Wesley a disapproving frown.

"Nothing that concerns you," Wesley sniffed. He drew his shoulders back indignantly but that made him wobble a bit and he hunched back down again.

"Breaking into my office and drinking my whiskey? I can't see how it wouldn't." Giles strode forwards and tried to pry the bottle from Wesley's hand. Wesley held on tight, and they danced a brief tug-of-war until the smooth glass slipped from under Giles' fingers. The bottle sloshed noisily as Wesley pulled it away.

"Wesley, would you please give me the whiskey?" Giles asked, feeling utterly absurd.

Wesley craned his head forward and peered at him. "And what if I don't?"

Giles shifted on his feet and something bumped against his foot. He looked down and saw one of his teacups shattered quite thoroughly on the floor. One of the larger shards was edged with red, which explained the bloody kerchief currently wrapped around Wesley's left hand. Giles had quite liked that teacup. He brushed the broken bits away with his shoe, located one of the surviving teacups from his set, and set it down on his desk in front of Wesley. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down.

"Then you'd better not have drunk it all," Giles sighed. "Come on then, pour us a round."

Wesley stared at him for a long moment, then obliged.

They sipped their drinks in silence.

"I didn't break in," Wesley said, glaring at him over his whiskey. "It wasn't locked."

"It most certainly was," said Giles. He was certain he'd locked the door, he always locked it. He turned on his desk lamp, which made Wesley wince, and looked around for any signs of disturbance. Any additional signs, rather.

There, the high shelf where he kept his occult books. They had been moved. Giles shook his head and finished off his cup, then set it firmly down in front of Wesley for a refill.

"Willow," he muttered. That girl... this was getting to be a routine with them. Willow would mention something about a spell she was curious about, Giles would kindly tell her no, it was far too dangerous for her to be playing with, and then a day or two later he'd find she'd gone through his books and found it anyway. The worst of it was that she was stronger with magics than he'd been in a long time, and in an emergency he would need her to cast the very spells that he was certain she should not have anything to do with. The entire business made him feel like a terrible hypocrite, but Giles had learned the hard way what consequences a youthful indiscretion with magic could have. And yet, and yet...

"Buffy's friend, the one dating the werewolf?" Wesley asked. "What about her?"

"Nothing that concerns you," said Giles.

"I should think it very well does concern me, if it has anything to do with Buffy. She's my charge now, not yours, if you can bring yourself to remember that."

"Yes, and from what I hear you're doing a bang-up job of it. She told me she found your attempt at a training session rather amusing. Did you just stand there and let her and Faith beat you senseless or did you actually try to duck?"

"Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" Wesley sneered. His grip on the almost-empty bottle tightened so hard Giles wondered if it might crack. "I read your journals. 'The Slayer has shown great reluctance to train with me. She seems to feel that my assistance is unnecessary in this area, and made her point rather forcefully.' Did a bang-up job of it yourself I see."

"At the start, yes," Giles admitted, "but considering I'm still in one piece I'd say it's obvious that I learned a lot faster than you the best way to work with a Slayer."

"Don't tell me how to do my job," Wesley said. He pointed the bottle at Giles. "You're the one who was fired, remember? I'm here because you buggered up the Crucima--Cruciamentum."

"Which is nothing more than an archaic exercise in cruelty, and I told Travers as much," said Giles.

"Travers," said Wesley, "said your judgement is..." He frowned, his brow furrowing as he thought. "Muddled, that was it."

"My judgement is clearer than ever. It's certainly a hell of a lot clearer than the Council's. And if you keep following their methods, the consequences will be nothing short of disastrous."

"I'll do what I think is necessary," Wesley said. He took another swig. Then he stared at the bottle in disappointment, having reached the whiskey's last dregs.

"And just what might that be?"

"What?" asked Wesley, distracted by the empty bottle.

"What might... oh, never mind."

Wesley lightly tossed the bottle onto the desk, then leaned back in his chair. He yawned, then tried to stretch at the same time as he was tilting the chair back, and with a great crash he was on the floor, legs in the air, folded over himself in the most undignified position Giles had seen anyone in years.

Giles couldn't help himself, he started laughing. Wesley tried to sit up and his legs became tangled in the chair, and that made Giles laugh even harder. His eyes teared up and he had to gasp to catch his breath. Wesley extricated himself from the furniture and sat up. Giles tried to hold back, but he just couldn't help himself. The affronted look on Wesley's face was just so bloody classic.

"Oh, very mature," said Wesley, stumbling awkwardly to his feet. "Laugh. See if I care. You're just like all the rest," he said, swaying. "No respect for duty. No--hic--understanding of the importance of all this..." he waved his arms wildly, gesturing at their surroundings. "Importance!"

Giles pushed his glasses up to his forehead and wiped the tears from his eyes. He tried to stop giggling, because it really wasn't helping the situation at all. Then he saw Wesley waggling his finger at him and that started him off again.

"We're here to do a... to do a job," Wesley continued. He looked at his finger and his eyes crossed for a moment. Then he shook his head and looked into Giles' eyes. "I'm not bloody evil and I don't know why everyone keeps asking me that. And I'm not going to quit just because you've bungled things up."

That stopped Giles' giggling. "Now just a moment--"

"Set the Slayers against the Council! Cooperated, consorted with vampires! Fire you? I'm surprised they didn't cut your head off. And I've no intention of letting this... this farce continue. I'm going to--whoops--" Wesley wobbled too far and fell against the desk. At this rate he was going to injure himself more than Buffy and Faith had already done.

"I think you've had enough for tonight," said Giles, standing up and adjusting his glasses.

"Haven't had enough," slurred Wesley. He slapped his hand on the desk. "More alcohol is called for!"

"I'm fresh out," Giles said, dryly.

For some reason this struck Wesley as hilarious. He giggled in the time-honoured way of all who are utterly soused. Giles snorted.

Wesley leaned in conspiratorially. "I drank all your whiskey," he whispered.

"Yes, I know," Giles said. He could certainly smell it on Wesley's breath.

"I don't normally steal," Wesley admitted. He slapped a hand on Giles' shoulder in what was probably intended as a friendly manner, if he'd actually had the coordination to pull it off. "You have excellent taste."

"Thank you." Speaking of dubious honours...

"Are you really all out?"

"I'm afraid so," Giles said. "Last bottle."

"Oh, that's very sad," said Wesley, looking forlornly at the empty Jameson's.

"I think I'd better get you home," said Giles. He took Wesley's arm and pulled it across his shoulder, grunting as he took Wesley's weight. "Come on."

"We're going to England?" Wesley asked, looking around them as Giles half-dragged him out of the library.

"No, we're going to my car," said Giles. And in the state Wesley was in, Giles had better take him to his own flat. If he left Wesley alone, he'd probably choke to death on his own vomit. As much as Giles might not mourn the loss, he did feel the tiniest amount of responsibility for Wesley, at least while he remained in Sunnydale.

"Do you miss it?" asked Wesley.

"My car?"

"No," said Wesley, shaking his head. "England."

"Ah." Giles considered the question. "Well, perhaps, yes. At times."

"I've only been away from it for..." Wesley's face screwed up in concentration as he counted how long it had been. "Almost two weeks."

"And do you miss it?" Giles asked, guiding Wesley through the doors to the car park.

"Yes," Wesley said. "And no."

"Which is it?"

"I miss the buildings," Wesley sighed. "And the weather. And also, the off-licenses."

Giles chuckled at that. They reached the car and he leaned Wesley against it while he opened the passenger door.

"And the curries. They have no concept of a proper curry at all, Americans."

Giles hadn't thought about curries in years, for just that reason. The memory of them made his stomach rumble. He helped Wesley sit and buckled him in, closed the door and got in on the driver's side. He started the car.

"The pubs, too. There was this great pub near the Academy..."

"The Cat and Pipes?"

"The very same. We used to go out on weekends and have a bloody good time! They had the best ale, and we'd get roaring drunk, and sing a good old song. 'Let us sing our own treasures, Old England's good cheer, to the profits and pleasures of stout British beer!'"

Giles bit his lip and tried not to laugh, because if he started off again he'd probably crash his car. Next to him, Wesley was waving his fist in the air as he sang.

"Beer-drinking Britons can never be beat! Oh, I am so wrapped, and thoroughly lapped of jolly good ale and old!"

"You certainly are," Giles said under his breath.

"I don't miss the Academy, though," Wesley said, halting his singing abruptly. "I was Head Boy, you know."

Somehow this last bit of information completely failed to surprise Giles. "Why didn't you like it? I'd've thought you'd be right at home."

"I don't miss home, either," Wesley said, staring out the window. Then he went quiet, and Giles assumed that they had reached the morose drunk stage of the proceedings.

Wesley quietly watched the scenery for the remainder of the drive. The silence was a blessed relief. Giles wondered what had brought it on, though.

When they arrived, Giles helped Wesley out of the car. They reached the steps down to the courtyard and took them carefully. Giles sat Wesley down on the edge of the fountain and pulled out his keys. He was feeling a bit bleary-eyed himself, so it took him a moment to find the right one.

He hauled Wesley inside and sat him down on the couch. Wesley looked up at him, his gaze oddly intense.

"I heard all about you," Wesley said. "Rupert Giles. You were famous."

"Infamous, you mean." Giles was quite aware of how the Council saw him, both now and before his assignment to Buffy. He'd wondered sometimes how a black sheep like himself got the plum assignment of Active Watcher. Then again, considering how long Merrick had lasted, perhaps they thought he wouldn't survive long enough to enjoy it.

Which rather raised the question of why Wesley was given the assignment.

"No no," Wesley said, leaning towards him. "You were a hero. Turned from the Council to practice dark magics! Of course, coming back rather ruined the story. I disapproved, naturally."

"Naturally," agreed Giles.

"Father used to say you were a classic example of everything that was wrong with your generation."

"Did he, now?"

"Oh yes, he disapproved, naturally."

"Your father, would that be Roger Wyndam-Pryce?"

"Yes," Wesley said. "Have you met him?"

Oh yes, Giles had met Roger Wyndam-Pryce. The man was notorious for his strict traditionalism and sneering condescension. Roger had been passed over for the position of Active Watcher and he'd been holding on to the grudge for decades. He'd been one of the most vocal opponents to Giles' return to the Council fold.

Giles remembered hearing of Roger's son. At the time he'd felt a sort of commiserative pity for the poor sod. Another Council boy, born and bred and force-fed Council rubbish. And now here he was, all grown up into a Council man.

Pity, really.

"We've met," Giles said, flatly.

"Hmm," said Wesley. Then he leaned in further, and would have fallen off the couch if Giles hadn't put out a hand to steady him.

"Careful now," said Giles.

"Can you..." Wesley said, then lowered his voice to a hush. "Can you keep a secret?"

He looked so serious that Giles couldn't help but nod.

"I was looking forward to working with you," Wesley said, eyes wide and sombre.

"Oh really?" Giles whispered, then felt silly for whispering.

Wesley nodded. "Father said you were a bad influence on the Slayers. He said he couldn't understand how you'd avoided getting them killed for so long, except for that bit with Kendra but he'd met Drusilla once so that was understandable, except he could have done a better job of Active Watcher if the Council had ever pulled their heads out of their arses and now he couldn't so I'd better not bollocks it up." This last he said in one long breath, hurriedly as if someone might overheard.

"Did he now?"

"You mustn't let him know I told you. You promised not to tell!" Wesley was getting agitated now.

Giles held up a hand. "It's all right, I won't tell anyone." Wesley continued to look worried. "I swear it."

"You hate me," pouted Wesley.

Giles felt dizzy trying to keep up with Wesley's mood swings. "I don't hate you," he said, trying to calm Wesley down.

"You do. I can tell when someone hates me! You're going to call Father and tell him I've bollixed it up."

"Oh for God's sake," muttered Giles. "Wesley, I am not going to call your father. And even if I did, you just said he doesn't like me. Why should he believe a word I say?"

"He'll believe you," Wesley said, drawing in on himself. "You think I've bollixed it up."

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. He drew upon patience cultivated with years of working with Buffy. "I don't think that."

"You said so. Said I was disastrous."

"I said..." Giles sighed. "I said that blindly following the Council's teachings was a disaster waiting to happen."

Wesley pouted at him.

"Wesley, you don't have to do things their way, you know. There are better options, things that actually work, not just in theory."

Wesley's pout turned into a confused frown. "I don't understand."

"Yes, well that's the problem, isn't it? Look, I'm sorry about... we got off on the wrong foot. I was... angry, with the Council, and I took it out on you. We all did, and... and you didn't deserve that."

"Really?" Wesley asked. He looked so hopeful.

"Really. I hope we can work together. For the sake of the Slayers?"

"Really?" Wesley asked again. Now he was smiling, oh Lord.

"Really," Giles repeated.

Wesley grinned soppily. Giles wondered if he'd remember any of this in the morning.

"I'd like that," Wesley said, and then he actually blushed.

Heaven help him, Giles thought it was cute. And the worst of it all was that he found this behaviour endearing. He must be out of his mind.

Wesley yawned and rubbed his face with his hand. Before Giles could suggest he get some rest, Wesley lay down on his side. He nuzzled the couch cushion sleepily and settled in, pulling his legs up. His shoes were marking up the couch, so Giles carefully pulled them off of Wesley's feet. Wesley shivered a bit and curled into himself.

"Wesley?" Giles asked.

Wesley mumbled something, but it was faint and probably gibberish. He yawned again, wide and long, and then smacked his lips. He closed his eyes, and within moments, he was asleep.

Giles shook his head in amusement and grabbed the blanket he kept by the couch. He spread it over Wesley, tucking it around him. Wesley still wore his glasses, and they sat awkwardly on his face from being pressed into the cushion. Giles reached down and gently removed them from Wesley's face, then folded them and placed them where Wesley could easily reach them come morning.

What a day, Giles thought, now yawning himself. He turned off the lights and made his way up the stairs. He changed, slid into bed and closed his eyes. He lay in the darkness and listened to the soft noises from below: Wesley's quiet, even breathing, punctuated by the odd murmur or the rustle of the blanket as Wesley stirred in his sleep. The sounds soothed Giles, and soon he drifted off to a deep and peaceful slumber.

Wesley's first conscious thought was that some horrid little demon had crawled into his mouth and died sometime during the night. His second thought was that it must have stopped to suck out his brains before its grand departure from this plane, because he had one devil of a headache. He grimaced, scraping his tongue against his teeth as if to scour away the taste, and cracked one eye open just the smallest of fractions.

There was a window in front of him, and it had curtains. Blissfully drawn, heavy curtains. Wesley closed his eye and moaned in relief. The concept of light was, at the moment, a painful one, and he was indescribably glad to avoid it.

He rubbed his face against... a pillow? No, it was a sofa cushion. He wasn't in his hotel room, then. He tried to remember how he could have ended up... wherever this was, but the last thing he recalled was sneaking into Giles' office and laying the groundwork for the substantial hangover he now suffered under. He reached up to rub his face and realized he was covered with a blanket. And he wasn't wearing his glasses.

He opened both eyes with a squint and peered blearily at his surroundings. Everything was fuzzy and unfamiliar, and he was starting to feel anxious. He sat up too fast and instantly regretted it. There was a thin shape on the coffee table in front of him and he groped at it, touching the familiar edge of his glasses. He put them on.

He still had no idea where he was, but at least he could see the where that he didn't know he was in. Well, the where he knew he was in but didn't know where it was. The where where he... dear God, he could murder a cup of tea right now.

"Finally up, I see."

Wesley started and almost tumbled off the sofa. His heart was racing as he turned to see Mr Giles standing behind him. Wesley opened his mouth to berate the man for sneaking up on him like that, and then realized that he must look utterly dishevelled and could just hear his father's snide remarks about how completely unprofessional he was, and that served as a better wake-up than any hot drink. He immediately tried to straighten himself out, but short of laying himself beneath an iron nothing was going to help the state he was in. Still, appearance was nine-tenths in one's bearing, so he quickly stood and straightened his back as if that would smooth the giant wrinkle that was his suit. He put on a confident expression that he completely failed to feel, took a deep breath and replied:

"Yes. I am. Up, that is. Of course," he chuckled, nervously, "I must be, or else I wouldn't be standing, eh? Um."

Mr Giles continued to stare placidly at him. Damn the man for being so unflappable!

"I expect you'd like something to drink?" said Mr Giles. He held out a cup and saucer.

Wesley gaped at it for a moment, then took it. "That's... thank you," he stammered. Since when did Mr Giles offer him tea? He sniffed lightly at the rising steam. English Breakfast, with just a hit of sweetness. He sipped it greedily, the hot liquid shocking his body awake. As he drained the cup, his brain kicked into gear.

"Is this... how did I get here?" he asked, frowning at his empty teacup. The empty teacup reminded him of something. He frowned, trying to remember what. Then he realized his hand was bandaged. He had the faintest memory of cutting it on something, but apart from that, it was all a blank.

Mr Giles gently took the cup and saucer from his hands and carried them to the kitchen. He rinsed the cup under the tap and said, conversationally, "You weren't in any condition to be left alone. I thought it would be best if you took my couch. Feeling any better?"

"Yes," Wesley replied, automatically. Yes, if one didn't include the pounding headache and dear God, he was sore. Perhaps instead of getting drunk after training the Slayers he should have gone to a massage parlour, or at least done some stretches. He had to go, he had to change and he had to hide in his bathroom until he could control his embarrassment at having been hauled bodily to Rupert Giles' flat in such a drunken state that he couldn't recall the trip over.

"Oh, your car's still at the school," said Mr Giles, putting away the dishes. "Would you mind waiting a bit before I drive you?"

"Not at all," Wesley said, heart sinking. He sat back down on the couch, fists clenched. Perhaps he could walk back to the school. Except he hadn't yet learned the roads here, and though he'd seen Mr Giles' home address in the papers the Council had provided for him, he'd never actually been here before and had no idea where it was in relation to anything else. And if that was not enough, his shoes had gone missing. He stared at his stocking feet with irritation, as if this were all their fault.

Damn it all.

Wesley seethed silently as Mr Giles puttered about the flat. Tidying or some such, Wesley didn't really care to ask. This whole situation was simply intolerable. The man didn't have to be so... so cheery. He was--yes, he was actually humming.

Finally Wesley could bear it no more. He stood and searched for his shoes.

"Wesley," said Mr Giles.

Wesley didn't answer him, just looked under the ornate chair next to the door. Where the bloody hell were his shoes?

"Wesley," repeated Mr Giles. He tapped Wesley on the shoulder, and Wesley shot upright.

"Yes, what is it?" Wesley asked, brusquely.

"I thought you might like to stay for lunch. Or do you have somewhere to be at eleven on a Saturday morning?"

Wesley's brow furrowed as he stared at Mr Giles. Had he actually just invited him to lunch? In the short time he'd been in Sunnydale, Mr Giles had done nothing but undermine his authority, set the Slayers against him, and generally insult him. Then one night Wesley makes off with his bottle of whiskey and suddenly it's all tea and sandwiches?

He hadn't thought Faith had hit him that hard. Or perhaps this was one of those little Hellmouth quirks and Mr Giles was possessed with the spirit of someone very polite. He remembered reading something about alternate dimensions in Mr Giles' journals, that was a possibility.

Wesley realized that he'd been standing there gawping, and Mr Giles was looking amused. Wesley closed his mouth with a snap and harrumphed. If Mr Giles was laughing at him then obviously everything was quite normal.

"Lunch would be fine, thank you," Wesley sniffed.

"Excellent," said Mr Giles. "Make yourself at home, I won't be a moment." And with that he left to busy himself in the kitchen.

Wesley stood there feeling he had somehow lost control of the situation, which was odd because he'd never really had it. He gave up on his shoes and shuffled over to the kitchen counter to sit.

Mr Giles was bending over, searching for some wayward item of food. Wesley noticed for the first time since he'd woken up that Mr Giles was dressed informally. It was the first time Wesley had seen him outside of shirtsleeves and slacks. Mr Giles' white t-shirt stretched across his back as he moved, outlining his broad back and shoulders. Wesley suddenly realized that he was staring, and dropped his gaze. That left him staring somewhere even more inappropriate, and out of desperation he turned his eyes to the ceiling and concentrated on trying to recall anything about what had happened last night.

After a minute or so, the noises from the kitchen stopped. Wesley looked down and saw Mr Giles looking up in the direction Wesley had been staring, then down at Wesley himself.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Mr Giles.

"Um, ah, no, nothing," Wesley stammered, feeling as if he'd just been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin but not entirely certain why. "Nothing's wrong."

He'd done something last night, something horrible, he was sure of it. It was the only explanation. Did something, said something. Wesley felt a growing horror in his stomach. He should have known better. He should have gone back to the hotel and gotten stinking drunk where he could make a fool of himself without audience participation.

"Sandwich?" asked Mr Giles. He slid a plate in front of Wesley.

"Yes, thank you," Wesley said. He wasn't sure if he would be able to actually consume any of it, but at least it was a distraction. He picked at the crust and tried to find his appetite.

"So I was thinking," Mr Giles said, "that you owe me a bottle."

Wesley gritted his teeth. This was how it was going to be, was it? Blackmailed into relinquishing his rightful control over the Slayers? He wouldn't stand for it.

"Perhaps if there's nothing pressing, you might like to come by tonight? There's actually a fairly decent pub not too far from here, one of those ex-pat jobs, and--"

"What?"

"You did say you were homesick," said Mr Giles, "and you can buy a few rounds to make up for pinching my Jameson's."

Wesley felt ill. "I never said I was homesick."

"Of course you did." Mr Giles chuckled. "I thought you might not remember. You were utterly smashed. Still, you managed to carry a tune."

Oh, God. "I... sang?" Wesley asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"To the profits and pleasures of stout British beer," Mr Giles half-sang, raising his glass of water and then taking a sip.

Now Wesley recognized what Mr Giles had been humming earlier: drinking songs that Wesley must have been completely out of his head to have sung last night. It was worse than he'd feared.

He took a small bite of his sandwich and chewed without tasting it.

"If it's all right with you," said Wesley, putting down the sandwich and avoiding Mr Giles' eyes, "I'd prefer it if you could drive me back now."

"Are you sure you're all right?" Mr Giles asked. For a moment Wesley allowed himself to believe the concern was genuine. It was a pleasant kind of foolishness.

"Not at all," Wesley said. "I'm simply not very hungry. And I... I do have important Council business to attend to," he lied. Foolishness was not fit behaviour for a Watcher. Wesley stood and mustered the proper formality.

"I'll need my shoes," he said.

Mr Giles pointed towards the end of the sofa where he'd hung Wesley's coat jacket. Wesley walked over and picked it up, and positioned neatly below were his shoes.

"Oh," Wesley said. He stared at them for a moment before he put them on.

They were halfway to the school and Wesley hadn't spoken a word since they'd left. He was unusually quiet, and possibly a bit sullen. It reminded Giles oddly of Xander's moods, when the boy was sulking about something. Giles had thought Wesley had finally unwound last night. For whatever reason, Wesley had wound back up tight as before.

Giles decided to try a fresh tack.

"Will you be working with Buffy and Faith today?" he asked.

"I don't see that it's any of your business," replied Wesley. His lips were drawn into a tight line. Giles sighed internally and counted to ten. Rome wasn't built in a day, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce wouldn't stop being an insufferable prat after a few drinks and a chutney-cheddar sandwich.

"Well, I just thought I might be able to help. We did agree to share our resources last night, after all."

"We did?" Wesley's frown deepened as he tried to dredge up whatever memories the whiskey hadn't wiped from his mind. "I don't..." he trailed off. Giles watched as a variety of emotions flitted across his face.

Come on, Giles thought. Just one tiny step, that's all I ask.

"I suppose it would be... permissible for you to work in an advisory capacity," Wesley said. "If you can manage to stop challenging my authority with the Slayers."

Giles gritted his teeth and decided to take this as a small victory. "Of course. As I said last night, they're what's important."

"Indeed they are!" said Wesley, working himself up. "One girl in all the world--two in this instance--to fight the forces of darkness. Their duty comes before all else."

"They do, yes." Giles couldn't help but correct him on that. But then, that was one area of Council teaching that it was vital he put a stop to. Duty was important, and even vital, but a Slayer's life had to be more than that for her to succeed. She needed to care about the people around her, for that caring was her greatest strength. He'd learned so much from Buffy. If he could get Wesley to recognize even a fraction of that, he might be able to stop him from causing a lot of damage.

But Wesley wasn't really listening. "Two Slayers. You know, it's really quite remarkable. Of course, there was at least one other recorded incidence of two slayers, but that was quite a different situation."

"I'm sure there wasn't," said Giles. "You must be mistaken."

"I certainly am not! I remember it clearly. It was in the Watcher journals from around, oh, 1132? Identical twin sisters, in some tiny Russian village off the coast of the Black Sea."

"Why did no one mention this before, when Kendra was Called? Their Watcher's entries would have proven invaluable."

"Ah," said Wesley, waving his finger knowingly, "because there weren't any."

"You just said there were."

"There was a mention of them, yes, but they had no Watcher. It's quite tragic, actually; they appear to have shared some link after their birth, and that somehow split the power between them. This was all well and good while they were together, but then one of the sisters was separated from the other and lured into a trap. They'd only been active for a few months, each was at half the power she ought to have been, and with no training they were dangerously vulnerable. The one was killed, and her sister never recovered. She was mortally wounded just weeks later, and lived barely long enough to tell her story to the Watcher who had spent the entire time they were active trying to track them down."

"How terrible," said Giles, shaking his head at the tale. "Though... I do think even that tells us quite a lot."

"What, that every Slayer needs a Watcher?" Wesley chuckled. "I think the Council already knew that."

"No," said Giles, "that they were more powerful together than apart."

"If they'd simply been trained--"

"Then what? The Council would have tried to train them as full Slayers. If--when they rebelled, their Watcher would have no doubt have separated them to control them. The sisters would still have died apart."

"I hardly think that's likely. A Slayer is most effective when she has no distractions."

"The sister who wasn't killed was still a Slayer. When she lost that connection, all that did was hasten her own death."

"Exactly," said Wesley. "Her dependence on her sister was her greatest weakness."

"No, it was her greatest strength. Wesley, you have to see sense here. How do you think Buffy survived this long? It certainly wasn't what little Council training I tried to impart to her when I first came to Sunnydale. I doubt Merrick managed much with the time he had. Believe me, I fought the idea for a long time and I'm still not completely comfortable with it."

"I know what you're going to say," said Wesley, holding up a hand, "but it's wrong. It must be wrong. The Council has been doing this for thousands of years. These are rules that pre-date recorded history."

"Just because they're old... it doesn't mean they're right," sighed Giles. He pushed his glasses up, then waved his hand at their idyllic suburban surroundings. "Appearances aside, these are the front lines. We have to adapt, and if that means going against the Council..."

Even as Giles spoke the words, he knew he'd pushed too much, too soon. Wesley's expression went from "openly curious" to "complete refusal to listen" in a matter of seconds.

"I see why Travers fired you," Wesley said, flatly. "Fomenting a little rebellion, are we?"

Giles said nothing. It was true enough, even if Wesley refused to understand why.

"Well, I'll have none of it. We swore an oath to defend the world and guide the Slayer, and that's what I am going to do, whether all of you like it or not."

"Until someone threatens your kneecaps, of course, and then it's back to the begging." Giles couldn't resist the jab. Wesley looked perfectly hurt, and then ashamed. Giles wasn't sure if that made him feel guilty or not.

"That... that won't be a problem," Wesley stammered.

"Oh, that's good to hear. I'd hate for Angel to have to rescue you. Again."

Wesley wilted further. The satisfaction Giles had felt at getting some of his own back now soured into regret. It was with relief that he turned the Citroën into the school's car park and pulled up alongside Wesley's hired sedan.

They sat in silence for a moment before Wesley released his seat belt. He reached for the handle and then paused.

"I swore an oath," Wesley said. "And I will fulfil it as I have been trained to." Giles looked into Wesley's eyes and was taken aback by their intensity. He watched as Wesley exited the Citroën, then climbed into his own car.

Well, he thought as Wesley drove away, that went smashingly.

The first thing Wesley did upon arriving at his hotel room was to go soak his head.

The plumbing was decent, but the water pressure was too low for his tastes. Damned Californian drought limitations. Back home they couldn't get rid of the stuff fast enough, so showers were like standing under a heated waterfall, as opposed to the garden sprinkler method here.

After the shower he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The fog covered its upper-half, so all he could see of himself was from the neck-down. He had a wide bruise along his side, and several on each arm. Slayer strength was a formidable weapon.

He downed several aspirin and two glasses of water, then turned off all the lights and lay in bed with a damp towel over his hips. It almost made him feel semi-human again.

Wesley wasn't angry with the Slayers for the pain they'd inflicted on him. After all, he'd told them not to hold back; he'd avoided bruising his pride and instead the rest of himself took the damage. That was as it should be. Mr Giles was right; he had utterly bungled the Balthazar incident. The slightest threat and he'd folded like a house of cards. Pathetic. If he'd still been in England, his father would have... well, it wouldn't have been pretty, but it would have been no more than he deserved.

He hadn't been entirely honest in his communications with the Council. Mere days in Sunnydale and already he was lying to suit himself. He wondered just how much Mr Giles had left out of his reports; it was probably more than he'd left in. And now Wesley was doing the same. Not two weeks on the job and already his performance was inadequate, and top of that he had the audacity to falsify reports.

Wesley normally took his punishment like a good boy. Or rather, like the pathetic failure that his father constantly lamented him to be. A pale successor to the Wyndam-Pryce name, barely fit for research and translations, but as the only son he had to suffice. And Wesley tried. Everything his father asked of him, up to and including taking the position of Active Watcher, he strove to achieve with excellence. Not that anything he did ever pleased his father, but he couldn't help trying out of some vain hope that someday he would gain a scrap of approval.

It hadn't been the threat of pain that had frightened him in that warehouse. It was the horror of Balthazar himself, surrounded by Eliminati, in circumstances that were nowhere near controlled. He'd grown up knowing about demons, but 16th century engravings with lurid accounts were nothing at all compared to living the encounter. Being attacked in his workplace, supposedly a place of safety, bound and abducted by demonic killers who would sooner drain him dry than look at him, then confronted with that hideous, horrible thing in the tub. Even now, with Balthazar well and truly dead, the memory made him shudder.

Wesley knew the stories. He hadn't been worried about being killed so much as being kept alive. Or worse, every Watcher's worse nightmare: being turned into a soulless mockery of himself. All the stories and drawings in the world hadn't prepared him for the reality of it. In fact, they'd made it worse, because he'd known exactly what Balthazar and his minions could do to a victim.

He broken under their threats, but he couldn't let that happen again. This danger was part of his world now, as the Active Watcher. The position was a tremendous honour and he had to live up to it. He more than suspected that it was his father's politicking that had got him the job, though his marks at the Academy had been faultless. On paper, he looked like the perfect man for the job, just the way his father wanted. Except that he'd had no field experience to speak of. He'd barely stepped foot outside the library.

And here was Rupert Giles telling him that the learning he had dedicated his life to was more than useless. That the very teachings that had been ingrained into him were actually a danger to the Slayers! As if thousands of years of tradition would be overthrown because one man had decided they weren't practical for his stubborn, contrary Slayer.

Wesley wasn't stupid. He knew that Buffy was one of the most successful Slayers in recorded history. He knew that she'd prevailed against dire threats as a result of her unconventional methods. He'd read all the reports, all the files, and even Mr Giles' journals. However incomplete a picture they painted, the evidence was undeniable.

Yet it went against everything he believed. Everything he'd been taught. What use could he be if everything he knew was wrong? The prospect was as horrific as Balthazar himself. Wesley knew that his only worth lay in his knowledge, and to have that taken away... that was more terrible than being turned.

Wesley curled onto his side, gripping his pillow.

Mr Giles had to be wrong. The Council's teachings were valuable, without them no Slayer could survive more than a few months. Just like the Russian twins, without rules and instructions and history they would be lost.

Wesley flung the damp towel off the bed and tugged the covers around himself. Maybe he could put off dealing with the world for a bit longer. He was fairly sure that whatever fresh miseries awaited him, they would still be there tomorrow.

"Absolutely not," Wesley said, crossing his arms.

"Giles!" pouted Buffy. "Are you sure he's not evil?"

Giles shrugged. Wesley had been on a roll for the past few days, and Giles had decided to just sit back and enjoy the fireworks. It wasn't like Buffy was actually going to listen to anything Wesley said at this point.

"You have a sacred duty, Buffy. You cannot squander your time on such trivialities."

"Shopping is not trivial. Shopping is essential to life. I can't go to the Bronze in last year's shoes."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be going to the Bronze in the first place," said Wesley.

"Oh, that's it. Giles, gimme a stake."

"You're not carrying one with you at all times?" Wesley's disbelief was almost comical. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

Buffy just rolled her eyes. "I keep them in my purse. With my tampons."

Giles snickered behind his hand. Wesley was gaping like a fish, and was probably going to burst something if he kept this up. The library doors swung open and Faith strode in. On the way she reached over and pinched Wesley's ass. Wesley squeaked, then rounded on Faith.

"How dare you!" he fumed. "Do you have no respect for your superiors?"

"Nope," Faith said, popping her gum and jumping up to sit on a bookcase. She swung her legs, hitting the shelves with her heels. Giles resisted the temptation to tell her to stop denting the furniture; he wasn't about to make himself the second target in the room.

"Hey B, what say we ditch the British Invasion and get in a little penetration action?" Faith made a staking motion with a flair that Giles could only describe as lewd.

Wesley was obviously having trouble not rising to the bait. Giles thought he could see a vein throb in the man's forehead.

"You want to go on patrol? Fine. You will both go on patrol and you will both report back with exact details about times, places, and any, I repeat, any individuals you encounter."

Faith shrugged and in one fluid motion jumped to her feet, grabbed Buffy's arm, and pulled her towards the exit. As she passed Wesley, she tossed out, "Who said anything about patrol?" and both Slayers left the room laughing.

Wesley remained where he was, back straight, fists clenched, and teeth grinding, as the doors swung shut behind him.

"You know they're only doing this because you're pushing too hard," said Giles, hoping to talk Wesley down before he gave himself an aneurism.

"If I don't push they'll end up dead," spat Wesley. "Or someone else will. They can't just... They have no understanding... Slaying is not just the first priority, it is the only priority. How can they go out partying when lives are at risk?"

"Lives are always in danger," said Giles. "That's the Hellmouth, that's life. If they did nothing but patrol and slay they'd be dead in weeks. Exhaustion would make them easy prey for any vampire, and I know despite everything else you don't want that."

"Of course I don't. But to allow such irresponsible behaviour! Is this what you've been leaving out of your reports? Shopping trips and nightly parties? It's a wonder that the Council didn't fire you sooner."

"The Council has no idea what we face on a daily basis. If they did they would understand the importance of allowing Buffy, allowing Faith to have whatever happiness they can find."

"Happiness is the last thing that should matter to a Slayer."

"If I thought you understood even half the Council nonsense you keep spouting, I'd stake you myself," growled Giles.

Wesley glared back at him. "Happiness is the last thing that matters to the Council. What they care about is saving lives. It's our responsibility to make that happen."

"It's a testament to your complete ignorance that you can even say those words. You come down here in the middle of a war zone with no understanding of life and think you can throw some obsolete rulebook at it and that will make things better. Just because your father was a traditionalist fool doesn't mean you have any right to subject my Slayers to whatever he beat into your thick skull."

"Your Slayers? Yours?!" Wesley sputtered. "I'm not the one who was fired. I'm not the one who let the Slayer get so out of control she's dating a vampire. One girl in all the world to love the vampires, is that how you saw it?"

Giles clenched his fists. "Buffy made her choice. Angel is... different."

"You can say that after he tortured you? I know all about Angelus, the Scourge of Europe. I know what he did to you."

"You know nothing."

"I know enough. Travers was right, you are too close. Your judgement is so clouded I'm amazed you haven't gone blind. I may not have your decades of experience, but I can damn well see the truth about what's going on here." Wesley turned away and picked up his briefcase. "Someone has to take responsibility."

Giles watched him go. Whatever Wesley was about to do, Giles was certain it would be monumentally stupid. Let him get himself killed, the berk. Then maybe the Council would leave them alone.

Wesley parked his car at the edge of the cemetery. He turned off the engine and sat and watched the sun set and the evening sky darken to black. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. He gripped his stake nervously.

The moon was barely more than a pale sliver, and even the stars seemed dim. Wesley considered bringing a flashlight, but that would only alert others to his presence. Stealth was essential. His only advantages against a supernatural adversary would be the element of surprise and his own tactical abilities. In his more honest moments, he had to admit that the latter weren't much of an advantage.

He swallowed, mouth dry as bone.

Wesley had faced vampires before. He remembered the incident as clearly as if it were yesterday. A group of frightened Academy students locked in a building with two vampires. Not all of them had survived, but then that was the point of the exercise: to weed out the weak. Wesley had made it out; that meant he was strong, didn't it?

Didn't it?

He had actually been directly involved in the destruction of one of the vampires. He'd been the bait while a tough lad named Colin had struck the killing blow. Wesley'd had nightmares for weeks after, of gleaming teeth and bloodied throats. His father had expressed his deep disappointment that he hadn't slain both vampires with his own hands. Wesley had bowed his head in shame and accepted his punishment for failing to live up to the Wyndam-Pryce name yet again. Sometimes the thin scars on his back still itched.

This time it would be different. This time he would make the kill, alone. He would prove that the Council's way was the right way. And if he didn't, well, what was another failure in a lifetime of failures? Watchers were ultimately just as replaceable as the Slayer; one falls and another is called to take up the fight.

It wasn't like anyone would care, anyway.

Wesley had waited long enough. He exited the car. The rough edges of his stake bit into his palm, but at least that prevented it from slipping out of his hand, slick with nervous sweat. For a moment he regretted his choice to use the stake over the crossbow, but this was tradition.

He crept out into the graveyard. His steps were halting as he forced himself to move forward. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to run, to flee to the safety of his hotel room, but he clamped down tight on the urge. In his head he ran through the section of the Handbook that covered the staking of the vampire. A sharp, forceful blow was necessary, with the motion coming from the full arm and not the elbow. He knew he would only have one shot at this, so he'd better make it count.

The Handbook had said the best time to catch a vampire was upon first rising. Wesley had checked the obituary section of the Sunnydale Press that day and knew where the fresh graves were. One Douglas Peterson had died of "advanced anaemia" and been buried that afternoon, and Wesley would be ready for him when the former Mr Peterson clawed his way out of the grave.

Wesley weaved his way through the headstones until he found his destination. Now all he had to do was wait.

For just a moment, he let himself feel just how utterly terrified he was. Then he shoved that part of himself as far down as he could manage and stood at the foot of the grave, fresh dirt yet undisturbed, stake poised to strike.

The minutes ticked by. Wesley felt a drop of cold sweat run down his neck, and he tugged at his collar with his free hand. He was still wearing his suit from earlier in the day; he hadn't seen any reason to change his attire. Now he realized how inappropriate it was for such activities. His necktie alone was a life-threatening hazard, should his adversary decide to use it for a handhold. His suit was tailored to fit him well, but even the motion of staking made his jacket feel tight across the shoulders, restricting his range of motion. His dress shoes could slip easily on the grass.

He wished Douglas Peterson would just rise already. Were all fledgling vampires this lazy? Wesley stomped on the ground in frustration, as if to wake up what lay below. The moment after he'd done it his stomach clenched in horror. Stupid, stupid fool! His own impatience would be his downfall because he'd lost his only advantage and Peterson would know he was waiting for him. Oh God, what was he doing out here? He wasn't a Slayer, he was just a normal, weak human being with what seemed to be a suicide wish because standing here waiting to fight a vampire was so insanely stupid it took his breath away. If he had any sense at all he would go home right now and put this nonsense right out of his head.

Slow, deep breaths. Deep breaths, and the panic would fade. He was here to do a job, and he would do it, and that was final. Wesley closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing exercises. In, out, hold; in, out, hold; in, out--

"Hey there."

Wesley's eyes shot open. He let out a strangled noise. Douglas Peterson was standing up in front of him and brushing dirt off his funeral suit.

"I didn't expect anyone to still be hanging around this long after the funeral," said the vampire. "Do I know you?"

Wesley made another strangled noise.

"Oh wait, don't tell me, I know it." Peterson snapped his fingers. "High school, right? What was it, David?"

Wesley shook his head. His hands started to tremble as Peterson walked towards him.

"Not David. Chris?"

Wesley backed away as Peterson drew closer. He raised his stake. Peterson's eyes flicked towards it, then back to Wesley's face.

"Wait, wait, I remember now." With unbelievable speed, Peterson's knocked the stake from Wesley's trembling hand and grabbed him by the throat.

Wesley let out a choked sound and scrabbled at Peterson's fingers. They were like steel bands around his neck. Wesley couldn't breathe. Oh God oh God oh God.

"It was so nice of you to come by like this, Rick." Peterson raised his arm and Wesley felt the ground disappear from beneath his feet. The pressure around his neck increased as his full weight hung uselessly in the air. He looked down and nearly fainted as he saw Peterson's face take on the monstrous visage of the vampire. His teeth glinted, sharp and deadly.

Survival instinct finally took over and Wesley struggled wildly, kicking with all his might and clawing desperately at the hand around his throat. Peterson just chuckled at him. The night air rushed past and suddenly Wesley was slammed into something hard; what little air was left in his lungs rushed out of him all at once. The world began to darken around the edges.

"I was hungry for a midnight snack," whispered Peterson. Wesley felt his collar and tie ripped away and lips caressing the point where his neck and shoulder met. An image flashed before his eyes of a lecture on favourite vampire feeding points, and how the neck was in fact the second most likely place for a bite, the first being the wrists.

Peterson bit down. Wesley screamed silently, unable to make any noises other than airless gasps of pain as he felt the blood pulled from his veins. All he could think about was that his corpse would have to be beheaded and cremated because whoever found him would not be sure if he had been turned before he died.

And then all of a sudden the air was rushing back into his lungs, and he was lying on the cool grass. He coughed harshly, dragging the air through his battered throat. The darkness that had overtaken his vision began to recede. He tried to press at the bite wound but the skin was slick with blood and he couldn't quite get his limbs to cooperate. He concentrated on trying to breathe without coughing.

Someone pressed something soft against his neck. Wesley tried to push it away.

"Shh, just lie still. It's all right now."

Wesley blinked and turned his head towards the voice. The movement tugged at his wound but... it was Mr Giles, looking down at him with a concerned expression. It seemed a little familiar to Wesley, but he couldn't remember having seen it before. Wesley tried to speak, but Mr Giles just hushed him again. Then Mr Giles turned and said something to someone, but Wesley couldn't see who it was and there was a pounding in his ears that prevented him from making out the words, and then the world was fading away again, and this time he didn't try to fight it.

Wesley had passed out. From the state of him, Giles figured it was just as well. At least this time he didn't have to carry him home by himself.

"Thank you for the assistance," he told Angel.

"No problem," nodded Angel, brushing vamp dust off his leather jacket. He motioned at Wesley's still form. "Um, he okay?"

"We'll need to get him somewhere safe so I can patch him up. Could you carry him? I'll bring the car around."

"Sure," said Angel.

Giles hurried back to where they'd left the Citroën, parked across two spots in their haste to reach Wesley before the worst happened. They'd had to try two other cemeteries before they'd found the right one. Thankfully Wesley had left his own car in a prominent location, or they might have missed him entirely. As it was their rescue had been mere seconds from too late.

He drove the car around to the point closest to where they had found Wesley and his attacker. Angel was carrying Wesley in his arms now, almost gently. The gauze Giles had hastily slapped over Wesley's bite wound was dark with blood.

Giles held open the door to the passenger seat as Angel rested Wesley inside.

"Do you need a lift back?" asked Giles.

"Nah, I'm good. If you see Buffy..."

"She's likely still at the Bronze with Faith," said Giles.

Angel's eyes darkened at mention of Faith's name. "I don't trust her."

"She's a troubled girl," Giles said. It was a tired excuse, but it was the truth. "I'll try to talk to her again. Perhaps she'll listen if Wesley isn't there to make her defensive."

"She's a bad influence," said Angel. "I don't like her hanging around Buffy."

"She's also a Slayer," Giles sighed. "And if I had any control over who Buffy spent her time with..."

Angel nodded in understanding. "Goodnight, Giles."

"Goodnight, Angel." Giles watched him go, then bent to take care of Wesley. He buckled him in and put a fresh bandage over his neck. At least the bleeding seemed to be slowing.

Asking Angel for help... to say that it hadn't been easy would be a tremendous understatement. But Giles had needed someone with his speed and strength, and he'd felt even more reluctant to ask Buffy or Faith. Possibly because he wasn't entirely sure they would do their best to save Wesley. Oh, they wouldn't let him die, Giles couldn't believe that, but neither girl liked him in the slightest. Convincing them to abandon the Bronze to hunt down Wesley would have taken far more time than he was comfortable with.

Angel felt guilty, and Giles felt very comfortable in using that guilt whenever necessary.

Wesley stayed out until they reached Giles' flat. As soon as the car stopped, he began to stir. Half-awake he suddenly lunged forward, and when the belt caught him across the chest he scrabbled frantically at it, whimpering with fear. Giles reached across and held him down.

"Wesley! Wesley!" he called, trying to calm him. "You're safe now, it's all right."

Wesley's eyes cleared slowly as he came back to himself. He looked at Giles, then down at himself, then back up again. All the fight went out of him at once and he slumped limply in his seat. The utter defeat in Wesley's eyes made Giles' heart ache.

"If I help you, can you walk? It's not far but I'd prefer not to have to carry you again."

Confusion flickered across Wesley's face, and then he nodded. Giles got out of the car and opened Wesley's door. He unbuckled the seat belt and pulled Wesley's arm over his shoulder, then hauled him up. They staggered together for a moment as they found their balance, Wesley leaning heavily against Giles. They climbed carefully down the short flight of steps to his flat.

Somehow they managed to make it to Giles' couch before Wesley collapsed. Giles sat down on the coffee table in front of him and pulled him forwards so Giles could tend to the wound.

As he was smoothing the medical tape in place, Wesley whispered something so quietly Giles couldn't make it out.

"What was that?" Giles asked, guiding Wesley to sit back against the couch.

Wesley's face was scrunched up in anguish. He looked near tears, but his eyes were dry. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Wesley..." Giles began.

Wesley cleared his throat, swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was clearer. "You were right. This isn't... I wasn't prepared for this. I don't know anything. The Council..." Another wave of anguish passed over his features before he continued. "I'm sorry, I... you must hate me, all of you."

"Wesley, we don't... well, I can't speak for Buffy or Faith, but..."

Wesley laughed once, harshly. "At least I only irritated them. What I said to you..."

"It doesn't matter," said Giles. Wesley looked at him in disbelief, and Giles shrugged. "All right, it does matter. But it's not important."

"I'll leave," Wesley whispered. "I'll write the Council and ask them to reinstate you as Active Watcher."

"You're not in a fit state to decide anything right now."

"I'm not fit for anything!" Wesley's voice hoarsened as he spoke louder, and a flash of pain made him drop his voice back to a whisper. "I've done nothing but bungle things up since I arrived. And now this..."

Giles guided Wesley to lie down on the couch. He pulled off his shoes and hung his jacket on the end of the couch. He unfolded the blanket he'd covered Wesley with just a few nights ago and tucked it around him. Giles remarked to himself that this was starting to become a habit for them.

"Things will be better in the morning."

Wesley shook his head. His eyes were still dry, but oh, Giles saw such sadness in them. "They never are," Wesley whispered.

"They will be this time." He stroked Wesley's hair and shushed him gently. "Just rest."

Giles smoothed Wesley's hair, hoping the soft motion would lull him to sleep. Ever so slowly Wesley's eyes slid shut, but Giles didn't stop until Wesley's breathing evened out and he was deep in slumber.

Giles made himself some tea, and then moved a chair next to the sofa and sat down to watch Wesley sleep. Every so often, Wesley would twitch, or frown, or make a single, almost silent whimper. But he didn't wake up in a panic like he had in the car, and after a while Giles relaxed.

He went to pour himself something to help him think, and then stopped. He'd never restocked after that night with Wesley, hadn't even thought about buying more. For a change, he hadn't needed to. But at the thought that Wesley might be leaving, Giles itched for a glass. He knew better than to try and pass it off as coincidence.

Giles sat down with a fresh cup of Darjeeling and considered their options.

Wesley's first conscious thought was that waking up on Mr Giles' couch was starting to become a habit. Then he remembered the complete mess he'd made of everything yesterday, up to and including insulting everyone he knew in Sunnydale and nearly getting himself killed in a way that his father would agree was impressively stupid, even for him.

He pulled the blanket up over his head. Maybe if he never came out again, they'd forget he was here and he could die of humiliation in peace. His head felt tight and his throat raw; he swallowed to moisten it but that only triggered a coughing fit that left him curled half-upright over the edge of the couch.

And then Mr Giles was before him, helping him sit straight to ease his coughing. A mug was pushed into his hands and out of reflex he sipped at it. The tea was warm, and generously laced with honey and lemon. He drank carefully, in small amounts, until he could breathe normally again.

"Thank you," he said, eyes lowered. He couldn't bring himself to met Mr Giles' eyes, after everything he'd said. Wesley hadn't thought Mr Giles' opinion of him could have dropped much lower even before his outburst and subsequent folly. Why he was sitting in the man's flat and being cared for now was a complete mystery to him.

"Do you feel up to coming to the library today?" asked Mr Giles.

So you can fire me in front of everyone and I can feel even more horrid? No. But aloud Wesley said, "Yes." It wasn't any more than he deserved.

"Good," said Mr Giles, and then he walked away. Wesley stared at his mug, a hundred thoughts jostling through his head and none of them hopeful.

"I hope you don't mind," Mr Giles said as he returned, "but I picked these up from your room. I thought you might feel more comfortable in clothing that hadn't been dragged through a graveyard." Wesley looked up and saw that he was holding one of Wesley's suits. Mr Giles gently took the mug from Wesley's hands and pressed the hanger there in its place.

"There's some fresh towels in the bathroom," Mr Giles continued. "Do you feel like some toast?"

Wesley was distantly aware that he was gaping like a fish, but he couldn't seem to do anything about it. He curled his fingers around the thin metal wire of the hanger as if it would pull him back to a reality that made sense.

Mr Giles sighed and sat down on the chair across from him. "Wesley," he began, "do you trust me?"

Wesley wanted to. He needed to, because if he didn't, what else was left?

"Will you believe me if I tell you that everything will be all right?"

Wesley wanted to nod at this, but he couldn't find it in himself. Nothing was all right, and he didn't see how that could change. He would go back to England and probably be fired for his incompetence, and oh Lord, he didn't even dare imagine his father's fury. Wesley was too old for a beating now, but somehow he didn't think that would matter. And then a vast emptiness before him, a life with no greater meaning, a life outside the Council's path that he knew absolutely nothing about how to live.

"Wesley, look at me," said Mr Giles. His tone was firm enough to pull Wesley from his nightmarish thoughts and finally allow himself to meet Mr Giles' eyes. "I won't have you limping back to England with your tail between your legs," Mr Giles continued. "You're going to stay."

"But how... after what I..."

"Wesley, you came here to Sunnydale to do a job. You may not have been ready for it, but that doesn't mean you can't learn to be."

Wesley didn't know what to say. No one could have faith in him with all the mistakes he'd made. It wasn't possible. And yet Mr Giles spoke with confidence, with the offer of a second chance. A small spark of hope lit in his belly, and though he tried to damp it down it would not be extinguished.

"I..." Wesley began, then he swallowed. "All right."

"You'll feel better after you've had a hot shower and some breakfast," said Mr Giles. He gripped Wesley's arm and pulled him to stand, then guided him towards the bathroom. "I've left the rest of your clothes in there for you. Just run the hot water in the sink for a minute before you turn on the shower or else it doesn't get warm for ages."

Wesley did as he was told.

When he finished towelling himself off, he looked at the bathroom mirror. It was completely fogged over, and all he could see of himself was a pale blur. He wiped at the mirror with his towel and stared at his reflection. He peeled off the wet bandage on his neck. His throat was a mass of dark bruises, and the wound looked angry in the yellow light of the bathroom. His other bruises, from the training sessions that seemed to have been months ago now, were fading to green and yellow. Wesley touched his injuries carefully, drawing their boundaries on his body.

In time, they would fade. The bite wound would probably leave a scar, but it would be light, like the thin, almost imperceptible lines that crossed his back, the oldest of them only found by the most careful of touches. In time, no one would ever know they had even existed, as they were absorbed beneath his skin. An invisible history. He wanted to memorize this moment, these bruises and tears. They were either a badge of courage or a mark of shame, possibly both.

His eyes looked different, somehow. It was probably a trick of the light.

He dressed himself neatly, making sure every line was straight, every cloth unwrinkled. He found a clean comb and smoothed back his hair. Mr Giles had nothing in his bathroom that he could use to hold it down, so he parted it to the side and hoped it wouldn't become too ruffled. He shaved himself carefully with Mr Giles' razor, avoiding his injuries as much as possible while still achieving a clean complexion. He put a fresh bandage over the bite wound. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Armour on, Wesley went to face the world.

He ate the toast that Giles placed before him, drank the juice that filled his glass. He watched the houses pass by the window of Giles' car as they drove to the school.

Wesley didn't have the energy to feel nervous as he sat at the library table, waiting for Giles to gather their audience. The children wandered in one by one and took their usual places, relaxed and casual and slightly bored. For the first time since he had arrived, Wesley watched them without preconceptions.

Willow was closest to him. She was humming softly to herself and picking threads of cotton from the cuff of her jumper. Xander sat next to her, his legs splayed unceremoniously over a second chair, scuffing the wood with his trainers. He was making small doodles in his notebook, little vampire heads with triangle fangs and cartoon blood. One of the heads had a mass of spiky hair on top, and Xander had scribbled over it with heavy lines.

The Slayers were huddled together on the stairs, whispering in voices too low for Wesley to make out. They giggled and conspired and primped at their clothing and hair. It was hard to believe they were warriors when they were like this, so seemingly innocent of danger. Yet they faced the most unholy creatures every night and lived to do it again, and again, and again.

A life filled with such horrors could only be survivable if it was also filled with happiness. Wesley realized that now. He had never even thought it was possible to hold on to love when your life was set before you, and all that shaped it spoke of darkness. He'd forgotten about hope.

Mr Giles exited his office and stood before them.

"Giles," said Xander, not looking up from his notebook, "can we get this done pronto? I've got a math test in an hour and I have to pretend to study for it."

"Xander!" Willow prodded him in the arm, but not roughly. "You told me you didn't need any help with inequalities."

"Yeah, well, you know inequalities. One plus one equals three, not much sense there."

"Gladly, Xander," said Mr Giles. "Buffy, Faith, if you could be so kind as to pay attention?"

"You're the boss," said Buffy. Faith whispered something in her ear and Buffy giggled, then put on what Wesley supposed was her "I'm absolutely paying total attention" face.

"Quite," said Mr Giles. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a white cloth, then put them back on. "Wesley and I had a talk yesterday about how things have been going since he arrived. He's made some valid suggestions and I'd like it if you would all listen to them."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Oh please. B, you wanna blow this gig or what?"

Buffy looked torn. "Just wait a minute, okay? I wanna hear this."

"I appreciate that, Buffy," Mr Giles said, motioning for them to take their seats at the table with everyone else. Buffy sat down, but Faith remained where she was.

"I have, perhaps, allowed things to slide. Important things, like nightly patrols and training exercises. I know your schoolwork and social lives are important to you, but you still have a duty to perform."

Buffy didn't look happy about this, but Wesley didn't think she disagreed. Wesley knew from Mr Giles' journals that Buffy went through periods of rebellion, where she sought a life without the burden of being Chosen, but ultimately she always returned to doing what was right. That took a great deal of courage.

"Faith," Mr Giles continued. "You've had a difficult time. You lost your first Watcher to Kakistos, and Ms Post tricked us all. But you must put the past behind you. It's vitally important--"

"Screw this," Faith declared, cutting Mr Giles off mid-sentence. "I don't need some stupid Watcher and his snotty sidekick telling me what to do." She moved to leave but as she passed Mr Giles, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. In the blink of an eye Faith swung and Mr Giles staggered back. Blood ran down his chin from where his lip had split.

"Faith, no!" cried Buffy, and she ran to Mr Giles' side.

It had all happened so fast, by the time Wesley had been halfway out of his seat it was all over. He glanced at Willow and Xander and saw that they were in the same position. Mere humans, all of them, despite Willow's spellcasting.

"I'm all right," said Mr Giles, waving her off.

Buffy turned to Faith, eyes blazing. "How could you?"

"Hey, he grabbed me," said Faith, but her protest was weak.

"We don't... we don't hurt people," Buffy said, waving her arm at Mr Giles.

Faith looked pained, lost, but only for a moment. Then she just looked angry. "Screw this," she repeated, and ran out the library doors.

Buffy started to follow, but Mr Giles held up a hand. "We'll deal with Faith later," he said. Buffy nodded and sat back down. Mr Giles wiped away the blood with his kerchief.

"Any other exciting announcements?" asked Xander. His pad was forgotten now and his eyes were wide.

"Yes, two more. Wesley and I have also discussed what changes need to be made in our working arrangement."

Wesley felt all eyes upon him, and he had to force himself not to squirm.

"We've agreed that it would be best if I returned to my role as Active Watcher, but Wesley will be staying on as my assistant."

Oh, thought Wesley.

"Huh," said Buffy.

There was a pause, and Wesley realized they were waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Um. I... We thought it would be best, since you had already... That is to say, I've come to respect Mr Giles' experience with the Hellmouth. I'll still be reporting to the Council, but our work should be of a more... cooperative nature." Wesley hoped that had come out right. A bluff to fool the Council, and a way for Wesley to stay in Sunnydale and hopefully make himself useful. It was unorthodox, but it could work.

Buffy shrugged. "Whatever. And announcement el finale?"

"This is somewhat overdue, but... Willow, Xander?"

Willow looked up from the ragged cuff of her jumper. "Me?"

"Huh what?" said Xander.

"When I first came to Sunnydale, you asked me for help, and I refused to provide that help. I'd like to rectify that now, if I can. Xander, if you want to learn how to fight; Willow, if you would like to learn magic without sneaking books from my collection when my back is turned, consider me available to you. As much as I might wish that you did not have to risk yourselves, the fact that you have stayed by Buffy's side for almost three years now... if you're going to do it anyway, I might as well help you do it right."

"Wow," said Willow. "Really? Because that would be so cool. I've been looking at levitation spells, you know, just little things like feathers and pennies, and for when you're tired and the remote control is across the room? And I read this other spell in that one book, you know the one with the face on it, I think I could use it on my computer if you just change the toadwort to--"

"Yes, yes," Mr Giles said. "We'll schedule some time this week and I'll see how far along you are."

Willow grinned, bouncing in her seat. "This is so cool! Thanks, Giles."

"Xander?" Mr Giles asked.

Xander had been quiet since Mr Giles had made the offer. He shrugged, and tore at the edge of his notebook paper. "I'll think about it," he said, not looking up.

"All right," said Mr Giles. "You're free to go."

Xander glared at Wesley for a moment, then walked out. Willow stopped to give Mr Giles her schedule, then skipped off to meet Oz. Buffy stayed behind, looking worried.

"About Faith," she began.

"I know," said Mr Giles. "Later."

And then they were alone.

Mr Giles sat down across from Wesley. "That went rather well, I'd say."

"You don't have to," Wesley said, the words rushing out.

"Have to what?"

"Keep me around because... out of pity," he finished, lamely.

"I'm not," said Mr Giles.

"Then why? Why not just let me get out of your way?"

"Because you're not in my way, Wesley. To be honest I could use your help."

"My help?" Wesley laughed. "How can I possibly be of help?"

"You can assist me with research and translation. I read your file, I know you're highly skilled in those areas. Since you've been here, despite everything else you've found good information for us. You know a great deal of Sunnydale history, to be able to have identified Balthazar's cult so quickly. And you were right about my judgement. It has been clouded."

"It's clearer than mine," said Wesley, but the words of approval were already affecting him more than he could say.

"Probably," Mr Giles admitted. "But nevertheless, you were right. I could use someone with your insight."

"I... thank you," Wesley said, squirming under the compliments. He wasn't use to them, didn't know what to do with them. He wanted to deny everything Mr Giles was saying so he wouldn't feel so strange, but the strangeness felt oddly good.

"And speaking of research, I ran into a possible reference to the Mayor, if you'd like to take a look. It's in Kundish, and I'm afraid I never got the hang of that dialect."

"Kundish, you say? I'm quite fluent in that, actually. Had to translate a three-scroll prophecy once, you wouldn't believe how many words they have for apocalypse." Wesley allowed himself a smile, and Mr Giles smiled back. Maybe... maybe Sunnydale wasn't so terrible after all.

Wesley put down his pen, stretched, and yawned widely. Giles tried to resist the urge to yawn himself, failed, and then chuckled, which in turn made Wesley chuckle. They sat side by side in Giles' small office, their shared desk piled high with books and notes.

They'd been working together for almost a month now, and it was better than Giles had hoped. Wesley had been eager to help as much as possible, and very quickly they had discovered a wealth of items that Giles had put aside because he'd been unable to juggle the workload on his own. Wesley was a fast thinker, and very thorough, and had impressive organizational skills. In his eagerness he'd voluntarily reindexed Giles' arcane books collection, to assist in his new sessions teaching Willow. Wesley had some experience with magics, as he'd taken some advanced courses in his time in the Academy and even done a little work on his own, though nothing like what Giles had gotten himself into during his Ripper years.

They'd took to regular breaks from the books to get in a little physical exercise as well. Fencing, some limited hand-to-hand, and Wesley had revealed a prodigious talent for the crossbow. Giles had some ideas about using that talent.

And on a personal level, Giles felt happier than he had in a long time. Wesley's company was more than enjoyable.

Wesley himself had changed significantly in such a short time. He still tended to be a little haughty about the academic side of things, but the pompous git who'd arrived in Sunnydale was fading away like a bad memory. It was as if he'd finally been given permission to be himself, and Giles was very grateful that that self bore little resemblance to Roger Wyndam-Pryce.

"Anything of interest?" Giles asked, leaning over to look at the translation Wesley had been working on.

"Mostly the usual laundry lists, I'm afraid. But I did see a mention of an ashenio, or ascension. I'll see if there's anything in Gilbert's translation that might be related."

"Sounds good," said Giles.

There was a knock on the office door, and Giles turned in his chair to see Xander standing there. He was shifting from foot to foot, which in Giles' experience meant he had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

"Yes, Xander?" Giles asked. "Is something the matter?"

"No, I just... I thought maybe I'd take you up. You know, with the fighting." Xander made punching motions with his fists, then shoved them into his pockets. "Unless you changed your mind."

"No no, the offer is absolutely still open," insisted Giles.

"Great! Okay. So, um, where do we start?"

Giles consider the possibilities. "Well, the best kind of weapons for dealing with very strong opponents are the kind where you keep some distance between them and you. There's swords and axes, but I favour the crossbow myself."

Xander brightened at this. "Crossbows, that'd be cool."

"Crossbows it is then. And we can try out other weapons and techniques as you feel comfortable, all right?"

"Yeah, definitely," grinned Xander.

"Though you know, with the crossbow, I'm actually not the expert around here."

"Then who is? I don't see a lot of other guys around here with arcane weaponry."

"Wesley."

Xander snorted. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm quite serious," said Giles. "He's an excellent shot; he could probably teach you better than I ever could. Wesley, what do you say?"

Wesley looked startled by the offer, pleased but wary of Xander's reaction. "I suppose, if Xander is interested... it's quite a powerful weapon, when used correctly. I'd be happy to teach him."

Xander looked skeptical, but shrugged. "Okay. How about Thursday at three, out back? There's a shooting range."

"Thursday at three PM," agreed Wesley.

"Later, G-man," Xander waved, and hurried off before the next bell rang.

Wesley spoke first. "Mr Giles, I--"

"I've told you before, Wesley, it's just Rupert."

"Rupert, then. You needn't... if the boy doesn't like me..."

"Why shouldn't he? Xander can be rather... stubborn when it comes to certain things. He has difficulty letting go of his first impressions."

"Yes, and I buggered that one up," muttered Wesley.

"It's not your fault if he can't appreciate what's in front of him."

Wesley fought his smile at Giles' words, but the smile won. Giles liked that smile, and he coaxed it out of Wesley as often as he could.

"I can't thank you enough for all of this," Wesley said, fiddling with his pen. "For giving me a second chance."

"It's no more than you deserve," insisted Giles. "And I'm very glad that I did."

Wesley didn't look up, but took off his glasses and cleaned them, rubbing at the lenses with unusual concentration.

Giles leaned over and put a comforting hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Wesley?" he asked, voice gentle. "I didn't mean to upset you..."

Wesley stopped rubbing his glasses and looked up. His eyes were shining with emotion, as if he was about to laugh or cry but couldn't decide which.

"Oh my," said Giles.

Wesley closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they were clear again, and filled with determination. Before Giles could ask just what he was so determined about, Wesley leaned forward and kissed him.

The kiss was light at first, barely touching, and then it was firm and sure and oh my, Giles was lost in it. He sat, stunned, as Wesley finally pulled back.

"Wesley," he breathed. "That was..."

"I hope I didn't... misread," Wesley said, ducking his head. "I thought, how you smiled, what you said, I..."

"You read perfectly," Giles said, and he leaned in close and returned the favour. Wesley dropped his glasses on the desk and their chairs scratched against the floor and then they were embracing. Wesley's hands were long and warm against his back, holding on to his shoulder. Wesley's body was thin under Giles' touch, but Giles could feel the strength in him. And his lips, oh, his lips. Giles felt like a teenager again, snogging in the stacks.

"Rupert," Wesley moaned, arching under his touch. Wesley nuzzled against Giles' shoulder as Giles kissed his way down Wesley's neck.

"Perfect," he whispered into Wesley's ear, and Wesley shivered all over.

"Oh Lord," Wesley moaned, as Giles tugged his tie just far enough to reveal his top button. Giles pulled it open with his teeth. It had been a long time since he'd ravished someone wearing a suit and tie, but he still remembered the best tricks. Just that bit of collar opened, and with his lust-dark eyes and reddened lips, Wesley looked absolutely debauched.

Then he felt Wesley's hands sneaking inside the back of his trousers, and he realized that Wesley was in no way an innocent to this. Giles growled as Wesley's fingers reached lower, and--

"Giles! Wesley?! Oh my God, I'm blind! Eww, Giles!"

They flew apart at the sound of Buffy's horrified exclamations. Giles turned to see her pressing her hands tightly over her eyes and staggering away theatrically.

"Watcher sex! Gay Watcher sex! Watchers aren't allow to have... Eww!"

Giles sighed and hung his head.

"We probably should have thought to close the door," said Wesley.

"Eww! So gross! Must Brillo eyes!" Buffy's voice faded as she fled the library.

"Must she do that?" asked Wesley. Giles looked up. Wesley was blushing from embarrassment, but he was smiling, too. Giles had to admit it was rather funny. He reached back and flung the door shut.

"I'm afraid do. Give it a week, then she'll be going on about how cute we are."

"Oh God," said Wesley. "That's even worse."

"We'll buy a lock," said Giles, leaning down to resume where he'd left off, which was around Wesley's collarbone.

"Several locks," Wesley agreed. He tilted his head back to allow Giles better access, and ran his hands through Giles' hair. "Possibly a deadbolt."

Giles laughed, and decided that Wesley's suit needed some serious rumpling.