Stories
Uncontrolled Circumstancesby Eloise Bright CHALLENGE: ats_endofdays EPISODE: AtS 4.06 - 'Spin the Bottle' RATING: PG13 CHARACTERS: Wesley DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own them. I just play with them. NOTES: AU set for AtS S4 "Spin the Bottle". Quotes and refs from that ep, as well as BtVS ep 'Bad Girls'. Huge thanks to ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lonelybrit for encouragement, enabling and sterling beta work. "It's Wesley, thank you. Wyndam-Pryce. I am from the Watcher's Academy in southern Hampshire. In fact, I happen to be Head Boy." (Wesley: 'Spin the Bottle') Wesley Wyndam-Pryce woke up, and then sincerely wished he hadn't. The party going on inside his skull had clearly reached the ugly stage, complete with screaming and yelling and the distinct possibility of actual nausea in the very near future. This wasn't just the mother of all hangovers; this was the mother, father and formidable great-aunt of them. What the hell had he been drinking last night? He had a vague memory of a drinking game with Lilah recently, involving vodka shots with whisky chasers; each of them determined to drink the other under the table. He had the advantage; he was physically bigger and stronger than Lilah, but she was one stubborn bitch. One didn't get to be head of Special Projects at Wolfram & Hart without a certain flexibility regarding one's personal wellbeing. And she wasn't above improving the odds by adding a little something extra to his glass when he wasn't looking. Perhaps a little Rohypnol to knock him out. His whole body ached as if he'd been beaten, which, knowing Lilah, was not unlikely. Though she generally preferred him conscious during her Mistress of Pain performances. He moved his hand slowly down his body, fingers searching for evidence of fresh abrasions, and then froze. The bullet wound in his side was suspiciously absent. As in no longer there. All he could feel was smooth unblemished skin. He sat up suddenly, ignoring the anvil chorus in his head, and his hand flew to his neck. The jagged line across his throat had also disappeared. He had finally become inured to this symbol of his betrayal; had got to a stage where he could look in the mirror without grimacing in disgust; and now it was gone. Strangely enough, his throat was now not only scar free, but also stubble free. So, in between drugging him with some type of enchanted date rape drug, and performing God knew what unspeakable magics on his unconscious body, while quite possibly promising his eternal soul to some unutterably awful minor deity in the process, Lilah had found time to give him a close shave. He was going to kill her. Very slowly. "If you're still here, I'll give you a twenty second head start," he informed her pleasantly. He had calculated it would take him at least that long to actually get out of bed. Or possibly longer. His voice sounded strange, more high pitched than normal, though that could have something to do with the lack of throat scar. Perhaps when she'd removed the scar, she'd somehow reversed the damage to the vocal chords. There was a muffled thud and the sound of footsteps. He was a little surprised; it really wasn't like Lilah to stay the night. She tended to have a highly developed sense of self-preservation. More fool her, then. He threw back the covers and leapt onto albeit tottering feet, launching himself at the figure in front of him. The figure gave a high-pitched shriek and immediately collapsed onto the floor in a distinctly un-Lilahlike show of submission. "Pryce! Good God, have you gone quite mad?" The body below him was definitely not Lilah. Even in the darkness of the room, he could tell that it wasn't Lilah. Wesley released his hold on his captive's arms, and pressed his hand to the throat, as he reached up to the bedside table for his glasses. "Wesley!' The second syllable of his name rose to a pitch that only dogs could hear. "Get off me!" Wesley put on his glasses, keeping his hand poised to strike if necessary, then looked down at his captive. Blinked. Looked again. "Nigel?" He adjusted his glasses, as if that might somehow change the view through the lenses. "Is that you?" It couldn't be. The Nigel he'd gone to school with, shared a study bedroom with; that Nigel was now well into his thirties. This Nigel looked exactly as he had done in sixth form; the sandy brown hair standing up in defiance of comb and hair gel, the mass of freckles not quite hiding the blush in his cheeks; the constant blinking betraying myopic tendencies to rival Wesley's own. "Of course it's me. Who were you expecting?" Nigel was doing his best to sound aggrieved, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his terror. Wesley was fairly sure that Nigel had not been high on the list of people he'd been expecting to see. He sat back on his heels and looked down at his friend in fascinated horror. Nigel was lying on his back, hands palm-up in submission, dressed somewhat incongruously in blue and white striped pyjamas. With dismay came the dawning realization that Wesley was wearing a matching pair. He stood up cautiously, and didn't fall over, which pleased him enormously. Then padded barefoot to the mirror he knew would be above a small washbasin in the corner of the room. He pulled the tiny cord which activated the thin fluorescent tube above the mirror. Then gripped the sides of the basin to stop himself from falling over. "Oh, hell." Oh yes, this was definitely hell. He stared at the image in the mirror and felt the queasiness in his stomach return with a vengeance. A shock of dark hair, as yet untamed by the morning routine of comb and gel, flopped across a pale forehead. The face was youthfully bland, the skin around his eyes and mouth smooth; unlined by age or laughter or worry. Whatever drug Lilah had given him; she should patent it and retire. But somehow he knew this was not the result of a drug, and probably not Lilah's doing either. He looked into the face of the Head Boy of the Watcher's Academy (academic year 1986-87) and wondered what exactly he had done to piss off the Powers That Be quite so thoroughly. It was bad enough being seventeen the first time round, but to have to suffer the indignities of teenage life again as an adult was quite intolerable. "Wesley?" Nigel was now sitting on his bed, watching him the way a gazelle eyes a wounded, but possibly still dangerous lion. "Are y-you alright?" God, the poor chap sounded petrified. Which was understandable, really. As far as Nigel knew, his normally reasonably sane roommate had woken him up to issue an unspecified threat, then attacked him without provocation, before finally standing in front of a mirror, displaying not a few of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. "I'm Head Boy," he sighed, and then decided this wasn't really putting Nigel at his ease. He contemplated adding some explanatory tag to this statement, then realized there wasn't one and simply shrugged. "Yes, you are Head Boy. You've been Head Boy all year, Wesley. You've been a very good Head Boy." He spoke with that careful calmness of tone that is usually reserved for the clinically insane. As if he expected Wesley to turn round at any moment and run him through with his toothbrush. Wesley took pity on him. "I'm sorry, Nigel, I had a bit of a nightmare. I dreamt I was being attacked by Angelus, the Scourge of Europe." He managed to keep the irony out of his voice quite successfully. "It's just a relief to wake up and find out I'm still alive." Nigel shook his head and clicked his tongue sympathetically. "You spend far too much time reading up on those old vampires, you know. And we've got that practical test coming up before the end of term. That's probably on your mind, too." "You're right," Wesley nodded sagely "I should try and get some sleep." He clicked off the light and returned to the narrow single bed, which was as lumpy and uncomfortable as he remembered. "Sorry for waking you." "It's quite all right. Don't worry about it. Thank goodness it was just a dream." Nigel was already drifting back to sleep. Wesley glanced at the clock on the bedside table and hoped that when he woke up again in the morning, this would the nightmare. His hopes weren't high. *~*~*~* "Pryce! Come on, Wesley, wake up!" He groaned and threw his arm over his face in a futile attempt to block the early morning sun from his eyes. This did not deter Nigel in the least. "You're going to be late for breakfast." Said with the sort of dread in his tone that would normally be reserved for the announcement of an imminent apocalypse. Wesley opened his eyes and noted with amusement the poorly concealed crucifix in Nigel's hand. For a moment he contemplated doing the whole "Ah, the sunlight, how it burns!" routine, then reconsidered as he noticed the pencil poised in Nigel's grip. He didn't fancy a visit to the sanatorium just yet. He sighed softly and grasped the crucifix to demonstrate his harmlessness. "See, I'm fine. It was just a dream." Nigel's sigh of relief was audible. "Sorry about that. But better to be safe than sorry, eh? Remember the three key words for any Watcher: preparation... preparation... preparation." Oh, he must have done something truly dreadful this time to deserve such karmic payback. The Powers That Be had obviously decided he needed an object lesson in humility, complete with quotes from his most embarrassing moments. Of which there were many. "But you'd better hurry. It's almost a quarter to eight. And you've never been late for breakfast." Nigel moved over to the mirror and began the Herculean task of taming his hair into submission. Wesley eyed the school uniform that lay over the back of the chair with distaste. Then remembered the last time he'd worn such an outfit, and couldn't help the little wistful smile that curled the corners of his mouth. Lilah could be very persuasive... He gave himself a mental shake. He had to concentrate on the problem in hand. Which was currently how to give a convincing portrayal of his seventeen year old self. Behave like an utter prat and you're halfway there, Wesley, old chap; he thought rather bitterly. Ten minutes later and he was staring in amazement at the reflection in the mirror. It was so strange to see himself as a youth again. He adjusted his glasses and gave his heavily slicked hair a final reassuring pat. "God, Wesley, will you stop preening and get moving!" Nigel was almost dancing in the doorway, frantic with impatience. They reached the refectory one minute after eight. Wesley led the way to their places at the top table and sat down. Two seconds later the entire hall rose to incant the Latin grace, and Wesley could almost feel the heat of the Headmaster's glare as he followed suit belatedly. Not a good start to the day. The only good thing about the entire meal was the appearance of the water carafe. It wasn't that he was particularly thirsty; in fact he would have preferred some really strong coffee. It was the flash of memory that the familiar shape inspired. He could almost see the bottle in Lorne's hands; hear him chanting on behalf of Cordelia: "We come in supplication and hope. Bring her back." Then heard his own voice, sounding just a little cynical: "We'll just wait to see if there are any side effects..." *~*~*~* It had been a mistake to laugh out loud, of course. He realized that now. Once he had started giggling he had been unable to stop; the acute awareness of the inappropriateness of the reaction making him laugh even harder. Now he stood in the Headmaster's study, his hands folded dutifully behind his back, trying to look suitably contrite. He had always got on extremely well with Dr Harrington; respected the man's keen intellect and his strong devotion to duty. Unfortunately, it was that devotion which now obligated him to deal with the uncharacteristic recalcitrance of his usually dutiful Head Boy. "Have you nothing to say for yourself, Wyndam-Pryce?" He was pacing back and forth in front of the windows, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his gown. Wesley thought for a moment. He could tell him the truth, that he was actually here as the result of botched spell, and that for all he knew the seventeen year old version was currently inhabiting the scarred and battle-weary body of his older self . He experienced briefly the strange sensation of feeling sorry for himself. The poor boy would be absolutely bewildered. "Pryce!" The headmaster's tone was icy. Wesley snapped back to attention. "Sorry, sir. You were saying...?" "I was saying that your behaviour this morning was appalling. You were late for breakfast, then had to be dismissed for sniggering. What sort of example does that set for the other boys? They look to you for guidance on how to behave." He tutted and shook his head sadly. "It's Rupert Giles all over again," he muttered quietly. Wesley couldn't prevent the snort of laughter that escaped him. "I'm sorry, are you finding this amusing?" Dr Harrington's voice was deceptively quiet, but there was an underlying menacing quality which Wesley was beginning to appreciate. He appreciated it more fully when the headmaster opened a cupboard and took out a thin cane. "I very rarely cane my Upper Sixth, Mr Wyndam-Pryce, and I have never yet had occasion to cane a Head Boy." He paused, flexed the cane thoughtfully, then placed it on top of the cupboard. "Have a care that you do not become the exception to the rule." *~*~*~* There was air of incredulity in the changing rooms when he arrived to change for the first period martial arts class. "What are you playing at, Pryce?" This from Bentley major. "I thought Harry was going to spontaneously combust." Wesley sat down and pulled off his shoes and socks. "He seemed quite decidedly amiant when I left his study." He tied the belt on his karate uniform and removed his glasses. "Positively arctic, I would say." Any further discussion of the incident was prohibited by the arrival of their instructor, Mr Allen. He was, in addition to being a black belt in a mysteriously undefined number of martial arts, supposedly an ex member of the SAS. He was also descended directly from the late Marquis de Sade. Wesley had spent most of his junior school martial arts lessons in varying degrees of carefully calculated agony. But the man's talent for torture extended far beyond the simple infliction of pain. He propounded the dubious theory that pain was something you did to yourself. Other people bent your legs back till your toes touched the small of your back; pulled your thumb down until it almost met your wrist; or simply kicked you in the nuts; but the experience of that actual pain was of your own volition. Therefore, Mr Allen postulated, it was within your power to stop the pain. Those who allowed themselves to suffer were simply weak, and needed more exposure to pain-causing stimuli to build up their immunity. Even when he had been an excessively eager thirteen year old, desperate not to fail, Wesley had realized that the theory was a complete load of bollocks. Unfortunately that realization hadn't made the lessons any more endurable. "Right, you lot. Stop dilly-dallying and get your arses in there." Allen jerked his thumb towards the gymnasium. There was immediate silence, and they trooped out of the changing rooms dejectedly. If Allen had one saving grace; it was his impartiality. He was an equal opportunities sadistic bastard. No one was safe from persecution. "Now, gentlemen." He leaned heavily on the word gentlemen, just to make it clear he was being sarcastic. A rapier wit, Wesley mused silently. "Just because you've finished your exams, doesn't mean you can slack off when it comes to your physical training. You're all well aware that the practical test is imminent." There were subdued mumbles of assent, and lots of nodding, everyone trying to evade the man's penetrating glare. Wesley drew himself up to his full height and looked Allen in the eye. He kept his gaze respectful, but challenging. He knew he was ready for this particular fight. "Ah, I see we have a volunteer. Mr Wyndam-Pryce, step forward." The rest of the class looked up in amazed terror as he moved into the centre of the mats. He heard Nigel whisper something about mental breakdown to Hughes and Bentley major. He gave them a reassuring smile and neatly sidestepped the first supposedly surprise attack by Allen. "Glad to see you're awake, Pryce. Defend yourself!" What astonished Wesley most about the ensuing encounter was the realization that Allen was simply not very good. His punches weren't just telegraphed, they came with a written warning and advice on how to avoid them. He hurled the entire weight of his slightly out of condition body behind each move, and even with the handicap of a less than muscular seventeen year old physique, Wesley had no trouble using his opponent's weight against him. Again and again he managed to topple the older man without any great effort. An achievement greeted with increasingly unpleasant threats from a red-faced and snarling Allen. By now the class were with him; he could feel the quiet jubilation in every barely audible gasp. Allen, however, was less than silent. His clumsy attacks became more and more transparent as any actual martial arts were forgotten in favour of good old-fashioned brute force. He charged one final time, and again Wesley saw his intention clearly. Allen was raising his knee to strike him in the groin, just as Wesley moved to the side and raised his own foot in defence. It was perfectly timed to land between Allen's legs. The class gave a wonderfully synchronized hiss of empathy, then Allen moaned feebly and fell. Wesley knew he should stop there, really. Should offer the man a hand up and a gentlemanly apology. But then he thought of all those terrified boys whose lives were made a misery by this man, and he couldn't resist. He leaned down and smiled pleasantly at the whimpering wretch. "Come now, sir. You know it's within your power to stop the pain." Part II "I'm rather at a loss here, Wyndam-Pryce." Dr Harrington shook his head, looking truly puzzled. "Your conduct here at the Academy has always been exemplary. One of the reasons you were chosen as Head Boy. And yet here you are again, for the second time today. And as difficult as I find this to believe, apparently for insolence to a member of staff." "Sir, I was simply proposing that Mr Allen put some of his own theories into practice." "I think that in your situation, a flippant attitude is rather ill-advised." The headmaster gave him stern glare, but Wesley thought he detected a note of humour behind the reprimand. When he had taken up his position with the Council, Wesley had learned that Dr Harrington did not agree with Allen's teaching methods, and held little respect for him as a martial arts instructor. But Allen had connections in the inner sanctum of the Council, and that counted for a lot more than qualifications and talent. Wesley had studied fencing under the headmaster's expert tuition, and Harrington was an excellent teacher. His lessons had certainly been rigorous and demanding, but he was never cruel. He could understand why the Headmaster had little sympathy for this particular member of his staff. "You will apologize to Mr Allen. A written apology; of no less than five hundred words, the first copy of which will be given to Mr Allen. The other five copies will be written in five languages of your choice, and delivered to me by five o'clock this evening. I'm sure you'll find that no challenge at all." "The first copy will be in English, I presume?" Wesley barely managed to keep the smug smile off his lips. It was common knowledge that Allen hadn't quite the academic background of the other masters. "Indeed." Dr Harrington's own smile was rather ominously affable. "And the other copies will of course be in the ancient or medieval forms of your chosen languages. One of which will be non-human." There was a hint of steel in the calm measured voice now. Wesley nodded in deference, deciding to heed his warning and shut up. Harrington might secretly share his contempt for Allen, but he was unlikely to express his disdain in the presence of a snotty-nosed student. Harrington glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. "I believe the Upper Sixth study period has just begun. After the examinations these are generally treated as free periods. You will be kept rather busy today, I imagine. Good day, Mr Wyndam-Pryce." *~*~*~* After assuring the class that he would hear a pin should they be disposed to drop one, the half-deaf librarian disappeared into his office for tea and sanctuary. Upon which the atmosphere underwent a subtle change; the noise level remained low, but they all relaxed, leaned back in their carrels. Some were writing letters home, or reading contraband copies of Stephen King, James Herbert or H.P. Lovecraft. There were even a few surreptitious games of pocket battleship going on. Wesley caught himself chewing his lip in contemplation and frowned. He was surprised at how quickly the childish habit had returned. It had taken him half an hour to actually compose a convincingly deferential apology, and he was spending the other half of the period translating the piece into his chosen languages. He was sorely tempted to write one copy in Pylean, just to see the look on Harrington's face when a portal opened in his study, but he resisted the urge and went with the slightly more boring but infinitely safer Aratuscan. "Look at the ponce!" The hated hissed whisper came from the carrels opposite. "Thinks he's still revising for finals." Wesley recognized the voice immediately, although it had been a couple of years since they'd met in L.A., and then not in the most agreeable of circumstances. "Is there a problem, Weatherby?" He kept his tone deliberately cool, well aware of how much that would annoy the other boy. Weatherby curled his lip into a particularly unattractive sneer, which wasn't much of a challenge, considering his less than personable appearance. "Just you, Windbag Prig. Trying to prove you're better than the rest of us by swotting up for the practical test." It was strange to remember how much that nickname had once hurt. Now it just seemed incredibly puerile and utterly lacking in wit. Wesley threw him a pleasant smile. "I see no point in proving something I already know to be true," he returned with intentional smugness, and went back to his translation, studiously ignoring the threatening glare from the other side of the room. When the bell rang for morning break, Nigel pushed back his chair so he could look into Wesley's carrel. "Are you feeling alright?" "Absolutely fine, thanks." Wesley finished the Norse translation and slipped the paper into his file. "You haven't lost your memory or something? Say, maybe your mind?" Nigel poked his arm reasonably hard. "You do remember who you are goading, don't you?" "Weatherby? He's just a second rate little bully with inadequacy issues. Mainly due to the fact that he actually is inadequate." Nigel looked suitably shocked, as if he couldn't believe Wesley's stupidity in expressing such an opinion. Weatherby's reputation as thug-in-residence was long established; no surprise that he would later find gainful employment as an assassin for the Council. They were always on the lookout for borderline psychotics as potential employees of the wetworks department. He was rather surprised that Weatherby wasn't waiting for him outside the library, but the reason for his absence became clear when he heard whimpering coming from the bathroom at the end of the corridor. "What are you doing?" Nigel mouthed frantically, as Wesley handed him his file and opened the bathroom door. The scenario was not an unfamiliar one. Weatherby had a small and desperately squirming first year in a vicious head lock, and was dragging him towards the toilet, where one of his more mindless minions was waiting with one hand on the flush chain. "P-Please, Weatherby. Matron will be so cross if I get my uniform wet again," the boy sobbed. Weatherby nodded to the other two minions, who grabbed the hapless first year's ankles and held him upside down. "Well, we'll make sure we only dunk your head, then." Wesley sighed, making it purposely audible. "It's a bit of a clich, I know, but why don't you pick on someone your own size?" "You're not serious, Pryce." Weatherby seemed almost amused by his suggestion. Minion number one, whose name he couldn't quite recall, paused uncertainly. "I don't know, Colin. You should have seen him in Allen's class this morning." Weatherby snorted in derision, and dumped the first year onto the tiled floor unceremoniously. The boy got to his knees, staring up at Wesley as if he were the second coming. Wesley turned to Nigel, whose expression was now one of horrified disbelief. "Get him out of here." He turned back and addressed the minions who were hovering hesitantly behind Weatherby. "And you three can bugger off as well." It was rather gratifying to see the look of astonishment on Weatherby's face when they began to back out of the door. "You're not fooling anyone, Pryce." Weatherby leaned against a wash basin and folded his arms in a reasonable attempt at nonchalance. "Apart from your friends. I do seem to have them fooled." "Wouldn't exactly be hard." That much was true. The capacity for rigorous intellectual thought did not tend to feature highly in the recruitment of mindless minions. "So, you're going to show me the error of my ways, then. Put me in my place with a little karate." Weatherby's tone was derisive and Wesley winced internally, recognizing that as a direct quote from his teenage self. He really must have been the most insufferable prig. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of punching you in the face." It was only fair to give him a bit of warning, Wesley thought, before actually carrying out his threat. It hurt his knuckles, but from the look of Weatherby's now gratifyingly bloody nose, it had hurt his face rather more. Weatherby seemed slightly dazed, although more by the fact of the attack than the actual punch. He swung his own fist in reprisal, managing to connect with Wesley's cheek more by luck than judgement. *~*~*~* The fight had progressed along the usual lines. A reasonable number of punches were thrown, along with some particularly satisfying kicks. Weatherby's problem, as it turned out, was not that he was outclassed; in fact they were probably quite evenly matched; but that his expectations of his opponent's abilities were rather low. And Wesley had taken full advantage of that. He glanced over at the other boy, whose eye was now almost swollen shut. His own cheek throbbed considerably, but evidently not as much as Weatherby's, which had necessitated the application of an ice pack and two aspirin. They both stood as straight as their respective injuries allowed, while Dr Harrington paced the office rather in the manner of a caged tiger. "Well, gentlemen. I have spoken with the other boys who were present at this... brawl, for want of a better word." The headmaster fixed Weatherby with a cold glare. "I have been made aware of your activities, Weatherby, and I have to say I'm appalled. This systematic bullying of the younger boys will not be tolerated. If I hear even a whisper that you have been indulging in this sort of behaviour in the future, I will thrash you soundly. Is that understood?" Weatherby didn't even try to fake defiance. He shifted his weight with some difficulty and whispered "Yes, sir." "And now we come to you, Wyndam-Pryce. You seem to be developing some worryingly recidivistic tendencies. This is the third time you've found yourself in my office in almost as many hours." Wesley wasn't sure, but he thought he might have seen a glint of amusement in the headmaster's eyes. He felt the corners of his mouth quirk up in solidarity, but quelled the smile quickly as Dr Harrington's eyes narrowed and his brow wrinkled into deep furrows. "Be assured, Mr Wyndam-Pryce, that should I have occasion to rebuke you again, Head Boy or no, that reprimand will be considerably less verbal than those you have previously received. I trust I am making myself clear?" The headmaster's tacit approval of his actions against Weatherby was confirmed by the lack of reprisal for the fight, but there was a limit to the man's patience. Following the headmaster's gaze to the cane on the top of the cupboard, Wesley understood that he would not be so lucky if he ended up here again today. "Crystal, sir." Dr Harrington eyed him thoughtfully. "I'm glad we understand one another." *~*~*~* The rest of the morning passed uneventfully; a particularly dry lesson on syntactic theory in early Glagolitic and the hazy heat of early June combined to create a rather torpid atmosphere in the lecture theatre. At one point, Wesley was sure Professor Bruner dozed off in mid-sentence, but as most of the class were asleep themselves, his wool-gathering went relatively unremarked. After a dinner that appeared to have been prepared by some of the nastier descendants of the Bourgia family, the Upper Sixth trooped dutifully over to the older part of the college for physiology and fencing; these lessons being thankfully consecutive rather than coterminous. They had just listened to a detailed anatomical description of the Kwaini demon and were about to attempt a diagram of its digestive system, when the doors to the lecture hall opened and Dr Harrington made his way to the centre of the room, his gown billowing behind him with a kind of unfeigned elegance that would have made Angel jealous. The class stood up immediately. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Please be seated. Now, I know you were expecting a fencing lesson after this lecture, but there has been a change of plan." There was a soft whisper of anticipation in the room, and Nigel mouthed the words 'practical test' to Wesley. "As you may have surmised, this afternoon's lessons will be suspended, and you will all undergo the final exam in your Practical Skills course." The headmaster waited for the murmurs to die down and then continued. "This test will take place in the old library and will begin at three o'clock exactly." Wesley glanced at his watch. "You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves. Good luck, gentlemen." He nodded politely to them, and swept out the room, his gown swishing lightly in his wake. *~*~*~* "I knew it! This morning, after martial arts, I was saying to Hughes, I bet it's today." Bentley major was proclaiming his precognitive skills to anyone who would listen. To be honest, none of them actually were. They had all adjourned to the old library and were now rather preoccupied in investigating the contents of their pockets, checking for stakes and vials of holy water. Wesley was pleased to discover a thin but reasonably sharp stake, a small bottle of holy water, a cross, and a small penknife with a retractable blade. He smiled wryly as he imagined Baden-Powell's reaction to his rather individual interpretation of the Scout motto. There was also, rather inexplicably, a small plastic ring containing a water reservoir and rubber bulb. Quite clearly a novelty toy; he couldn't imagine how his stuffy teenage self came to have such an item in his pocket. "Where did this come from?" He held it in his palm and Nigel stared at it for a moment. "You confiscated it yesterday. From the second years in the quad." Nigel's face creased into a worried frown. "You do remember that, don't you?" "Oh, yes, of course," Wesley lied so convincingly that he began to laugh, and Nigel stared at him in terrified anxiety. "Wesley! Pull yourself together!" The panic in his voice sobered Wesley. It was alright for him, in the four years he'd spent in California he'd grown accustomed to facing a wide variety of demons on an almost nightly basis. He remembered now that up until today, none of these boys had ever seen a real vampire. They had read of them, studied their habits, practised appropriate methods of despatching them, but he knew firsthand how inadequate such training was when face to face with the real thing. "I'm sorry." He reached over and laid his hand on the other boy's arm. Nigel was trembling uncontrollably. "We'll be fine, Nigel." The library door opened and Dr Harrington entered, followed by two middle-aged gentlemen dressed in dark, expensively-cut suits. Wesley recognized Quentin Travers immediately, but it took him a few moments to identify the other man. It was the family resemblance that gave it away, and Wesley managed to stifle a giggle as he recognized Robert Giles. Dr Harrington cleared his throat. "Your studies at the Academy have prepared you well for the intellectual rigours of a Watcher's life. Those of you who have excelled in the academic disciplines should be proud of your achievements, and rightly so. There are many rewarding career opportunities in the Council for linguists and historians. However, I'm well aware that the position most sought after is that of active Watcher." He paused, and glanced around the room, and it seemed that he met each boy's eyes individually. "But it takes more than detailed theoretical knowledge to become a Watcher. You must be able to apply that knowledge appropriately in difficult and stressful situations. Which is what today's test is all about." He nodded to Travers, who stepped forward with an air of self-importance. "The test is simple. Somewhere in this section of the building you will find two vampires. They represent a considerable threat to the rest of the school. Your task, gentlemen, is to eliminate that threat." With that, the three men left the library, locking the door behind them. Wesley couldn't help smiling. This was it. He had a vague memory of two vampires and controlled circumstances; had even boasted of it to Giles when they had first met. What he had omitted to tell Giles was that he had absolutely no recollection of the actual encounter. He had always assumed that it had been so terrifying he had blanked it from his mind. It was really quite amusing to discover the true reason for his memory loss. Wesley looked at the faces of his classmates, each one of them pale as the undead they were about to seek out. They looked utterly terrified. "Right. We need to seal the area first. Bentley, Cates, St John-Smythe; you do a standard protection spell to cover all the exits. That should keep them contained." There was a stunned silence. Wesley realized they were unable to reconcile this self-assured attitude with the teenage version of himself. "Look, we've been trained for this. We know what to do. It's just a matter of putting what we've learned into practice." He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "We can do this." It was Nigel who backed him up. "Okay. I still reserve the right to have you committed to an insane asylum at some point in the future, but you seem to have some idea of what to do." He bit his lip anxiously. "So what do we do?" "Set up the protection spell." He nodded to Bentley major, who looked at him nervously. "Caedmon's Compendium, page 418. The rest of us need to check for weaponry. Anything that could be useful." Aside from his own contributions, the spoils were fairly pitiful, considering their circumstances. Only one stake, of doubtful acuity; twenty assorted pens and pencils; ten crosses; five (smallish) bottles of holy water; three penknives, and a pack of condoms. This last item had been produced rather sheepishly by Hughes, and Wesley tried not to smile when he noted the expiration date on the side of the sealed foil pack. The presence of the pack in his pocket clearly demonstrated a triumph of hope over adversity. Looking at the items on the tables in front of them, Wesley felt an idea forming in his mind. He lifted his own penknife and flicked the switchblade mechanism. The blade shot out with pleasing alacrity. If only he could find some sellotape, or even an elastic band. He had a sudden, searingly vivid and rather worryingly arousing image of Valerie Singleton on the set of Blue Peter. And for today's project you will need a pencil or sharpened wooden stake, a switchblade, a packet of condoms, a small vial of holy water and a roll of double sided sticky tape. He stifled the desire to laugh manically and began to explain his plan. Part III "Tell me again why we're doing this?" Nigel hissed in a furious undertone. He was so close behind Wesley he was practically treading on his heels. "We need to draw them out. This will only work if we play on their terms." Wesley could almost feel the indignation rising in the other boy. "So we're the bait?" "Essentially. Well-armed bait, though." He grinned reassuringly as Nigel tightened his deathgrip on his stake. There was a movement behind them, and they spun to face the enemy. "And what do we have here?" The accent was pure mockney; Wesley heard cultured undertones in the drawled sneer. The vampire was dressed in a voluminous white blouse, and the tight black leather trousers he favoured reminded Wesley of his brief encounter with Angelus. This vampire was either drawing heavily on the Byronic ideal of being mad, bad and dangerous to know, or he was just a big fan of duran duran. "Snacks. At last, I'm bloody starving." The other vampire's ensemble was pure 'Madonna - The Early Years'. She wore the lace and leather look of 'Like a Virgin', but understandably devoid of the whole crucifix motif. "Back, you foul creatures of the night!" Wesley and the afore-mentioned creatures of the night turned to stare in fascination at Nigel, who clutched his cross in trembling fingers. "Oh, look! He's got a cross and he's not afraid to use it," the male vampire sneered nastily. His female companion sniggered obligingly. "They're pretty, Shaun. Can I have some fun with them first?" "Now, Tracey, I've told you before, it's not polite to play with your food." From his accent and speech structure it was clear that Shaun was public school bred and slumming it; but it was fairly obvious the female was not quite in his social class. Tracey was the linguistic opposite of her companion; the thin veneer of Received Pronunciation doing little to mask the flat nasal vowels of her natural accent. She was reasonably pretty, in a rather obvious way; blonde curls, full lips, and eyes that were a disconcertingly bright shade of blue. Wesley heard a clatter beside him, and glanced at Nigel, who had dropped his cross and was moving towards Tracey as if in a trance. Bugger. He should have guessed. The Council couldn't just use ordinary vamps. No, they had to find ones with mesmeric capability. Then release into a room full of hormonally susceptible seventeen year olds and simmer gently. Bastards. "Nigel, look at me!" he hissed under his breath. Nigel wavered and broke eye contact with Tracey long enough to glance at Wesley. "Run!" He had sufficient sense to obey. Wesley turned back to face the vampires, purposely avoiding Tracey's gaze. She moved closer to him. "What's the matter, my sweet? Don't you like pretty girls?" Wesley smiled in spite of himself, as Tracey sidled up to him, brushing her hand across his thigh. As subtle as a brick wall across a motorway. Lilah could give this girl lessons in seduction. "Or maybe he prefers pretty boys." Shaun stepped closer and Wesley made a conscious decision not to look into those brown eyes. How very forward thinking of the Council to offer opportunities for death and destruction regardless of sexual orientation. Tracey was getting impatient. "He doesn't seem very scared, Shawn." "The other one was terrified." Shawn licked his upper lip thoughtfully. "Maybe we're not the first vampires he's met." He took a step closer and placed his hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Maybe he's a regular Van Helsing," he whispered mockingly. Wesley remained very still, willing the vampire to believe that he was totally in his thrall. He tilted his head back slightly, exposing just enough of his jugular to entice Shawn closer. As the vampire leaned in, Wesley raised his hand and squeezed the tiny plastic bulb of the novelty ring he was now holding. A jet of holy water shot out and hit Shawn in the eye. He shrieked a curse and clapped his hand over his eye, all thoughts of feeding forgotten. "You little bastard! You'll pay for that." Both vampires were now in full game face and ready for a fight. Wesley turned and ran through the stacks, confident that the vampires were in pursuit. He rounded the corner at the end of the stacks and ran into the study area. He could see several of his classmates crouching on the mezzanine level; others were hiding under the desks, clutching crosses so tightly that even he could hear the blood pulsing in their wrists. He signalled to Hughes on the mezzanine level, and the first wave of their attack began, rudimentary waterbombs sailing through the air to explode on the unsuspecting vamps. The acrid smell of burning flesh quickly began filling the room. Condoms filled with holy water might be crude, but they were also highly effective. The vampires snarled, flailed and quickly beat a retreat in the direction of the stacks, desperate to get out of range. Wesley lifted his hand and half a dozen boys crawled out from under the desks and blocked the entrance to each stack with crosses brandished in shaking hands. Wesley smiled a little proudly. They might be novices in the area of vampire slaying, but they stood their ground with quite convincing bravado. As the shaking subsided, the boys began to advance, driving the vampires back into the centre of the study area. Nigel reached their captives first, armed with the sharpened stake. The penknife blade had proved quite useful after all. Both vampires looked badly burned and, understandably, irate. In his determination not to make eye contact with the female vampire, Nigel was faced with another dilemma. He pressed the edge of his stake against her breast, and then froze in panic-stricken embarrassment. Wesley sighed deeply. Ah, yes, what we need now is some adolescent sexual frustration to add a degree of gratuitous tension to the proceedings. "Nigel, stake her." He kept his voice very calm. "Wesley, I c-can't. She's got...well, you know..." he made a helplessly ridiculous gesture with his hands that was the international sign for breasts. "Oh, for God's sake, she's a bloody vampire. Just stake her." Nigel took a deep breath and shoved the stake home as hard as he could, then produced what could only be described as a high pitched squeal of exhilaration when Tracey crumbled into dust in front of him. There was a stunned silence for a few moments and then to Wesley's amazement his classmates began to applaud the still bewildered Nigel, even while the other vampire was still on the loose. The term 'idiots' didn't really seem strong enough to describe them. Wesley kept his eye on Shawn, as he took advantage of the distraction and moved back towards the stacks. "I say, that was quite impressive, ffoulkes!" This from St John-Smythe, who had actually set his weapon down to applaud Nigel properly. Shawn was nothing if not an opportunist. He was badly burned, but not quite down for the count just yet. He seized St John-Smythe around the neck, pulling him onto his toes, and exposing his jugular. "Right, I want to make a deal." He looked to Wesley, clearly recognizing him as some kind of authority. Perhaps because he was the only one who hadn't stopped to congratulate his friend. Wesley took a step closer, and mentally calculated how many feet he was from the vampire. If he could just get a bit nearer... "That's far enough." There was real desperation in Shawn's voice. "You come any closer and I snap his neck." St John-Smythe gave a tiny squeak of terror as the vampire pulled his head to the side in order to demonstrate his willingness to carry out his threat. Wesley stopped and kept his arms loose at his sides. "Here's what I propose." The vampire's voice was shaking, and he was almost as terrified as the boys in the room. "You've proved you can do it. You killed Trace. You let me go and I'll leave. Quietly. Make it seem like you killed the two of us. Your teachers will never know, I swear." Wesley folded his arms across his chest. "Can't do that. Sorry." He ignored the look of disbelieving horror in Smythe's eyes. "I'll kill him, you know I will." The vampire's voice was half-pleading, half-threatening. "Go ahead. We can't let you escape, surely you understand that?" There was a collective gasp from the others. "Wesley, this is serious," Nigel was suddenly by his side, his hands still trembling from his first kill. "He's going to kill Cuthbert!" Bentley major's face was white and he too was shaking. "I'm well aware of that, thank you. And you think if he gets out of here, he's going to keep his word and bugger off?" There were nods and sounds of assent, and a half-choked sob of agreement from the hapless St John-Smythe. "I'm not sure if you're all aware, but this is a vampire we're talking about. A soulless demon, a creature of the night, the spawn of Satan." Wesley looked around the group. "Is this ringing a bell with any of you?" he sighed. "I have to say, I object to the spawn of Satan thing. As far as I'm aware I have no personal connections with Lucifer." Shawn tightened his grip on St John-Smythe's neck. "Last chance, watcher boy." Wesley shrugged his shoulders and unfolded his arms, taking the final step necessary to move into range. Then flicked his wrist up and felt the mechanism of the switch blade shift. The thin stake shot out of his cuff and hit the vampire in the heart. A moment later, St John-Smythe was lying on the floor, coated in a fine layer of dust and blubbering like a baby. "Y-You utter bastard, Pryce," he wailed, tears streaking though the ash on his face. And you're a bloody fool, Wesley thought, but he kept his mouth shut. The other boys were beginning to gather themselves, and Nigel was still beside him. He laid a shaky hand on Wesley's arm. "That was...quite convincing." He shook his head in disbelieving admiration. "I really thought you were serious, Wes. I thought you were going to let him die. But of course you wouldn't have." Wesley looked at his friend's expectant face and didn't have the heart to disillusion him. "Of course not," he lied glibly and adjusted his shirt cuff over the firing mechanism. "You did well, Nigel." Nigel was torn between embarrassment and delight at Wesley's praise. "Um, thanks. But I was awful. If it wasn't for your encouragement..." he looked down at his shoes, his face scarlet. Wesley gave his shoulder a gentle pat, suddenly remembering what good friends he and Nigel had been. When (definitely when and certainly not if) things returned to normal, he really should look Nigel up, perhaps to reminisce over a pint. He rather liked the idea. *~*~*~* Wesley Wyndam-Pryce woke up, and then sincerely wished he hadn't. He ached. Everywhere. In fact, he would be hard pressed to single out which part of him ached most. On reflection he decided it was his head. The red hot needles jabbing into his eyeballs vied with the slow drilling of his back teeth (without anaesthetic) for the coveted title of 'Most Painful Area of Wesley's Anatomy 1987'. Someone drew the curtains and Wesley decided the eyes had won. "Wesley! Come on, you have to get up! We can't be late for breakfast again. Harrington will have your hide." Wesley opened one eye very carefully, and through a haze of agony he saw Nigel hovering above him. Nigel looked rather the worse for wear himself, his eyes rimmed with red; his freckles contrasting starkly against his pallid cheeks. Wesley tried vainly to remember what had happened last night. He had a vague memory of a nightmare, where he had been locked in some sort of godforsaken hotel with a group of rather uncouth strangers and forced to battle a vampire of great cunning and strength. He couldn't quite recall the end of the dream, though. "What time is it?" he croaked weakly. "Almost quarter to eight. You've got fifteen minutes." Wesley threw back the covers and leapt out of bed. It took a moment for full awareness of his discomfort to register, but when it did he clutched his head in an attempt to prevent his skull exploding. "What happened to me?" he groaned, flopping back down on the bed and massaging his temples. "Get dressed," Nigel ordered tersely. "I'll fill in the gory details while you get ready. How much do you remember?" Wesley considered this as he unbuttoned his pyjama top. "Not much, I'm afraid. There was, perhaps, a vampire?" "Two. We dusted them." Wesley blinked and reached for his glasses. "We did?" Nigel seemed to be losing patience. "You know we did, Wes. That was yesterday afternoon. I meant last night." "What happened last night?" He tried not to sound overly eager. "You're serious? You really don't remember?" Nigel's eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. Then he looked at his watch. "Come on, get a bloody move on!" Wesley finished buttoning his collar and fiddled with his tie until Nigel grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out of the room. They made it to the refectory with a couple of minutes to spare. Wesley glanced furtively at the staff table and was rather dismayed to see that Dr Harrington was studying him thoughtfully. When they sat down after grace, Wesley began to notice a subtle shift in the atmosphere at the sixth form table. His classmates were speaking in hushed tones; occasionally pausing to stare at him and shake their heads in wonderment. "Nigel, come on. What did I do last night? Why is everyone acting so strangely? Was there a spell?" "You don't remember the Spread Eagle, do you?" Wesley drew himself up. "That's out of bounds, Nigel, surely you know that?" Nigel choked and sprayed a mouthful of Rice Krispies over Bentley major. "I distinctly remember telling you that last night. I think your exact words were 'Bugger that, Nige, I need a bloody drink.' "I was drinking?" Wesley's voice rose to an indignant squeak, and Nigel elbowed him in the ribs rather unnecessarily hard. Wesley fought to regain his composure. "Are you absolutely sure?" "Five pints of Sam Smith's." Nigel worked steadily on the Rice Krispies. Wesley sighed softly. "Oh dear. That would explain the slight queasiness I'm currently experiencing." He eyed his bowl of greyish porridge with growing unease, suddenly regretting his breakfast choice. "No, the whiskey chasers would explain the slight queasiness, Wes." Nigel managed another spoonful of cereal. "Ah. Was I, by any chance, possessed?" It seemed the only logical explanation. He had no memory whatsoever of dusting any vampires, or sneaking down to the village local for what sounded like a rather heavy session. "I've been wondering about that myself." Nigel reached across the table and poured himself cup of tea. "When you kissed Sally, I just thought you'd cracked under the strain." "I kissed her?" Wesley couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice. The landlord's daughter, Sally, worked part-time in the local fish and chip shop. The sixth form were allowed into the village every second Friday, and Sally's presence in the chippy guaranteed a large Academy clientele. She had a figure of almost Hellenic proportions, and the fact that he had kissed her unnerved Wesley quite considerably. Thus far, his experience of intimate contact with the opposite sex consisted of whiskery embraces bestowed upon him by maiden aunts who possessed more facial hair than himself. "Snogged her, more like," leered Hughes, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation. Wesley felt his cheeks redden, and he turned his attention to his porridge, stirring it vigorously. "And then there was that darts match. How much did you win again?" Bentley major this time, leaning over to elbow Wesley in the arm. "Thirty-five quid." Nigel smiled rather proprietarily. "Those local boys never stood a chance." "Thought we were going to get seven shades of shite beaten out of us, and then Head Boy here comes up with the masterstroke. Drinks on him for the rest of the night. Bloody brilliant, Pryce." Cates lifted his teacup in salute. "Which would have been fine if the Professors Bruner, Cruickshank and Dr McCrea hadn't called in for a swift pint," Nigel added. Wesley felt as if someone had poured a glass of ice water down his neck. "I didn't... tell me I didn't, please." "Oh, you bought them a round, Wesley. You raised your bloody glass to them." Nigel demonstrated with his teacup. "Yeah, I think you were three sheets to the wind by then." Hughes nodded decisively. "That was when you made that stupid bet." Wesley almost didn't want to know; the smirks on the faces of the boys at the table were so smug. "Tell me," he whispered glumly. "You bet us all fifty pounds that the next active Watcher would be Rupert Giles." The ludicrousness of the idea set them all sniggering. Wesley lowered his head into his hands. The end of breakfast was signalled by Dr Harrington, and the boys stood for the closing grace. As the headmaster swept out of the refectory, he paused at the sixth form table and nodded pleasantly to Wesley. "I'll see you in my study, Wyndam-Pryce." *~*~*~* "It just remains for me to congratulate you, Wesley. I have always had the utmost confidence in your intellectual abilities, but I feared you didn't possess the leadership skills necessary to carry out the duties of an active Watcher. Your performance during the practical test was exemplary, and it's clear to me you do indeed understand the true nature of leadership." Wesley knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't seem remember how to close it. Dr Harrington gave a decisive nod. "The ability to make the hard decisions is a rare one, Pryce. You displayed grace under pressure, and I have no qualms in recommending you for an Academy scholarship to Oxford, with a view to active Watcher duty. Wesley blinked slowly, not sure if he was hearing the Headmaster correctly. "I will be writing to your father to inform him of my recommendations. I'm sure he'll be extremely proud of you, Wesley." Dr Harrington paused and his eyes seemed to twinkle just a little. "Of course, I see no point in mentioning last night's little escapade in my letter." "Thank you, sir." Wesley released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and looked at Dr Harrington with something akin to worship. He was turning to leave when the Headmaster spoke again. "Ah. Before you go, Pryce, there is the little matter of an appropriate reprimand for last night's infraction. You recall, I presume, our brief discussion of the subject yesterday?" As he spoke, Dr Harrington lifted a cane down from the top of the cupboard. Wesley nodded dumbly and stared in horror at the man. Surely he couldn't be serious. He was Head Boy. The Head Boy didn't get caned. He opened his mouth to protest, but managed only a pathetic squeak. Dr Harrington raised an eyebrow. "I see I will have to refresh your memory. I have a reputation to uphold, you understand. It would not do for me to make idle threats. The Americans have a saying; connected with baseball, I believe. Three strikes and you're out." He paused for dramatic effect, which was considerably heightened by three taps of the cane against his palm. "And you, Mr Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, are most definitely out. Assume the position." Wesley sighed and bent over the desk. Whatever the hell he'd done yesterday, he really hoped it was worth it.
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