__Sweet Sorrows__
By Eazy Does It
He couldn't sleep, not with that type of pain. He swallowed that thought, but didn't manage to do the same with the memories of what it meant. He was weak, he was a wimp, he was worthless, because he was Wesley. How was he supposed to know how much pain to put up with before crying? His injuries hurt, he couldn't help it. The visions dancing behind his eyelids were tainted with something he couldn't identify, something like copper and the dirty silver light of old mirrors. When he opened his eyes, it lingered on the walls around him and on the sunlight. He didn't mind that much - in fact he wasn't even wearing his glasses, because he saw something else quite clearly.
The Council table, wide, round, ebony with a streak of red, its
members sitting as if they were part of its narrow and twisted legs;
the light soft and focused, leaving darkness beyond the edge of the
furthest chair. And, probably in the same voice that had granted him
his status in the first place, while he stood in his best suit, being
told what a poor job he had done, how disappointed they all were, how
they would have to review his present position. They had a right to be disappointed, he heard himself say almost out loud. How difficult
should it be to accomplish what was supposed to be your destiny? But
it wasn't that part which tore his guts up, and as soon as he accepted that, he had an overwhelming urge to die.
Cordelia - Wesley gritted his teeth desperately, and the strength it took to chase the grip on his throat dimmed the pain in his back slightly. Giles, whom Wesley had stopped listening to almost as soon as he had started to go beyond 'how are you', sat up. The flash of movement disturbed his blurred view of the television set above his bed enough to remind him that his own mind could only offer him so much shelter from the world.
"Are you all right?" he asked. Wesley didn't answer; there was
a moment of silence and, he could tell, of confusion on Giles' part.
He smiled at that. "Good," the older man said, bringing a chair
closer. "I thought something was wrong for a moment."
"Actually," he replied, "I'm in a tremendous amount of pain,
but don't we all know about that?" He reached for his glasses, for the anchor that they were. He had spent years guarding his feelings,
training himself to remain quiet to jibes. Quelling the anger quelled
the sense of humiliation it came from, but right now anger felt good.
He could have lectured quite happily about the simple source of this
outburst, but decided his turn had come to be unreasonable. "I've
decided pain was good for me," he continued. He pushed himself up a
little, and had to bite on a yelp. "Everybody seems to cope so well
with it, I think I should learn to handle it, don't you?"
"What on earth are you talking about, Wesley?"
"You know, Mr Giles, the one gift I do have is incredibly
fine hearing. Uncanny, actually. I heard what you said to Buffy last
night."
"Excuse me?"
"You know. 'I'll go and see if Wesley is still whimpering.' And if you had bothered to ask what was wrong with me, you would have
found out that I slipped a disc and dislocated my shoulder. Given that all I asked for was an aspirin, I'd say that qualifies me for the stiffest upper lip of the British commonwealth."
Giles looked at him. How he envied the librarian for his thoughtfulness, his ability to see just over the hill, just that much
further than most people. For the fact that he was probably seeing deeper into Wesley's soul than himself could.
"I see."
"Nothing to worry about, I assure you. That hearing has always been a problem, really. The things I heard my parents say when they thought I couldn't hear." Truth is, he realised, you don't want to go as far you'd thought. It's too hard. If he exposed himself now, all would be lost.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I don't want your pity. I'll take the abuse, the contempt." He waved one hand. "But not pity."
"It's not your fault, you know." He smiled gently, in a way
that made Wesley want to weep. "You see, I've come to realise a lot of things in my time with the Council, and with Buffy. What they don't understand is that a Watcher is destined for one Slayer only, just as a Slayer can only have one Watcher. Buffy is my Slayer. I am her Watcher. There isn't much you could have done."
"You've spoiled her."
"No," he said quite firmly. On an edge. "I care for her. I respect her intelligence. I listen. Things you should learn to do if you ever want to be a Watcher worth the name."
"Don't tell me how to be a Watcher," he threw back. "I let Buffy
define my worth, too, and that was my mistake. I don't need her respect, or yours. When the Council found me, they were almost embarrassed to know how young I was. Eight years old, when the signs
came."
"Eight?"
"Yes, Giles. Eight. Old enough to understand that my parents didn't love me because they hated each other too much, but that at least some higher power had seen fit to grant me a purpose. Of course, now I've come to realise that not unlike one's circumstances in life, personality and fairness have little to do with it." He released some of the pain killers and took a moment to enjoy the numbness in his body. "And so - I scream like a woman. I don't even get one vampire before I'm down. And I always seem to say or do the wrong things."
"Experience, Wesley. No matter how gifted you are, that's what it always comes down to."
"A nicely uplifting theory, which we will be unable to test. The Council is sure to revoke me -"
Giles got up with a broad gesture of dismissal. "Damn the Council, for God's sake! Haven't you learned anything yet?"
"They have been good to me. For what it's worth, they raised
me."
"They taught you, and it's something altogether different. When you raise someone, it must have something to do with life. And you don't know what to do with life, do you?"
He said nothing for a long while, until Giles was about to leave.
"I'm very bright, you know. Too bright, perhaps. I think too much - all the time. I even think about what I'm thinking. Then I don't know what I'm doing, I'm too busy thinking about it. And that's why I'm afraid, because I think about my fear, and what I should be doing, instead of doing something."
"It's going to get you killed." Wesley looked away. Giles' tone was hard. "Courage is not something you have. It's something you do. There *is* courage in the way you try."
"But trying's not enough, is it?"
"No, it's not."
"Well, since you've been so kind in sharing the harsh truth of
things with me, may I return the favour?"
"As long as you don't forsake the basic respect due to your
elders," he said, cleaning his glasses, "be my guest."
"You're quite right in saying that I have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone, but as long as mine aren't involved, I'm actually very good with other people's feelings. You care too much
for Buffy."
"I do believe we've covered this ground already. A long time
ago."
"Your devotion to her is highly commendable. But we both know
some of it is misplaced. A fatherly love like yours is a safe thing -
safer than romantic love." He moved to the window. Wesley read something dark in the tightening of his shoulders.
"Do get to the point, please."
"I know about Jenny Calendar. I know how painful the memory of love can be. But if you can feel love for someone else, the grief lessens, the loneliness fades. It's dangerous for the Watcher to put all his emotions in one basket. Both for him and the Slayer. You can't walk with her. You have to be ahead of her. You must be able to tell where her battles end and yours start."
"And your advice would be to...care for her less?"
"No. Simply to make sure you understand what you're doing."
Giles fingered with something in his pocket. His stillness was heavy - with knowledge again, Wesley thought. "I do owe you an apology."
"If it's for the things you said behind my back, rest assured that I probably thought worse of you."
He smiled. It was a sign of understanding and of regret. "I should go and let you rest. Buffy... was going to come and visit you. Would you want her to?"
"I'm not sure *she* does."
"Buffy is an extraordinarily good person. I wish you could have seen that."
"I believe you. But it's too late now."
"You should see something of Cordelia in any case - she asked what hospital you'd been sent to. She had to work today but -"
"No!" He fumbled with his neck-brace. Suddenly all he could feel was a terrible itch just below his chin. "It's -- too late for her, too."
For one awful moment he could see that Giles was going to probe him further, because he could hear the unhappiness as clearly as Wesley did. But, probably because he did, he said nothing. He squeezed Wesley's hand and left.
**************************
It was near sunset. The light stretched itself across the room with the heat, glowing and sweet. It gave a feeling of forever. Wesley wanted to go outside, and rest on the grass, and think of nothing but
the beautiful curves of the half-moon and of women's hips.
Instead he was watching the waving lines of the machines connected to Faith, and Buffy's stiff back. He had no idea what she was thinking, but he felt quite certain that she didn't want him to say anything.
"When are you leaving hospital?" she asked suddenly. He straightened slightly. "Tomorrow. I have to pack my things."
"When are you flying back to England?"
"Probably the end of the week."
"That's quick."
"The Council doesn't like to pay more rent than it has to." After a beat, he added, "It's been a terrible business. All this."
"Yeah."
It was too much of the usual brick wall for Wesley to stand. He took one step toward the bed to do what he had come for. Holding Faith's hand in his own, he murmured the old prayer against it and gently kissed her palm. It gave him a shiver, to feel its ice.
He was trying to eat the grey matter in his tray when Buffy came in. She started to speak before he could even say her name.
"That stuff with her hand," she said. "I hope it's not comatophilia or something."
"An old prayer," he answered. "To wish her well, wherever she is going to."
"Does it work?"
"The point of most rituals is not whether they work or not. But I hope it does."
She had her arms crossed, and it was telling him she wasn't finished. "How are you feeling?"
"Buffy - " He paused to drink some water and was chagrined to
find it did nothing to take away the taste of his food. "You've never
really cared whether I lived or died. Is there something I can do for
you?"
She shook her head. "Wow. Giles told me you were angry, but that's melt-down for you. I'm impressed."
"I would have preferred 'uncomfortable and intimidated', but I
supposed it's not too bad a start, is it?"
"No, it's not. Only thing is, pig-headedness is not one of my best traits, and it's kind of sad you had to pick up on it." She sat on the edge of the bed. "It's funny, you know. In a lot of ways I *didn't* want to come and see you. Too busy thinking about Angel. But
when Giles told me you didn't want to see me at all, I had this sudden urge to come."
"Reverse psychology. I wonder why I didn't think of that," he
said.
"I'm sorry I made it so hard on you at times. The Council has
been hard on us, too, especially Giles. And you were too much of the
Council."
"Everything has its time and place - rebellion as much as consensus. The Council that you have so readily rejected has been protecting the living from legions of the variously undead for centuries. You've been very lucky, Slayer. I hope you understand that."
"I do."
He didn't expect it to go so easily. "Well, then," he said, folding his napkin, "I appreciate the apology. And I wish you the best of luck in the future."
"Wesley, don't be like that." He blinked at her. "So formal. So determined to do all the proper things duty requires. And, as they
say, don't underestimate the power of good-byes." She smiled a little, and there was a warmth in her eyes that he had to admit was
contagious. "I think that if we can be friends before you leave, it
would be a good thing. Don't you?"
"I suppose it would be best to have closure -"
She rolled her eyes. "What closure? Friends usually stay in touch, Wes. You know - postcards, letters, birthday cards, Christmas cards. Any excuse Hallmark can throw at us. Then you come and visit for a little sunshine, and maybe we come and visit for a little rain. I think Cordelia's never been to London." He felt himself grow red.
"Although you're not exactly in her best books right now. I thought
things were going well between you two."
"Buffy, I'm about to leave the country. And a thousand other matters. And I would rather not talk about it."
"Sure. Just seems a shame, though." She peered at his food. "I bet you've lost weight since you've been here."
"I was brought up to eat whatever was on my plate -"
"Let's all go to the restaurant before you leave," she said. "What do you say?"
"Well -"
"It's a deal then." Before he could even move, she had kissed him on the cheek and was gone.
**************************
Wesley stared at the boxes long and hard, but it failed to move them. When he had arrived in Sunnydale, the books and the weapons had followed him a few days later, and he couldn't avoid thinking that
the Council was punishing him by letting him pack and ship them
himself. The problem was that he had to use the same boxes (airtight
and cushioned and locked by a drop of his blood), whose number was
depressingly finite. This was the sixth time he'd had to start
rearranging their cargo, and it was starting to annoy him tremendously.
He just couldn't remember what books had been in which box. To top that up, the one cardboard box he had randomly kicked in frustration had been full and had left a searing pain in his toes. He sighed. His back was still sore.
Perhaps, he thought, he could punish the Council for punishing him and arrive a few days late. He was in no hurry to start working in
their library again; it was dark and dusty, and he was fed up with
having to reorganise their clumsy classification system. In his
moments of depression, he felt that the Council had only picked him
for his organisational skills.
That's why he had pestered them to let him replace Giles such an eternity ago - if he was to be a Watcher, well, he ought to do some Watching. But he still hadn't been able to get away from the books, or from his own head. Returning to them was the last thing he needed at the moment.
The door bell startled him into spilling half his tea on his trousers, and he was mumbling expletives in Latin when he opened the
door. Only to nearly drop his mug on Cordelia's feet.
"Hi."
He went as dumb as he always did whenever Cordelia spoke to him the way she did, as if he was this truly unexpected and pleasant surprise to her day. Usually, however, it was in his element and wearing a suit, and it at least made him feel like the king of the world. And back then there had still been promises –
"Cordelia. Hello." She hadn't stopped staring at him. "I'm sorry, I just spilled some tea when I got up -"
"It's not that." She indicated his T-shirt and his blue jeans. "I've never seen you in anything but suits."
"Suits aren't practical when you're packing."
"I think you look great. Can I come in?"
Stepping back to let her come in, he finally took notice of the simple green summer dress she was wearing. "So do you," he said
sincerely, before biting his tongue. Don't even think about it, Wesley. She looked about to say something then stopped. "What?"
"It's just an old dress. Then I realised how lame it sounded to say that, even though it's true." She shrugged.
He nodded. Then, "So I - I hear that you did quite well. With
the vampires, I mean."
"I killed some."
"That's great." He was getting fidgety. It was like an allergic reaction. It made him want to throw himself out of the window.
"Wesley - I think I'll just jump straight to the point. Why didn't you want me to visit you in hospital?"
It was getting worse. His throat had gone dry. "It's complicated."
"No - I went out with Xander, believe me, I know the meaning of the word. Nothing about you has ever been complicated." She threw her handbag on the sofa. "I'm not leaving until you tell me."
Fine, he told himself. It can hardly get worse. Can't it? "I
was embarrassed."
"Embarrassed? It's because I'm barely out of high school,
isn't it? I am *so* fed up with this whole hang up about age -"
"No, it's not about that. I was embarrassed because - I wasn't
the warrior I wanted to be." He turned away.
Cordelia sighed. "Wesley, look at me. " He did. "If I wanted
brawn, I'd be with Percy, all right?"
"Thank you. I think."
There was silence. She started to inspect the boxes. "Do you
need some help with packing?"
Cordelia was gifted with boxes. He had already noted that particular talent of hers at the school library, but today it was flooring him. They had taken all the books out; she had looked at all the boxes, then at the books again, then had reorganised them according to size before starting to pack. The first try had failed, but the second attempt worked beautifully.
She had stayed after that, asking questions about the strange weapons they were putting away. Now he was finished, and standing in the door frame of his room. He was watching her drink a glass of lemonade on the small balcony.
The apartment looked asleep with its shelves empty and the old prints on its walls, with nothing to break the quiet white. Even the slight
breeze ruffling along Cordelia's dress made no sound as it glided to
him.
Time to wake up. Time to say good-bye.
He walked to her with more determination than he had confronted the Mayor's ascension with.
"All done?" she asked.
"Yes, all done, at last."
"I guess I should go."
"I appreciate all your help. It was really very kind of you to drop by."
"You're welcome." She held her hand out to him. "Good-bye, Wesley."
He took it. "Good-bye, Cordelia."
As soon as he had said the words he wanted to take them back. The simple touch of her was sending incredible visions of pleasure and
desolation to his soul. He knew it didn't have to be that way, just as he didn't have to always be afraid of snakes. He caught her arm as she walked back into the apartment. They stared at each other, both
equally surprised by his gesture.
"Wesley -"
"Don't say anything."
Because he didn't want Cordelia to think he had gone mad, he
dropped his hand. Rubbing it nervously against his trousers, he waited a few heartbeats for her to move away.
When she didn't, he dared to press his mouth to hers. He felt the tug-of-war deep in his belly, that was pulling him to her then away, just like in the library, but he fought it this time, acknowledged it as the fear of the unknown that those feelings were for him. And he
held on to her lips, parting from her only to sigh his desire on her cheek, to give her a chance to go.
But when Wesley opened his eyes she was looking at him, so close that they were breathing into each other. He suddenly noticed that her arms were around his waist and her whole body against his. Her dress
was thin and light; his fingertips slipped between its buttons on the
back and the feel of her skin brought to his mind the sight of white
heat and naked limbs. He kissed her again, harder and longer; she was
the one who broke away eventually, because he certainly couldn't let
go of her. He wondered how he could possibly look at her, and be
civil, and apologise, with the erection he had.
"Wesley - do you still have sheets?"
It took him a moment to realise what she was saying, and another to close his mouth and find the words to answer. It was the part of him that was always sceptical through his moments of happiness that prevented him from fainting with disbelief.
"Last thing I pack," he croaked.
**************************
Wesley felt good. Bloody good, in fact. His heart was coated in honey, its beat slow and heavy in his ears. He wiped away some of the sweat on his brow and turned to look at Cordelia. He wasn't sure whether she was asleep or dozing, but her eyes were closed and her
breathing lazy.
It was the heat of the day, of the sunlight across the bed, of their lovemaking, that had to be blamed. Sleep, surrender that it was, was tempting. Death and birth. Just to be still like this forever. He touched her face, tucking some hair behind her ear, and found
something beautiful in the curve of her neck and in the blood flowing so thickly under it. His finger lingered on her pulse because he thought it wonderful that flesh was never just that.
His body had always seemed to have little to do with him - he had been a clumsy child and, not being inclined towards sport, found his arms and legs lanky and not particularly useful. Adolescence had been predictably awkward, and his rather limited sexual experiences had involved more mechanics than pleasure so far. And so Wesley had always viewed this human dependence on matter, when compared to all the other modes of existence, as a disadvantage; now it had a sublime quality to him. He couldn't help thinking that nothing would ever be easy for him, but with Cordelia it had all been simple and natural. He had lost himself in her. A most delicious insanity had overwhelmed him. Insanity, because for once he could not explain with words what he had felt. He welcomed the piercing opera sounds that had filled his head. He dropped on his back, hands behind his head. He heard a
slight ruffle in the sheets and smiled, more and more broadly, until
she was completely in his arms, her fingers twinned with his, sighing
against his chest.
"Have I been asleep long?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"What time is it?"
He slipped from her embrace to watch her stretch and wriggle against him; the laughter playing along his body was pushing him to an edge. He kissed her before she could speak again - he didn't want to think about what to do next, or to talk of good-byes and regrets. He wanted to be able to feel this infatuation as if it were love, or this love as if it was intoxication, and know something true no matter what it was. He deepened the kiss, caressing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, smiling from the pleasure he was giving her, from the tingling in his loins she created when she made his name sound like a
secret.
**************************
He scrunched the towel through his hair, before combing it and drying the rest of his body. He didn't want to get dressed: there was a numbness just under his skin that made him feel hot and tender. The
compromise was wrapping the towel around his waist, but it meant
fighting Cordelia's fingers when she tried to loosen it. She pouted at him.
"Cordelia, dear - I won't get out of here alive that way. And -", he seized her hand and kissed it, "neither will you."
"But what a way to go," she grinned.
"Not as original as you'd think, actually. My grandfather died like this."
"Really?" He nodded. "How old was he?"
"Seventy-six."
"Wow." Then, "So the Wyndham-Pryce men have a history of stamina, then?"
Wesley found it extraordinary that he could blush so hard at anything she said after what they'd shared. "But also a history of heart problems, I'm afraid."
"Heart problems?"
"Yes." He kissed her, something very chaste on the lips. "All sorts of heart problems."
It was clear that she understood what he meant, and he was grateful that she agreed to play the game. "I should get a shower," she said.
"You know, I still have the Council's credit card."
She sat up. "Two words I didn't think I would ever get to enjoy the sound of again. Go on."
"It's very much certain that they're going to fire me the way they fired Giles, which means there's no need on my part to remain on my best behaviour."
"Oh, Wesley, I'm sorry -"
"No matter. My point is: let's have some fun tonight."
"Give me ten minutes."
Cordelia was still showering ten minutes later. It was just as well, because Wesley couldn't decide which suit to go for. He was so caught up in this problem that he didn't realise how little he was wearing when he went to answer the door. It was Buffy, and it was only after he had spent a moment staring at her staring at him that he realised his towel was slipping. He grappled with it unsuccessfully, trying to make it cover more of himself than it ever could. But the twitching that had taken over his body threatened to make him drop it.
He decided to hang on to the door, and he grasped it with all the
strength he had.
"Hello, Buffy."
"Hey." Her eyes ran over him again. "I was in the neighborhood. So I thought I'd stop by."
Damn the girl, he thought. Does nothing embarrass her? "How nice."
"Is this a bad time?"
"Yes, very bad. I was about to have a shower, you see. Anything I can do for you?"
"But you look like you've just come out of the shower."
"No, I don't."
"Wesley, your towel's wet."
"I wish you wouldn't look at my towel."
"Sure. I'll just look at your bare chest then."
Before he had time to asphyxiate, they were distracted by the sound of singing coming from Wesley's room. It stopped quickly; he was working out some explanation to give Buffy when Cordelia came out.
Wearing only one of his shirts.
"Wesley," she said, "I think this one suits me better than you --" She looked at Buffy. Buffy looked at her. She checked that her wet
hair was still carefully in place, and drifted toward Wesley. "Hi,
Buffy."
"Hi." She turned to Wesley. "I see this really is a bad time -"
"Depends on how you look at it," Cordelia said. He almost screamed at the feel of her finger running up and down his back. "Now you're going to tell me you'd forgotten about the meal tonight."
"The meal?" he asked.
"Men," Buffy said to Cordelia. "Such simple creatures, really."
"Oh yeah."
"Buffy - " Wesley released the door. "Thank you for reminding me. When and where are we meeting the others?"
"Eight, at Vincent's."
"We'll be there. Now, if you'll excuse us -"
"We're going to have to make the best of the next two hours," Cordelia said.
It was her who shut the door.
"You're right. The shirt does suit you."
"Yeah, I know. Weird, isn't it?"
"I think I need another shower."
"A hot or a cold one?"
"That was embarrassing, Cordelia!"
"Are you kidding? Your stock just went through the roof!"
He tightened the towel. "I do not desire to have my reputation in any way heightened by being known to have sexual intercourse with beautiful young women. I'm not that kind of man."
"The beautiful young woman thanks you for your courtesy, and the compliment." She kissed him. "But it's biology. Something to do with sexual potency being linked to the status of alpha male or something. Basically, now she can see that you're not a loser, and that you're in fact quite human."
"Cordelia - why - why didn't you think so?"
"Think what?"
"That I - was a loser. Everyone else did."
"And why didn't you think I was a stupid bimbo?"
"Because you're not -"
"Why?" She looked older than her eighteen years then. "Everyone else did."
He thought about it. "One of those things?"
"One of those *nicer* things."
**************************
Wesley looked at his watch. It was almost half past five. The sun was rising behind the houses and the trees at the end of the street, and it was already getting warmer. He was walking in a dream. The blue sky, the perfectly cut grass, the palm trees. California would always be an alien world to him. He had spent his childhood on an old estate and even older mansion and still older boarding school, and all he could see around him was new and rootless.
He wasn't surprised that demons were roaming the place - they must have felt free here. Untouchable by the old world magic that had held them down all this time. It was hard not to believe that anything was possible. Like the fact that he was awake at all. He had always found it a problem to go without at least seven hours of sleep, and he had only got a couple.
The restaurant had turned out to be a better experience than he expected, as well as the Bronze afterwards, although his memories were slightly glazed by alcohol. He remembered impressing people with the ballroom dancing he had learnt when, for some strange reason that he decided belonged to what the young called 'cool', they had played some old Dean Martin number. If they still looked at him in a way that suggested he was somewhat from another planet, it was in a friendly sort of a way. He turned to the sound of a car slowing down
behind him.
"Wesley?"
"Good morning, Giles."
"What are you doing out this early?"
He looked at the other man's clothes. They were those he had been wearing last night. "I could ask you the same question."
"Jet lag." Wesley laughed. "Do you want a lift?"
"Won't say no."
Giles pulled away as he strapped himself in. "So, what are you doing out this early?"
"I walked Cordelia home."
"And it took you -" he looked at his watch "- five hours?"
"No, no! We - we went back to my place. She didn't want to go home yet. But I had to get up early - the books have to be picked up and my flight is a morning one."
"I hear things are hard for her at the moment."
"Yes, I think they are. But she wouldn't talk about it."
They said nothing more for the rest of the journey. They arrived just as the parcel service did. After Giles stayed to help him clear up some insurance details with a driver that was still half asleep, puffy eyes and smile hanging low, he suggested that they have breakfast at a cafe nearby.
Wesley was tempted to say no and catch some sleep before leaving, but something about the other Watcher stopped him. Perhaps it was possible to see into people sometimes, by accident, to catch a glimmer of them like a rain drop on your face.
And when he had looked at Giles that one moment, he thought he had seen something sincere about the invitation, some generosity that was
of principle as much as personality. That was why he said yes. As he
stirred his tea, Wesley realised that all these guarded gestures, all
those moments of silence, was not aloofness but focus. He felt like a
child next to him, and wanted to apologise as well, for being so stubborn and not listening to this man who could have taught him much, and that he suddenly wanted to become.
"Giles? Why haven't you been to bed?"
Giles finished the last of his egg before answering. "Sometimes I can't sleep."
"Often?"
"No."
"Is it because of Buffy?"
He smiled. "It used to be, at first. You can imagine why."
Wesley smiled back. "And now?"
"Various things. Boring things."
He took it as a hint. But the further he got through his pancakes, the more intense Giles' gaze upon him seemed to be; after a while, he spoke again.
"Wesley, can I ask you a rather personal question?"
"Of course."
"Are you in love with Cordelia?"
Some of Wesley's bacon promptly ended up back on his plate. He waved away Giles' offer to help as hysterically as he coughed and tried to swallow the rest.
"That was too personal, wasn't it?"
He nodded, still trying to get his breath back. His first attempt to speak produced only a strange shriek. "Yes," he managed finally. "No. I mean, yes, it was too personal. But the answer is - no. I don't think so." He drank half of his tea. "To be honest, I'm not sure I'd recognise love if it were to bite in the neck. But I'm glad I'm leaving. I don't want to find out. I don't think I could handle it."
"You've been doing well so far," he said. Then shifted in his seat as he realised he had said too much.
"Buffy told you, didn't she?"
"Well, no - not really. I sort of forced it out of her. We met at the school and she looked in such a shock - I had to ask."
"And I supposed you were equally surprised?"
He cleared his throat. "The reason I asked was that I wanted to make sure you weren't about to make a silly mistake."
"Such as?"
"Returning to England when you might have the love of a good woman right here."
Wesley wondered at his compulsion to defend the Council all the time. Was it a matter of protesting too much? "I have duties, Giles."
"Only to yourself. It's you that you have to live with first, not other people."
"And if my duties to myself tell me I must be faithful to the Council?"
"Then so be it. But how much do they deserve to take from you?"
"Are you going back to the old days?" he asked.
He ordered more tea for the both of them. "What old days?"
"The old days of Ripper."
Giles sighed. "Can't a man keep his dark past a secret anymore?"
"Well, I'm sure it's possible, but not when people are looking."
"Meaning?"
"I searched through - I suppose the exact term would be 'swooped through' your file at the Council before coming here. I thought I might learn something."
"Why I had been fired? Or to blackmail me with?"
Wesley took comfort from the tone of his voice. He sounded more amused than anything else. "Nothing like that! I thought I might learn something on how to be a Watcher. Although I must say that your
grand-mother's file was far more interesting. She seems to have had
quite a sense of humour."
"She did. If she hadn't been there, I might never have been a
Watcher."
"And you wouldn't have lived very long as Ripper."
"When I was Ripper, I didn't want to." Giles paused and waited for the waitress to go. "I don't think I can ever make a bigger mistake."
He poured some tea. He had to talk about these things, before the chance went, the chance to do so with someone who might understand. "But you've lived."
"It wasn't any sort of life that made sense."
"It's still more than I have done."
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Wesley. But I hope you'll never have to learn that way I had."
***************************
Giles wondered if it could be possible that he was going to miss that pompous young man. He had his heart in the right place, after all, even if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. He watched him fumble through his pockets to check that he had enough for the taxi; he was back in a suit, but his awkwardness made him look much younger than he was.
He has never had anything to hide, he thought, and he found that remarkable. When he's grown up, he thought again, he might be quite something. Being clumsy and scared couldn't be any worse than the selfish and angry Ripper he had been.
They shook hands and wished each other luck. The taxi drove off. Giles had a strong feeling that this hadn't been truly good-bye. They would hear of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce yet.
* * *