FIC: Keeping His Own Counsel BtVS Sn 3 Wesley
Title: Keeping his own Counsel
Author: Sunnyd_lite
Fandom: Buffy Season 3 Post Graduation Day
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1846
Prompt: tamingthemuse's week 44 Riposte
Disclaimer: Created by Joss, owned by corporations, played with by me. I also do not own Twinings or the Princeton Review.
Summary: Wesley has time to think, and he makes a pot of tea.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta Spiralleds who took time out of prepping for a party to beta when my muse waiting until Saturday to turn up! Oh, it's Wesley so British spelling is in effect.
"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?"
In some cultures, that might have been a respectful inquiry. At Sunnydale's hospital it was merely the prelude to the scant moments of medial attention he was likely to benefit from today.
"The X-rays show nothing, and besides some light bruising, it doesn't appear that you have suffered any neck trauma." Wesley must have imagined the slight emphasis on that phrase. The Council's briefing prior to this assignment had stated that the general population of the Hellmouth was oblivious to its stranger denizens. He tried to focus as the rather harried looking man continued. "I'm giving you a prescription for muscle relaxants, but don't operate any heavy machinery while you're on them. I recommend at least a few days of bed rest for your contusions. It looks like you took quite a tumble."
A tumble. It had been a deliberate riposte, a strategic retreat to avoid a blow and retrench in a better position from which to repel the attacking vampires. Oh hell, who was he trying to fool? They hadn't even trusted him, HIM a trained Watcher, with a stake but merely what they called "Holy Water Grenades", which of course were not actual grenades but a bag that contained several pink and purple water balloons. "You shouldn't be able to hurt yourself with those," someone had commented.
They'd clearly underestimated his ability to fall into harm's way.
His thoughts were interrupted when the doctor, old enough to be his grandfather, stared over the rim of his glasses. "While this large scale attack on the graduation ceremony was unprecedented, we've had several accident victims who've run into PCP gangs. However, they only come out in the dark. I'd suggested sticking to the daylight for a while."
Wesley really hoped that the good doctor assumed it was the drugs he'd been given intravenously that caused him to sputter out giggles at that caution. Gangs! The students had faced down an organized army. The mayor turned into a demon and the building had exploded. But the official account was a gas leak and gangs. However, the intensity of the older gentleman's focus grabbed his attention. Wesley hiccupped and then tried to straighten his spine. Maybe this fellow did know more, but was unable to construct another method of disseminating the information in a form those unaware would believe.
"Sunlight, fine," he managed to choke out between the spasms. "Is that all?" He tried to take a deep breath, then raised his eyes at the silence. His tone must have been more brisk than he'd intended as the man looked affronted. "I do apologize." He waved his hand around. "I understand that you've all been very busy given what happened at the graduation. But I've been sitting here in a drafty robe for over ten hours."
That seemed to ameliorate the situation. "You are still feeling the initial dose of pain killers. Do you have anyone who could pick you up?"
It was a deceptively simple question. Unfortunately, it was one with an equally simple answer.
"No." A part of him wanted to explain, to let the doctor know he wasn't the type of person who had no one to call. And as recently as last week he might have launched into that very diatribe. But Miss Summers wasn't the only one who'd graduated. And he doubted that his alma mater of the Council would be willing to interfere.
So the answer was, no.
"I'm hoping to procure a taxi back to my place. Am I able to fill the prescription here or should I use my local chemist's?" At the other's confusion, he clarified, "Pharmacy."
"Given there's no sign of concussion, and that it's soft tissue damage, there's no reason for us to hold you. I would feel better if someone was checking up on you."
At that Wesley lifted his head and looked right into the doctor's eyes, and said with the weight of the last few days condensed into the words, "Wouldn't everyone."
Which is how he found himself at loose, but aching, ends in his small flat. He supposed that since the Council had rented it, he'd only be allowed there until the end of the month. It did provide a few days grace, a few days he desperately needed.
Since he'd been seven, he'd known his career path: how he was part of the elite to save the world without its knowledge.
That certainty of purpose had been ripped away, as had his vain illusions that the Slayer would actually find use for his skills, if not as her Watcher, at least as one of her "Scoobies". Ouch. He really shouldn't wince; it hurt.
He had supposed that the Council had sent him to oversee the two Slayers because he was closer to their age, and would be able to engage them with a greater ease. Also, he wouldn't, as Mr. Giles had done, fall into the trap of thinking of them as daughters.
The Council had been correct, there was no paternalistic relationship. There was no connection what-so-ever. It was clear his path was not in that direction.
But he was Watcher-trained and had resources beyond the norm. Mr. Giles might be bound only to the wisdom and knowledge collected in texts and tomes, but he was of a newer generation. Knowledge was everywhere, wisdom was in its application and the personality test had turned up three times in his inbox, it must be a sign.
Normally he would not bother with such items, but one thing he had noticed during his weeks in what these Americans called higher education was the proliferation of self-tests to determine career paths. He recalled a sign outside the Guidance Office of a website with such tests. Not that he was in the position of a new graduate. No, this would be a more successful riposte, although he was not retreating, but moving forward. Despite what the Council and the Slayer may think, he did have skills; he just required a new method of applying them.
He set the kettle on, and prepared the teapot with a blend of two Darjeeling bags with one Earl Grey. He'd used up the loose leaf he'd brought over with him, but he still had the familiar boxes of Twinings he'd sent to himself. He'd been unsure of its availability and there were some sacrifices he was unwilling to make. He sliced the half lemon in his fridge and placed two slices in the tea cup.
Turning back to his computer while waiting for the water to boil, he thought about whether to hit the link provided.
The test was from Princeton; while it did not have the history of a real university, like Oxford, it was a well established name for an American school. And really, it was easier than tracking down an oracle to gain a sense of his next endeavor. There were a series of choices between two items, most of which he'd rather avoid at all costs. And they were vaguely worded. Should you argue if you know you are right? Up until last week, he'd believed what the Council had told him, so if he had arrived at a contrary position, he would have deferred to wiser heads.
He no longer had that assurance, so how would he respond now?
He jerked up when the kettle whistled, pulling at his still sore muscles. He quickly added water to the teapot, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the questions. He'd always preferred essay tests, as with multiple choice he tended to analyse the questions to find no suitable answer. Maybe if he tried to rely on impulse instead of logic? No, that would not work either.
Settling back down, he re-read the six questions on the current page. He automatically checked the other box when confronted with the option of politician or news-caster. His role was not one for the public eye, of that he was certain.
He hit submit, and moved back to the kitchen side of the flat to pour his cup of tea. The amber liquid filled the china cup, and caused the lemons to float. A touch of grace in the current turmoil. It was two days after the battle, and no one had called. Maybe his life was only a tempest in a teapot.
Enough of that. Even if true, it was his teapot and he could, he would, do something about it. He was no longer at anyone's beck and call. Perhaps the test would provide new avenues to explore.
Back in his seat in front of the computer, he reviewed the screen again. There must be something wrong with this test. He came up as a Yellow - and he ignored the subtext of that colour - which included enjoying a detail-oriented and predictable environment. Unfortunately, his life had stopped being predictable.
His style was noted as Blue, someone who wished to be supportive with minimal confrontation. And, in a way, that is what he'd expected as a Watcher. To support a Slayer who would do what he said.
However, he'd watched his father and the Council long enough to realize that life with them was a series of left handed confrontations: subtle power plays and manipulations. Maybe he'd never been a good fit for the Council.
But all this test told him was who he'd been. He'd done his best, and his best had not been sufficient to the task.
Perhaps now it was time to re-evaluate that task. The work itself was good work. The world did need saving and not every place had a slayer.
While reading the screen, he absently put down the cup and saucer, but they slipped off the cluttered desktop and clattered on the linoleum floor. The still hot liquid poured onto his foot, causing him to leap up, cursing at the pain, and hop towards a towel. He'd never had more reason to regret preferring lemon to milk in his tea, as the fruit stuck to his bare foot.
He wiped first his foot and then the floor. He inspected the tea cup; it was one of a set that had been his grandmother's. Her will had left each grandchild one complete china service. He'd been using the teapot and cups for years. Bone china: translucent yet with more strength than expected.
Both slayers had seen through him from their first introduction. However he had the knowledge, and, despite his performance at graduation, he did have some weapons and martial arts training. He could be strong.
He'd spent his life studying.
Now was the time for action. Not here, he needed to start anew. Somewhere that had never heard of the stumbling Watcher. Instead of being the victim of attacks, he could go forth and attack them. He looked at the cup still in his hands. The unexpected; that was the key. He could become a hunter, a rogue demon hunter. No one in his past would associate him with that role.
He just hoped the tea set traveled well.
Author: Sunnyd_lite
Fandom: Buffy Season 3 Post Graduation Day
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1846
Prompt: tamingthemuse's week 44 Riposte
Disclaimer: Created by Joss, owned by corporations, played with by me. I also do not own Twinings or the Princeton Review.
Summary: Wesley has time to think, and he makes a pot of tea.
A/N: A huge thank you to my beta Spiralleds who took time out of prepping for a party to beta when my muse waiting until Saturday to turn up! Oh, it's Wesley so British spelling is in effect.
"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?"
In some cultures, that might have been a respectful inquiry. At Sunnydale's hospital it was merely the prelude to the scant moments of medial attention he was likely to benefit from today.
"The X-rays show nothing, and besides some light bruising, it doesn't appear that you have suffered any neck trauma." Wesley must have imagined the slight emphasis on that phrase. The Council's briefing prior to this assignment had stated that the general population of the Hellmouth was oblivious to its stranger denizens. He tried to focus as the rather harried looking man continued. "I'm giving you a prescription for muscle relaxants, but don't operate any heavy machinery while you're on them. I recommend at least a few days of bed rest for your contusions. It looks like you took quite a tumble."
A tumble. It had been a deliberate riposte, a strategic retreat to avoid a blow and retrench in a better position from which to repel the attacking vampires. Oh hell, who was he trying to fool? They hadn't even trusted him, HIM a trained Watcher, with a stake but merely what they called "Holy Water Grenades", which of course were not actual grenades but a bag that contained several pink and purple water balloons. "You shouldn't be able to hurt yourself with those," someone had commented.
They'd clearly underestimated his ability to fall into harm's way.
His thoughts were interrupted when the doctor, old enough to be his grandfather, stared over the rim of his glasses. "While this large scale attack on the graduation ceremony was unprecedented, we've had several accident victims who've run into PCP gangs. However, they only come out in the dark. I'd suggested sticking to the daylight for a while."
Wesley really hoped that the good doctor assumed it was the drugs he'd been given intravenously that caused him to sputter out giggles at that caution. Gangs! The students had faced down an organized army. The mayor turned into a demon and the building had exploded. But the official account was a gas leak and gangs. However, the intensity of the older gentleman's focus grabbed his attention. Wesley hiccupped and then tried to straighten his spine. Maybe this fellow did know more, but was unable to construct another method of disseminating the information in a form those unaware would believe.
"Sunlight, fine," he managed to choke out between the spasms. "Is that all?" He tried to take a deep breath, then raised his eyes at the silence. His tone must have been more brisk than he'd intended as the man looked affronted. "I do apologize." He waved his hand around. "I understand that you've all been very busy given what happened at the graduation. But I've been sitting here in a drafty robe for over ten hours."
That seemed to ameliorate the situation. "You are still feeling the initial dose of pain killers. Do you have anyone who could pick you up?"
It was a deceptively simple question. Unfortunately, it was one with an equally simple answer.
"No." A part of him wanted to explain, to let the doctor know he wasn't the type of person who had no one to call. And as recently as last week he might have launched into that very diatribe. But Miss Summers wasn't the only one who'd graduated. And he doubted that his alma mater of the Council would be willing to interfere.
So the answer was, no.
"I'm hoping to procure a taxi back to my place. Am I able to fill the prescription here or should I use my local chemist's?" At the other's confusion, he clarified, "Pharmacy."
"Given there's no sign of concussion, and that it's soft tissue damage, there's no reason for us to hold you. I would feel better if someone was checking up on you."
At that Wesley lifted his head and looked right into the doctor's eyes, and said with the weight of the last few days condensed into the words, "Wouldn't everyone."
Which is how he found himself at loose, but aching, ends in his small flat. He supposed that since the Council had rented it, he'd only be allowed there until the end of the month. It did provide a few days grace, a few days he desperately needed.
Since he'd been seven, he'd known his career path: how he was part of the elite to save the world without its knowledge.
That certainty of purpose had been ripped away, as had his vain illusions that the Slayer would actually find use for his skills, if not as her Watcher, at least as one of her "Scoobies". Ouch. He really shouldn't wince; it hurt.
He had supposed that the Council had sent him to oversee the two Slayers because he was closer to their age, and would be able to engage them with a greater ease. Also, he wouldn't, as Mr. Giles had done, fall into the trap of thinking of them as daughters.
The Council had been correct, there was no paternalistic relationship. There was no connection what-so-ever. It was clear his path was not in that direction.
But he was Watcher-trained and had resources beyond the norm. Mr. Giles might be bound only to the wisdom and knowledge collected in texts and tomes, but he was of a newer generation. Knowledge was everywhere, wisdom was in its application and the personality test had turned up three times in his inbox, it must be a sign.
Normally he would not bother with such items, but one thing he had noticed during his weeks in what these Americans called higher education was the proliferation of self-tests to determine career paths. He recalled a sign outside the Guidance Office of a website with such tests. Not that he was in the position of a new graduate. No, this would be a more successful riposte, although he was not retreating, but moving forward. Despite what the Council and the Slayer may think, he did have skills; he just required a new method of applying them.
He set the kettle on, and prepared the teapot with a blend of two Darjeeling bags with one Earl Grey. He'd used up the loose leaf he'd brought over with him, but he still had the familiar boxes of Twinings he'd sent to himself. He'd been unsure of its availability and there were some sacrifices he was unwilling to make. He sliced the half lemon in his fridge and placed two slices in the tea cup.
Turning back to his computer while waiting for the water to boil, he thought about whether to hit the link provided.
The test was from Princeton; while it did not have the history of a real university, like Oxford, it was a well established name for an American school. And really, it was easier than tracking down an oracle to gain a sense of his next endeavor. There were a series of choices between two items, most of which he'd rather avoid at all costs. And they were vaguely worded. Should you argue if you know you are right? Up until last week, he'd believed what the Council had told him, so if he had arrived at a contrary position, he would have deferred to wiser heads.
He no longer had that assurance, so how would he respond now?
He jerked up when the kettle whistled, pulling at his still sore muscles. He quickly added water to the teapot, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the questions. He'd always preferred essay tests, as with multiple choice he tended to analyse the questions to find no suitable answer. Maybe if he tried to rely on impulse instead of logic? No, that would not work either.
Settling back down, he re-read the six questions on the current page. He automatically checked the other box when confronted with the option of politician or news-caster. His role was not one for the public eye, of that he was certain.
He hit submit, and moved back to the kitchen side of the flat to pour his cup of tea. The amber liquid filled the china cup, and caused the lemons to float. A touch of grace in the current turmoil. It was two days after the battle, and no one had called. Maybe his life was only a tempest in a teapot.
Enough of that. Even if true, it was his teapot and he could, he would, do something about it. He was no longer at anyone's beck and call. Perhaps the test would provide new avenues to explore.
Back in his seat in front of the computer, he reviewed the screen again. There must be something wrong with this test. He came up as a Yellow - and he ignored the subtext of that colour - which included enjoying a detail-oriented and predictable environment. Unfortunately, his life had stopped being predictable.
His style was noted as Blue, someone who wished to be supportive with minimal confrontation. And, in a way, that is what he'd expected as a Watcher. To support a Slayer who would do what he said.
However, he'd watched his father and the Council long enough to realize that life with them was a series of left handed confrontations: subtle power plays and manipulations. Maybe he'd never been a good fit for the Council.
But all this test told him was who he'd been. He'd done his best, and his best had not been sufficient to the task.
Perhaps now it was time to re-evaluate that task. The work itself was good work. The world did need saving and not every place had a slayer.
While reading the screen, he absently put down the cup and saucer, but they slipped off the cluttered desktop and clattered on the linoleum floor. The still hot liquid poured onto his foot, causing him to leap up, cursing at the pain, and hop towards a towel. He'd never had more reason to regret preferring lemon to milk in his tea, as the fruit stuck to his bare foot.
He wiped first his foot and then the floor. He inspected the tea cup; it was one of a set that had been his grandmother's. Her will had left each grandchild one complete china service. He'd been using the teapot and cups for years. Bone china: translucent yet with more strength than expected.
Both slayers had seen through him from their first introduction. However he had the knowledge, and, despite his performance at graduation, he did have some weapons and martial arts training. He could be strong.
He'd spent his life studying.
Now was the time for action. Not here, he needed to start anew. Somewhere that had never heard of the stumbling Watcher. Instead of being the victim of attacks, he could go forth and attack them. He looked at the cup still in his hands. The unexpected; that was the key. He could become a hunter, a rogue demon hunter. No one in his past would associate him with that role.
He just hoped the tea set traveled well.