prodigalwatcher | [eclectic_muses] September 2008

September 2008 - lyrics from "So Cold" by Breaking Benjamin

Hollow heroes...

Wesley had prepared to speak with his father in exactly the way he'd been trained to approach any foreseen confrontation: he did his research. While Buffy had been essentially correct in her assertion-- that Roger Wyndam-Pryce had installed himself as the commanding authority over the world's army of vampire Slayers, the problem was much more thorny. Wesley's father had not just recruited nearly every remaining Watcher still extant and not part of Buffy's organisation, he had created an infrastructure, secured support personnel and resources, offices and safe houses. He had only been waiting for Buffy to be sufficiently distracted from her duties to supplant her.

The Slayers who didn't reside in the UK probably still had no idea that Buffy Summers was no longer their leader, the coup had been that efficient and well-planned. If Wesley hadn't been vehemently opposed to the idea, he'd have been in admiration of its audacity and skill.

But in his research, Wesley came to realise that Roger had only put such attention to the leadership of the Slayers and their governance, and almost none to the young women themselves. As a holdover from the "old school" Watcher's Council, it wasn't surprising that Roger would view the Slayers, even in their great numbers, as foot soldiers and expendable assets. If properly motivated, they would revolt against the new regime, and it would take little but invoking Buffy's name to make that happen.

That would be one of Wesley's aces, should the situation warrant.

Taking a deep breath, Wesley knocked on the door of the small bedroom that was serving as Roger's home while in the States. The door, already slightly ajar, slid open a few inches. Roger was sitting at the desk, speaking intently into a cell phone.

"No, you tell Callum that I want two squads to the Barcelona facility by tomorrow morning," barked Roger at someone as he waved Wesley into the room. There were no other seats, so Wesley sat, straight-backed, on the bed, bringing him eye-level with his father. Roger was off the phone a moment later.

"Callum?" asked Wesley. "Callum Travers? Quentin Travers' nephew?"

Roger nodded. "A good man. Doing some... errands for me."

Wesley shook his head. "Father, I know what you're doing, with the Slayers."

"Is that so?" scoffed Roger. "Are you here to petition me to get your position with the Watchers reinstated? Perhaps you'd like a promotion to a seat on the Council?" When his son didn't answer, Roger's voice turned sharp. "You can't be here to chastise me, can you? You'd rather have the greatest army in history under the wandering eye of a maladjusted girl from California?"

Wesley settled in. It was going to be a long night.

*****

"You don't know these girls, Father," Wesley snapped. "You can't treat them like--"

"Like troops? Like fighters?" Roger's arms were crossed tightly. "What are they in your opinion, Wesley? Schoolchildren? Innocents to coddle and babysit until they're in the mood for fighting evil? Are you really that foolish? They need a leader. They need a general, and Buffy Summers is too busy jetting off to be with her vampire lover to care."

"They believe in Buffy. They care about her. She doesn't lead them by bullying them or breaking them or treating them like weapons--"

"Which is precisely why she is failing them."

Wesley rubbed at his temples. "And once you've got control over the army? What of the incumbent staff?"

"They will be dealt with accordingly. Those who we deem of some value will be invited to join the new organisation, and those who have no value will be released."

"And Buffy?" Wesley asked, eyes narrowing.

Roger gave him a cold stare. "She is a Slayer, before all else. Buffy will toe the line."

His second to last ace played, Wesley felt his shoulders sagging. There would be no reasoning with his father, no compromise and no rapproachment. Wesley knew that this course of action would result in problems, and to confront the machine his father had constructed would cause catastrophe.

Heart turning heavy, Wesley took a long, deep breath. "I'm sorry, Father," he whispered, before slipping a hand inside his jacket.

*****

Twenty minutes later, Wesley emerged from the room, smiling and glancing over the papers in his hand. Roger Wyndam-Pryce followed, a paternally bemused expression on his face. "And that settles it, apart from the where. I'm perfectly content with staying at the house, but your mother is going to insist on somewhere sunny. Spain, possibly, or even Italy. I'll draw the line at France."

"Are you sure you want to retire, then, Father?" Wesley asked. "We'll surely need your help at some point."

Roger clapped him on the shoulder. "And you'll have it, son. When you need it. Now why don't you find us someplace for dinner that isn't ridiculously extravagant or serve Lilliputian portions of food, so we can discuss what to do next? I'm going to phone your mother."

Wesley watched as Roger went back into the bedroom, his smile crumbling as soon as the door was closed. It was done, he reminded himself, and was necessary. He'd contact Buffy and the others and they would hammer out the details, but his father would never trouble them again.

Reaching into his jacket, Wesley raised the small cube, a dark metal frame just two inches on a side, opaque yellow glass for the faces. The miniature Window of Orlon glowed softly as Wesley secured it in a velvet-lined steel box. He locked the box and replaced it on the shelf, readying himself to deal with the consequences privately, later.

Wesley reached for the phone and dialed a number for a local steak house, run by an expatriate Brit, someplace of which he knew Roger would thoroughly approve. After what Wesley had done, Roger deserved at least that.

(975)

OOC: This ficlet is based on current RP events and canon for Wesley, and is part of his current storyline in that context. The Roger Wyndam-Pryce referred to is