CHALLENGE: atsendofdays
EPISODE: AtS 4.06 - 'Spin the Bottle'
TITLE: Uncontrolled Circumstances
AUTHOR: Eloise
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 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')
Uncontrolled Circumstances - Part I
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."