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The Assistant part 2
They make it through that one, just barely. Xander knows enough spoken Sayvu to growl and burble Wesley into the right branches of the grammar tree, and Wesley knows enough remotely-related languages to take it from there. Twenty-six hours later, his cell phone tells him in Angel's parched voice that the rifts are closed and the tissue is connecting again. Wesley looks up to see Xander hovering at the head of the long table, watching closely.
"It's all right." He puts the phone down with a bizarre sense that he's letting it float away into midair. He's days past exhaustion. "We've--they did it. We did it. It's all right."
Xander sits down on the edge of the table. He's still wearing the clothes he arrived in, in more or less the same condition. His duffel is still on the floor by the doorway. "It's okay?"
"It's okay," Wesley says again. Everything feels breakable. He rubs a hand over his jaw and feels the soft bristles. A shower would be good. Bed. Would be good. "There are guest rooms upstairs. I'll show you." It feels inhospitable to have Harmony do it, after the last two days. They almost died together, after all.
Xander drags his duffel along behind them, like a dog. In the elevator, he gives Wesley a sideways look.
"I...don't usually smell like this. Just so you know."
"Not to worry." Wesley is rank too, he realizes--his shirt feels stiff beneath the arms. "You did very well, by the way."
Xander doesn't smile, just gives Wesley a flat, expectant look, as if he's waiting for something. You can see the difference between the eyes now. The false one isn't bloodshot.
"So I can stay?" he asks.
Wesley's caught off guard. "Well...that would be up to Angel, I suppose."
"For the internship," Xander says, realizing that Wesley isn't following him. "Noel sold this as an internship, remember?"
"Of course. Well, but we're not really set up for interns, Xander. And I'm not sure what exactly you'd do--"
"Me neither," Xander says, with forced cheer. "But I figure it's gotta be better than whatever the Council would dream up for me."
Wesley pauses. He's too tired for this. And his loyalties are divided beyond meaning. "Your experiences with the Council haven't been...positive?"
Xander just looks at him. Wesley finds his gaze drawn to the artificial eye, and looks away.
"The Council has its flaws," he says to the elevator door. "Believe me, I understand that. But the fact is, we're often in crisis mode here, and we don't have time to supervise an intern."
"Okay," Xander says. "I get that."
They stand there for a couple of seconds in silence, while Wesley's brain torments him. Xander was genuinely helpful. There's no question that Wesley could have performed the translation alone; in any right-thinking world, Xander would be a hero now, carried about on people's shoulders. It's only the fact that they save the world almost weekly that makes him seem expendable. That's wrong.
"On the other hand, I could use an assistant. Temporarily. Perhaps." He's not sure why he's saying it, or what's happened to the notion that Angel should decide this matter. Xander shifts and says nothing. "You have fighting experience, as well--"
"Not so much," Xander says quickly. "The eye." He makes a quick, head-ducking gesture that conveys impatience and embarrassment. "Fucks with my ability to get punched in the face."
That calls for a very small pause, which Wesley allows. The elevator comes to a halt.
"I'm sorry," Wesley says, as the doors open.
Xander just shrugs, and waits for Wesley to lead the way. The guest rooms are down to the left, so he goes that way, feeling as if he's walking on someone else's legs. He's in no condition to make decisions, or promises.
"Bibliographic duties, then. And linguistics. Do you have other languages, besides the Sayvu?"
"A little. Here and there. Mostly the naughty stuff."
"I'll have to clear it with Angel, of course. But a temporary arrangement, say six weeks, shouldn't be hard to manage. This should do."
He stops by the first of the guest room doors, and pushes it open to peer in. It's clean and made up, unlike his own rooms, which are a disaster of abandoned glasses and paperwork. Briefly, he considers taking the next room over and simply falling face-first into the sheets.
"Looks great," Xander says, heaving his duffel through the doorway and looking around. "And...whatever you can do. I appreciate it."
"It's the least I can do," Wesley says. "Sleep as long as you like. Harmony can arrange breakfast when you're ready." He should probably say more, but he's half-asleep on his feet, so he braces a hand on the wall and rotates himself to go back to the elevator.
"Wesley," Xander says. Wesley turns back, prepared to agree to anything. A small business loan, a spare limb, fine, just for God's sake let him sleep. Xander is standing by the bed, running a hand through his choppy hair, looking sheepish.
"Yes?" Wesley says.
"I'm sorry I was such a dick to you, back in Sunnydale."
Was he a dick? Wesley has no idea anymore. He raises an eyebrow.
"I called you a lipless wonder," Xander says. He's exhausted too, Wesley realizes. Neither one of them knows what they're saying.
"I called you a berk," Wesley says, to even things out. "But not to your face."
"And when I look that up, I'll be retroactively pissed." Xander sits down on the edge of the bed suddenly, as if his legs have just given out.
"Good night," Wesley says. "Sleep well."
"Will do," Xander says, and collapses.
Wesley clears the assistant idea with Angel, stamps the letter of introduction, and sends it back to the Council. Xander installs himself in the guest room with the understanding that he's there for six weeks, with the possibility of an extension of like period pending certain conditions which Wesley doesn't clarify because he has no idea what they are.
The Council sends back a letter saying Xander's appointment is permanent. Wesley begins a whole new level of bureaucratic tape-wrangling, which never seems to resolve into anything approaching reality. According to the Council, Xander is a new employee of Angel & Co. Full stop. Wesley slams down numerous phones.
"An assistant," Spike says in an insinuating tone, rolling a cigarette, his feet up on the long table. "Lucky you."
"Shut up, Spike. This is ridiculous." Wesley squints again at the minute, faded boilerplate of the contract the Council has helpfully sent him by transatlantic mail. "Noel Corrigan is a hoary, nearsighted old biddy."
"Probably needs an assistant." He licks the cigarette, then sucks its length, as if it were a joint. "What's Harris going to do for you, exactly?"
"Spike," Wesley says, lowering the letter. "Of the two of us, I am not the one whose belowdecks exploits are recorded in some of these very books."
There's a pause. Then Spike takes his feet off the table and busies himself with who knows what in the depths of his pockets while he leaves.
