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wesleynotponcyIn Wesley's universe, it had now been nearly a month since he'd graduated. In that time, he'd fallen into a sort of routine with Charles and Cordelia, one that continued to surprise him with how comfortable it was.
They worked in an office -- they had an actual office now, believe it or not; it was quite a step up from Cordelia's apartment, with no offense intended to Phantom Dennis, of course -- and took regular trips to the local demon karaoke bar, Caritas. They had amassed a fairly impressive client list for such a new (or recently-reworked, depending upon how you looked at it) business, and were making a decent amount of money. Wesley still couldn't believe that he was in charge of their little operation, being the youngest of the group and neither precognitive nor especially muscular, but there he was. He made good calls reasonably often, he made bad calls slightly less so, but he'd yet to lose the respect of the rest of his team, and all in all he thought he was doing a fairly decent job.
Then there was, of course, the matter of Angel. He and Wesley hadn't spoken since Angel had fired them all. Cordelia had seen him more recently -- the night of Wesley's accident, apparently, Angel had come by the hospital, and Cordelia had shooed him away. That was certainly food for thought, but it wasn't something Wesley felt particularly compelled to dwell upon at this moment.
At this moment? He was removing a demon eye from the back of a little girl's head.
"And you should be all set," he said at last, brushing the mandrake powder off of his hands and onto the floor. "Good as new." To the girl's mother, Mrs. Sharpe, he added, "Though I'd look into a different haircut for her to cover the scar."
Mrs. Sharpe gave a weak laugh -- likely due to nerves over her little girl, Wesley decided, because it had been a fairly witty remark, under the circumstances.
"We can't thank you," she said after a moment.
"Oh, don't give it another thought!" Wesley dismissed.
"It's what we do," Charles added.
"Kind of a mission," Cordelia supplied.
"No, I mean -- we can't thank you," Mrs. Sharpe repeated. "And we can't pay you, either. This bill is ridiculous."
Wesley glanced over at his teammates. Cordelia decided to field this one. "What do you mean?" she objected. "We didn't even charge you for the mandrake."
"My husband says it's outrageous," said Mrs. Sharpe.
Finding himself a bit irritated now, Wesley said, "And what would your husband consider to be a fair price for the removal of the third eye from the back of your child's head, Mrs. Sharpe?"
"Well," said Mrs. Sharpe, "nothing."
Ah. The old but-helping-the-helpless-should-be-free argument. Even when the client in question happened to be wealthy enough to carry a designer purse on her arm.
"Steve says," Mrs. Sharpe continued, "that since it's impossible to be bitten by a demon and have a -- a third eye grow in the back of one's head, that obviously you people are running some sort of scam, and you won't squeeze one red cent out of us." She tugged on her little girl's hand. "Come on, Stephanie."
"Scam!?" Cordelia repeated, appalled. "The back of your kid's head was blinking!"
And that was the sound of the door swinging shut.
"No," Wesley said tiredly. "Let her go. Clearly it's easier for the Sharpes to cast us as con artists rather than to accept the grim reality that Skilosh spawn nearly hatched full grown out of their child's skull."
Charles crossed his arms over his chest. "Gee, wonder why?"
Wesley heaved a sigh. "Perhaps, given time, the Sharpes will come 'round," he offered placatingly. "Things will pick up. They're bound to."
Not for the first time, he wondered if that was the sort of argument that good leaders made. Picturing it said in Angel's voice was of no use, so he simply reached for his coffee with a tired hand and tried not to think about it.
[[NFB, obviously. open for phone calls!]]
They worked in an office -- they had an actual office now, believe it or not; it was quite a step up from Cordelia's apartment, with no offense intended to Phantom Dennis, of course -- and took regular trips to the local demon karaoke bar, Caritas. They had amassed a fairly impressive client list for such a new (or recently-reworked, depending upon how you looked at it) business, and were making a decent amount of money. Wesley still couldn't believe that he was in charge of their little operation, being the youngest of the group and neither precognitive nor especially muscular, but there he was. He made good calls reasonably often, he made bad calls slightly less so, but he'd yet to lose the respect of the rest of his team, and all in all he thought he was doing a fairly decent job.
Then there was, of course, the matter of Angel. He and Wesley hadn't spoken since Angel had fired them all. Cordelia had seen him more recently -- the night of Wesley's accident, apparently, Angel had come by the hospital, and Cordelia had shooed him away. That was certainly food for thought, but it wasn't something Wesley felt particularly compelled to dwell upon at this moment.
At this moment? He was removing a demon eye from the back of a little girl's head.
"And you should be all set," he said at last, brushing the mandrake powder off of his hands and onto the floor. "Good as new." To the girl's mother, Mrs. Sharpe, he added, "Though I'd look into a different haircut for her to cover the scar."
Mrs. Sharpe gave a weak laugh -- likely due to nerves over her little girl, Wesley decided, because it had been a fairly witty remark, under the circumstances.
"We can't thank you," she said after a moment.
"Oh, don't give it another thought!" Wesley dismissed.
"It's what we do," Charles added.
"Kind of a mission," Cordelia supplied.
"No, I mean -- we can't thank you," Mrs. Sharpe repeated. "And we can't pay you, either. This bill is ridiculous."
Wesley glanced over at his teammates. Cordelia decided to field this one. "What do you mean?" she objected. "We didn't even charge you for the mandrake."
"My husband says it's outrageous," said Mrs. Sharpe.
Finding himself a bit irritated now, Wesley said, "And what would your husband consider to be a fair price for the removal of the third eye from the back of your child's head, Mrs. Sharpe?"
"Well," said Mrs. Sharpe, "nothing."
Ah. The old but-helping-the-helpless-should-be-free argument. Even when the client in question happened to be wealthy enough to carry a designer purse on her arm.
"Steve says," Mrs. Sharpe continued, "that since it's impossible to be bitten by a demon and have a -- a third eye grow in the back of one's head, that obviously you people are running some sort of scam, and you won't squeeze one red cent out of us." She tugged on her little girl's hand. "Come on, Stephanie."
"Scam!?" Cordelia repeated, appalled. "The back of your kid's head was blinking!"
And that was the sound of the door swinging shut.
"No," Wesley said tiredly. "Let her go. Clearly it's easier for the Sharpes to cast us as con artists rather than to accept the grim reality that Skilosh spawn nearly hatched full grown out of their child's skull."
Charles crossed his arms over his chest. "Gee, wonder why?"
Wesley heaved a sigh. "Perhaps, given time, the Sharpes will come 'round," he offered placatingly. "Things will pick up. They're bound to."
Not for the first time, he wondered if that was the sort of argument that good leaders made. Picturing it said in Angel's voice was of no use, so he simply reached for his coffee with a tired hand and tried not to think about it.
[[NFB, obviously. open for phone calls!]]
