Just A Favor
It was just a favor, after all. There was nothing to be worried about.
From his motorbike Wesley could see Sunnydale all too clearly: the shops, the streets, the cemetery, aged by a year or two but not really much different overall. Over there was the apartment building where he stayed for those few fateful months. If he turned left he could easily find the warehouse where he'd proved an idiot in his first confrontation with vampires outside the Academy.
What the hell was he doing in Sunnydale? The favor. Right. Giles had called in the morning, something about Willow being hurt and a prophecy in a langauge he couldn't translate, which was why Wesley had packed an overnight bag and drove the long, windy highway out to Sunnydale, California. Just to help with the translation, because that was, of course, his area of expertiese. Probably his only said area as far as those in Sunnydale were concerned.
Come on, Wesley, he told himself sternly. You're twenty-seven years old, for Chrissakes'. You're a professional. You can handle a well-deserved round of cold shoulders, if that's what it comes to. Just do your part and you can go back to Los Angeles where at least three people remember you for more than screaming like a girl.
Mentally prepared, Wesley followed the instructions he'd been given over the phone to the Magic Box, which looked like a very nice sort of shoppe from the outside. He parked his bike, slung his bag over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and walked resolutely through the front door.
From his motorbike Wesley could see Sunnydale all too clearly: the shops, the streets, the cemetery, aged by a year or two but not really much different overall. Over there was the apartment building where he stayed for those few fateful months. If he turned left he could easily find the warehouse where he'd proved an idiot in his first confrontation with vampires outside the Academy.
What the hell was he doing in Sunnydale? The favor. Right. Giles had called in the morning, something about Willow being hurt and a prophecy in a langauge he couldn't translate, which was why Wesley had packed an overnight bag and drove the long, windy highway out to Sunnydale, California. Just to help with the translation, because that was, of course, his area of expertiese. Probably his only said area as far as those in Sunnydale were concerned.
Come on, Wesley, he told himself sternly. You're twenty-seven years old, for Chrissakes'. You're a professional. You can handle a well-deserved round of cold shoulders, if that's what it comes to. Just do your part and you can go back to Los Angeles where at least three people remember you for more than screaming like a girl.
Mentally prepared, Wesley followed the instructions he'd been given over the phone to the Magic Box, which looked like a very nice sort of shoppe from the outside. He parked his bike, slung his bag over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and walked resolutely through the front door.