The Assistant

by
Witling

Part One

Basically, the world's about to end again, and this time Wesley doesn't have the language comprehension skills to stop it. There's a scroll that has to be translated in order for a spell to be cast, but the scroll's in Sayvu, a language with no known speakers on this plane. He has almost no texts; there hasn't been a demand. In desperation, he contacts the Council.

The conversation is brief, staticky, tinny. For some reason, transatlantic calls to Council extensions always are; it's as if centuries of being hidebound and intransitory have stalled even their phone lines in the early part of the century. But as it turns out, they've got someone. A specialist, or the nearest thing to it--someone who's studied with native speakers. There's an interdimensional language exchange program now, apparently. It takes a minute for that to filter through Wesley's exhausted, panicked brain. They must have upped tuition since he was in training. He doesn't ask questions, though--he hands the phone off to Harmony and lets her arrange the details. In the meantime, he buries himself in the library, under piles of vellum and paper and the occasional cured skin. At some later point, Harmony beeps him.

"He'll be here tomorrow."

"Is that the fastest you could manage?" He sits with a sheaf half-lifted in one hand, calculating as he speaks. Three days till the rifts meet. Not enough time.

"He's in Tokyo--apparently that's where the portal is, or something. In Tokyo it's already tomorrow. Or...yesterday." Harmony sounds doubtful, and he can imagine her turning to Google.

"Fine." Tomorrow will have to do. "Send him in as soon as he arrives."

"Okey-dokey, boss."

Wesley bends his head again, and tries to forget about the clock.

Some time later--tomorrow, he supposes--the door to the library opens and Wesley looks up to see a ghost standing there. Not a literal one. Just Xander Harris. He's not dead or reported dead, but for some reason Wesley thinks of him as belonging to a long-gone era. It's bizarre and disorienting to see him standing in the doorway, wearing a sloppy-looking jacket and carrying a duffel bag. He's taller now, or something. Maybe just thinner. He looks old. They all must.

"Xander." It's instinct to be polite, to stand up and shake the man's hand, ask him how he's been. Instincts like that are little luxuries he can't afford right now. "Why are you here?"

Xander raises his eyebrows and lets his duffel bag fall. "You called, I came. Or, you know. They sent me."

Wesley's brain has spent the last thirty hours in overdrive, parsing and reparsing, cutting back to mysterious roots, attempting to tease out conjugations. As a result, it simply swings free for a few seconds, and Wesley himself sits in a trance, his fingertips pressed to the table in front of him. Xander lets the silence stretch out. He's uncomfortable, Wesley realizes finally. Of course he is; there's been some kind of mistake.

"I'm sorry," he says, trying to kickstart his brain by returning to basics. "There must have been a mistake. Who sent you?"

"The Council. Noel Corrigan, actually."

"Noel Corrigan." Corrigan's in charge of staff development, isn't he? "Why did he send you?"

Looking very unsure of himself, Xander says, "The Sayvu thing? You needed someone for the Sayvu...hey, listen, if you've already got it covered, I'm happy to go grab a room at the Best Western--"

"The Sayvu thing," Wesley repeats. "No, I don't have the Sayvu thing covered, Xander."

There's another awkward pause. Xander is looking around the room, at the long tables filled with books and papers and desperate scribbles on little slips. The detritus of a man trying to build a language from the faintest impression of an outdated blueprint.

"You know Sayvu," Wesley says, because the fact is coalescing for him now. "You're the specialist they sent."

"Hey, whoah, I wouldn't say 'specialist'. I'd say, um, more like, 'intern'." Xander gives him a quick, sideways smile. "That's what Noel said, at least. And I'm pretty happy to stick with Noel on this one."

"I don't need an intern," Wesley says, trying not to get angry. It's not Xander's fault, and there's no time for anger anyway. "I need someone who can read the language, and possibly write a few lines. Can you do that?"

Xander gives him a bleak look. "Not really."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I can order two beers and a burrito, but you don't want me reading through your lease."

Wesley looks down at his hands. Carefully, he makes himself let go of the pencil he's gripping, and set it on the table. When he looks up again, Xander is looking more apologetic, and a little spooked. For the first time, Wesley wonders what he looks like, himself. He's been in here for two days. He hasn't slept. He's barely eaten.

"I'm sorry," Xander says. It's simple, plain, not glib. He's older now, and there's some hope in that. Or maybe he'll just die older, like all the rest of them.

"So am I," Wesley says, looking down at his own notes. His eyes are starting to fail; his handwriting blurs in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose to steady things. "Would you like to stay here in L.A. for the next few days? Or I can ask Harmony to arrange for your return to Tokyo. If you go back through the portal, you may avoid dying with the rest of humanity."

"Back through--?" Xander gives him a strange, wide-eyed look. "Uh, no thanks. I don't think I'll be doing that."

"I understand." Wesley reaches for the phone, his mind already cycling ahead to the next thing--there are companion languages, dialects he hasn't tried yet, for comparison. "There are rooms upstairs; I'll have Harmony arrange for you to stay there."

He looks down to hit the button, and notices from the corner of his eye that Xander is running a finger over one of the scrolls.

"Please don't touch--"

"I think this is wrong."

Wesley hesitates, then sets the receiver down and walks over. Xander is looking at one of the latter transcriptions, and at Wesley's notes beside it. Wesley looks at it too.

"Actually, that's one of the few things I'm fairly sure is right."

Xander's finger runs up the grammar tree on the scroll, and his other hand runs down Wesley's notes. He looks up. "I think it's--" Then he gargles.

It takes Wesley a second to realize that Xander's just spoken Sayvu, and to get past the brief, absurdly happy firing of scholarly synapses about those long-lost glottals. The world is ending, he reminds himself. He looks back down at the tree.

"Spell that," he says, frowning.

The upshot is, Xander stays. The gargle was indeed a mistake, right at the root of the tree, which has balled up two days' worth of work. Wesley needs an assistant to fetch and carry while he feverishly undoes everything he's done. Xander's capable: fast up and down the ladders, strong enough to hoist the books. He lost an eye somewhere along the way, Wesley remembers vaguely, when he has a spare second to think. It doesn't seem to cause him much trouble.

Angel and Spike get back after midnight, smoking slightly. They smell like ash and bile and burnt metal. There's dark blood in the shoulder of Angel's coat, and they both look exhausted.

"Xander," Angel says flatly, past being surprised or polite.

"Hi," Xander says, barely looking up from the book in front of him.

"Thought you were dead," Spike says, without apparent irony.

"Nope."

"Any progress?" Angel asks Wesley, already on to the next thing. Wesley shakes his head, then shrugs.

"Xander has some facility with spoken Sayvu, which is helping. But I'm still very unsure about most of the forms."

"Xander knows Sayvu," Spike says flatly, slumping back against the wall and letting his hands rest on his belt buckle. Tipping his head back, he asks the ceiling, "Did we die back there, and I just didn't notice?"

"How long?" Angel asks, his eyes dark and steady on Wesley's.

Wesley shakes his head.

"The rifts are getting bigger," Angel says, turning away. "Do something about this, Wes."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

He walks out, and Wesley rubs his forehead. He's beginning to feel dizzy. He should tell Harmony they need more coffee. Or food. He's afraid to eat too much; he's relying on hunger to keep him awake. But they haven't eaten all day.

"Sayvu," Spike says, pushing off the wall and letting himself fall back against it, shoulders first. "Where'd you learn Sayvu, Harris?"

"On their plane." Xander flips a page and frowns. "It was...an exchange."

"What'd they send in exchange for you?"

"Actually, it didn't work out too well." Something in his tone makes Wesley look over; he looks a bit abashed, a bit upset. Well, the Sayvu have never been considered one of the more hospitable demon races. It doesn't matter right now. All that matters is the translation.

"I'm shocked." Spike takes a cigarette out of his pocket, produces his lighter, and spins the flint without lighting it. "So you two've been in here all day reading to each other, have you? Nice work."

"Spike," Wesley says.

"Better than fighting Risgoth demons in Chinatown, at least."

"Spike, Harmony has a message for you. From R&D." Wesley glances over at Xander's table, and adds, "Xander, I need that Imroth."

"Unless they've researched and developed Risgoth repellent, I don't bloody care." But Spike shoves off the wall and takes himself off, which is a relief. Xander delivers the Imroth, then goes back to his own table and resumes conjugating. Wesley opens the Imroth to page 382, the page he already knows he needs.

They have twenty-seven hours to apocalypse, and he plans to be awake and at work for all of them.

Part Two

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.