Author's Chapter Notes:

Once again, special thanks to my betas JewelsP and kasumi. Since I can’t leave well enough alone and keep tweaking things,  any remaining mistakes are mine.

Wesley watched as Eleanor worked with the hospital’s physical therapist. It had been over a month since she had woken up, and she had been doing better, better than expected even, at regaining control of her muscles, slayer healing, he assumed. She could talk more than a syllable at a time now too, not that she did. The girl seemed to be keeping her own council, and while Wesley speculated it had something to do with her mother’s death, Eleanor did not say one way or the other. She had thanked him though, when he’d handed her a journal.

“You have to talk to someone, even if it’s just on paper.”

The doctors had finally given Eleanor the OK to travel. They were due to leave in three days. Wesley watched his slayer on the machines, pushing her limits. She was impressive, nothing seemed to stun her. Not even her destiny. He had expected her to rebel against it, deny it, but she just smiled cryptically like she always did and said, “Not even dying releases you from destiny.”

Wesley had thought it a rather odd thing to say, but he supposed she was right, Faith had died for a few moments during a fight where she had drowned before being resuscitated. It had caused Buffy to be called as the new slayer, but Faith was also still a slayer. Eleanor hadn’t died though, so Wesley couldn’t figure out why she said it. There was a lot he couldn’t figure out about the girl.

Overall, Eleanor had been surprisingly not curious. She didn’t ask questions or challenge him at all. She took everything in stride with that sad smile of hers. Wesley had explained that she had been chosen as the slayer, and while he wasn’t really her uncle, he was her Watcher and that he would look out for her. Eleanor had just nodded, and said, “Okay.”

The only thing she had been even remotely curious about had been Buffy. She had asked how she died and what had happened to her sister.

Eleanor didn’t talk much, but over and over again Wesley found himself surprised at the things she shouldn’t know, but did. “How did you know Buffy had a sister?”

The girl hadn’t answered, only repeated her question, “Someone is taking care of her, right? She has no one right now. It’s hard to have no one.”

Wesley had put a hand on her back, the girl must be referring to her own mother, “I believe her friends have taken custody of the girl.”

Not  for the first time since laying eyes on this girl, Wesley had gotten the feeling there was much more to her. Although her mental maturity should be that of a 13 year old, she acted like someone far, far older. What 13 year old considers the consequences of their actions?  

A thought tingled at the back of Wesley’s brain, “This isn’t a 13 year old girl.” It was silly, of course, not the sort of thing he’d say to anyone else. He argued with himself internally, Eleanor had been through a lot, she had lost her mother, had no other family connections, and she had been in a coma for four years, of course she wasn’t acting like a 13 year old.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not as it seemed with Eleanor, not that he said such to anyone. Was he keeping his speculation to himself, because it was a silly notion or because he no longer knew what kind of a man Travers was?

If only there was someone he could trust…Giles, of course. He hadn’t spoken to the other man since the day before Eleanor had woken, but he was sure Giles would have heard the news from someone else within the Council.

Wesley nodded to himself; he would speak to Giles once they arrived in England.

*

They were sitting on the runway, their plane waiting for its turn to take to the sky. Wesley looked over at Eleanor, who currently had a death grip on her armrests, her eyes were closed tightly, and she was taking long deep breaths.

“Not a fan of flying?” Wesley asked jovially. Eleanor showed so little, it was rather amusing to see her effected by something for once.

She cracked an eye open and scowled, “Planes and I are non-mixy. And cars for that matter. Cars and I are very non-mixy.”

Oh. She had seemed fine in the taxi ride to the airport that Wesley hadn’t given any thought to how she might react on a plane. It made sense, considering what had happened last time she had been in a car.

“It is best not to think about those sorts of things. Maybe it would be better if we spoke to distract you.”

She scoffed, “I don’t think you can distract me from the fact we are about to be very high in the air. The last time I was…”

“The last time you were what?” Wesley prompted. She was forever doing this, starting sentences then just trailing off; it was highly irritating.

“I fell,” she said simply, “I had a bad fall and I suddenly remembered I am now terrified of heights.”

This wasn’t about her mother then, it was something else, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Wesley shifted in his seat and the plane lurched forward, turning to start down the runway. Eleanor’s left hand moved from the armrest and grabbed his, “The Powers, they wouldn’t go through all the trouble to… to get me here if they were going to let the plane fall, would they?”

“I rather think not. You haven’t mentioned the Powers before, do you have a strong faith in God?”

“I know there’s something bigger out there than me pulling strings. They have plans for me,” she said, then added, “and for you as well, Wesley.” He had been looking out the window (Eleanor had stoutly refused the window seat) but he turned and looked at the girl now. She was looking at him with those calm gray eyes. What did she know?

The engine roared to life, and they began to race down the runway and then the feel of the road below them disappeared, and they were in the air. Eleanor’s grasp on his hand lessened and Wesley gave her a pat, “Relax, it’s going to be a long flight.”

“I know. Then the Council, is that why you cleaned up?” she asked with a smirk.

Wesley stroked his now clean shaven chin. In the weeks since his departure from England, he had let himself go a little. “The stubble wasn’t appropriate.”

“It was a good look for you,” Eleanor teased.

“So I have been told,” he said succinctly.

“Oh yeah? Do tell.”

“I met someone, during my rogue demon hunting days, before I rejoined the council. She liked my scruff, as she called it.”

Eleanor smiled, “And where is this mysterious girlfriend of yours?”

He didn’t answer, but turned his eyes to the window where the world was falling away as they rose into the clouds. The houses and roads below were so small and insignificant. His heart hammered in his chest, but he felt strangely calm and detached. He was not the man he once was.

“Wesley?”

He turned back to his charge, “She’s dead.”

Sarah and their unborn child were dead. When the council had called and asked him back, it had been easy to say yes. His folly had come with a high cost. It had been time to stop acting like a child and come home.

*

Although it was still early, by the time they arrived at Council headquarters it was dark, the short days of late fall were already upon them. The Watcher’s Council was situated in a popular part of London’s business district. The tall building had as many floors below ground as it did above. Some of the deepest levels housed dangerous books, dark scrolls, and other unseemly items.

Eleanor was straining to look out of the taxi, her head zipping back and forth.

“Wow,” she whispered as they stopped in front of headquarters, “This isn’t what I imagined. I always thought the Watcher’s Council would be in some castle out in the middle of nowhere.”

Wesley smiled, “A central location is best. The majority of the building houses offices, libraries, and the like. The upper most floors are set up as training and living quarters for slayers and local potentials we’ve identified.” They climbed out of the taxi while the driver pulled their luggage from the trunk, or boot, as he had called it.

Eleanor followed Wesley into the lobby, her small backpack holding all her worldly possessions, or Eleanor’s. It was way too confusing not knowing who you were, how was she even to know what pronoun to use? The lobby was grandiose with dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, big windows, and lush burgundy velvet furnishing.

An older woman with a tight bun of white hair was sitting at a grand desk, “Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, we’ve been expecting you. The slayer’s quarters have been prepared on the 14th floor.” She handed over a key ring with a few old fashioned brass keys on it.  

“Thank you, Mrs. Whitt. Could you let Travers know that I will be down to speak with him once I get Eleanor settled?”

She nodded, “He’s waiting for you.”

“Yes, of course,” Wesley said, wiping his palms against his jacket then turned to lead Eleanor down the hall to the elevators.

Once they exited on the 14th floor they entered the first door to the right. The living quarters were modest with charming vintage details. There was a small bedroom,  adequate kitchen stocked with food, and substantial living room.  

Eleanor smiled, it was lovely, and it was hers, at least for now.

“Can you think of anything you might need?” Wesley asked.

She held up her backpack, “Clothes. I have a few pairs of sweats and t-shirts, that the hospital gave me, but I pretty much have nothing, and no money. Is there any way I can get paid, some kind of stipend, for the slaying gig?”

“I’ll speak to Travers, as for clothes we can remedy that tomorrow. There is a good bit of shopping downtown. There is also a training room two floors down if feel you up to it, and there is a copy of the slayer manual on the bedroom desk. I will come by tomorrow afternoon and in the meantime I’ll let you get acclimated, jet lag can be terrible sometimes.”

“Sounds good, Uncle Wes,” Eleanor said with a smile. Her Watcher had been melancholy for most of the flight, but his mood had seemed to improve once they landed. She wanted to ask him more about this mysterious girlfriend, but he had looked so sad, that she thought it best to leave the subject alone.

Wesley scowled, he had told her to stop calling him that, but she delighted in teasing him. He shook his head, “Goodnight, Eleanor.”

“Night!”

*

Once Wesley had left, the slayer flopped down on the bed. The last few weeks had been exhausting. It was hard having a body that didn’t work the way you expected it to. Often she would move or try to lift something and had been surprised at how hard everything was. The physical therapist she had been working with back in Philly had been impressed with how hard she had pushed herself. She didn’t want to be weak, she wanted to be strong again. Luckily for her, the slayer powers worked in her favor, and she felt almost like a normal girl, not a slayer, not yet, but soon.

She also hadn’t gotten a single decent night’s sleep since she had woken, ironically. Every night she dreamed she was on Glory’s tower and every night Spike saved her somehow... by stopping Glory or Doc sooner or by keeping Dawn from getting hurt in the first place. Each night was different and yet the same, it was like that movie Groundhog Day, where the guy was just stuck living the same day over and over. Except each night, she didn’t die, she got to live. Spike saved her. The soulless bleacher wonder… And she could see in his eyes the depth of feelings he had for her, for Buffy.

Maybe it would be easier if she knew what it meant, or if she knew who she was… and that was the million dollar question. In the moments right when she woke up, when the residue of her dreams were falling away, she knew, she knew she was Buffy. Her mind was treacherous though, and about that time, she would realize, she wasn’t Buffy. Not really. At least, not completely. There was no denying if she was Buffy, she was a different Buffy than the one that had jumped.

She wondered if there was someone she could get in contact with in Sunnydale to see what was going on… of course who would she call? And what would she say? Wesley had assured her that Dawn was being taken care of, but she wanted to hear that for herself.

She could call Willy… at the very least he could fill her in on Spike.

“I know you’ll never love me. I know I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man,” she recited, thinking about the last time… the last time Buffy had talked to him, before the fight with Glory. She felt something wet on her cheeks and realized she was crying. Her heart ached for Spike, how terrible it must be for him to have lost Buffy, the women he loved. Buffy had always been doubtful that Spike could really love, but she, whoever she was now, was sure that Spike’s love was real. She wondered if Spike kept his promise to take care of Dawn.

She wiped her face; she would have to find a way to ditch Wesley at some point to make the call. She would also need to figure out a way to get some money. Money. Urg. Having nothing and no one was irritating. Hopefully Wesley would figure out how to get the Council to pay her a stipend. They hadn’t paid Buffy, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask, and the situation was different.

She reached down for her bag and put the few items she did have away in the drawers. On the bright side, owning nothing meant she had nothing to unpack. She wondered what happened to all of Eleanor’s things, they were Eleanor’s, not hers.

I worry about Buffy’s friends and Dawn. I want to know what’s happening in Sunnydale. I don’t care about what happened to Eleanor’s things or Eleanor’s friends. Does that mean I’m Buffy? Does it mean I’m not Eleanor?

She rubbed her head, she was giving herself a headache. Dawn. Dawn seemed to be the only thing that truly stuck out, that truly mattered, regardless of who she was or wasn’t.

She walked over to the desk, the slayer manual laying there. Going through the drawers, she found a pen and some paper and began to write a note to Dawn. She would make it sound like Buffy had written it “in case”. Giles when he got back to England then could have mailed it off to Sunnydale. Completely plausible, she told herself.

Once her letter was complete, she tucked into an envelope. She addressed the envelope and then  looked at it, and realized, the handwriting was hers, and it looked like Buffy’s. She smiled, it might not mean anything, but, it might mean everything. She set it aside and climbed into bed, feeling better than she had in a while.

If she was Buffy, then she didn’t belong here. She belonged in Sunnydale.

*

Wesley was standing in front of Travers’ desk, as the man had not given him leave to sit.

“So, give it to me straight, are we going to have trouble with this one?”

“I do not believe so. Eleanor accepted her destiny without question. There were several occasions when I visited that I would find her reading the slayer manual.” Travers frowned, which struck Wesley as odd, wasn’t this all good news?

“Have you noticed anything odd about her? Why would the powers call a girl who was in a coma? And one so old? It’s been decades since a slayer over 15 was called, and this one is nearly 18! We’ll have to start making plans for the cruciamentum.”

“Cruciamentum? She’s… she hasn’t even begun her training, she’s been going through rehabilitation.”

Travers shot him a glare, “Every slayer that reaches her 18th birthday goes through it. You have time to get her ready. In the meantime we’ll be able to see what kind of a slayer we got saddled with.”

Wesley clenched his jaw, “Of course. I will have her ready, in the meantime, she asked if it possible to give her a stipend to allow her to purchase clothes and the like? She has nothing and no one to finance her.”

“What are her other demands?”

“It’s the only thing she’s asked for.”

Travers dismissed him with a hand gesture, “Fine, talk to Kensington.”

*

With the unpleasantness of Travers out of the way, Wesley found his way to Giles’ office. The man’s door was open, so he walked in and was greeted with a smile.

Giles’ motioned to a chair, “Sit! Let’s talk. How are things with Eleanor?” He walked over behind his desk and poured scotch into two glasses.

“Shall we toast?”

Wesley laughed, “To the Powers, may they know what they are doing?”

“Good enough for me,” Giles said, and they clinked their glasses together and drank to it.

After a moment, Wesley said, “Eleanor is doing well, surprisingly well. She’s taken everything in stride. I expected her to rebel against her destiny, to call me a liar, but she just smiles and says ‘Okay’ as if it’s all normal.”

“Buffy wasn’t like that at all. She always wanted to be normal, it took time for her to accept that there was no getting out of her duty… and in the end… well, she did her duty, didn’t she?”

Wesley raised his glass, “To Buffy?”

Giles knocked his glass to his, “To Buffy.”

The pair were quiet then; slayers always died in the line of duty, and her watcher was always left behind. They had both worked with Buffy, and both had come to realize that in spite of her valley girl attitude and appearance, she had been a stellar slayer. They reminisced over stories of how she managed to get herself in and out of so much trouble.  

“So what’s bothering you Wesley?” Giles finally asked.

“I am worried that Eleanor is not as she appears. It seems odd that the Power would select a girl in a coma and aside from the accident report and the scant amount of information I’ve been able to pull up on her mother’s death… there’s very little out there about Eleanor. She had no family, no ties to the world and she’s been too accepting of her new life. She knew my name when she first woke up, at the time I rationalized that it was because she heard someone else say my name, but...She doesn’t act like a 13 year old.”

“For good reason, she’s 17, not 13. Even if she doesn’t have any memories from the past four year, the brain chemistry of a 13 year old to a 17 year old is quite different.”

“Even so, she seems aloof and sad. She acts like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Giles pointed out.

“Yes, but what girl would wake up and just accept it?” Wesley argued.

“What other option does she have? Like you said, she has no family, no friends, no ties, just you.”

“I know, but… I just… Wouldn’t Eleanor have questions about what happened? She hasn’t even once asked about her parents. Her mother is dead, and yet she doesn’t mourn her at all. She hasn’t asked why I have custody of her and what happened to her father. I cannot find a single thing about her father!”

“Travers was able to get custody of the girl, there has to be some paper trail,” Giles pointed out.

“The hospital bills were paid out of a trust that doesn’t connect back to anyone except a law firm out in California, perhaps they’re the ones who brokered the transfer of custody. Eleanor seemed much more concerned with the sister that Buffy left behind than anything else. I’ve never seen a teenage girl so stoic.”

“What do you think is going on then? Since you seem to have so many doubts.”

“I don’t think she’s the same girl who went into the coma.”

“Then who is she?” Giles asked.

“That’s what I need to know,” Wesley replied.

“I’ll see what I can dig up on her background, but maybe she is just dealing with everything by keeping herself aloof from it. Not everyone grieves the same way.”

“Maybe,” Wesley said, but his tone implied that he didn’t agree.






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