Edwardian thing part two-ish
May. 27th, 2003 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thebratqueenOkay, as before this is totally unbeted and only being posted here as a way to trick my brain into thinking that this isn't a big story at all. Nope. No sirree. Nothing to panic about here ;)
"Wes?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Angel said. He sat down on the bed of the suite he and Wesley had been led to. Wes, for his part, tried to undo all of the buttons and fastenings of a tuxedo that had been loaned to him. "Because I don't mean it like that."
"Mean what like what?" Wesley asked. He managed to get the vest undone and moved it aside.
"I'm flattered," Angel said. "Honestly. I never would've figured it was something you were interested in but, you know me, I'm not real big on judging. There's a whole glass houses thing to it."
"You're not making any sense," Wes told him. He struggled with the tiny buttons of his dress shirt.
Angel got up to help him. "What I'm trying to say is - you and me, we just got back to being friends. And I know you're just saying it because we need a cover right now, but with things being the way we are I think we need to be careful and not confuse things with any, you know, funny stuff."
"Funny stuff," Wesley repeated, as though he'd heard the words before but couldn't place them.
"Yeah," Angel said. "Even if it's only pretend. I don't wanna risk it."
Wes gave up on the shirt and faced him. "Angel, *what* on earth are you talking about?"
"I think we should tell those guys I'm not your boyfriend," Angel said.
Wesley stared at him. He started to speak, stopped himself, then held up a hand for silence. Angel recognized the look as the one Wes used when he was trying to translate something. Angel left him to it, concentrating instead on the buttons of the shirt since Wes was having such problems with them.
"Angel," Wesley finally said, a few moments later. "I don't need to tell them that you are not my boyfriend because, at this moment in time, they don't think that you *are*."
"But you told them."
"I said you were my man."
There was a long moment of silence before Angel realized Wes was still not getting it. "Uh *huh*," he prompted, wondering if maybe Wes needed to lie down more than he needed dinner, if this was how slow he was thinking. They needed him in top form if he was going to figure out how to get them home.
Wesley sighed, then sat down in the place Angel had vacated. "Angel, do you recognize what era we are in?"
"Early 1900s?" Angel guessed, having figured that one out when Wes had bugged him about the car.
"Correct," Wes said. "We have been dumped in England at about, if I'm guessing correctly, 1908. Though I'm not sure about that one. We'll have to find a newspaper."
"You're familiar with all this?" Angel asked.
"Somewhat," Wes said. He gestured around them. "I've been here. This home. But years in the future. Or my past, I suppose. It belongs to a friend of my family's. Everyone we have met I know from stories and photographs. They're friends or relatives of my great-grandfather's, the latter of which makes them relatives of mine too I suppose. I've never met the man, but apparently I look enough like him that they recognize the resemblance. Which is good. My name will get us far. Particularly when I need to use the family account at Harrod's to buy us a few things."
"With you so far," Angel said.
"Speaking of which, where *are* you, right now?" Wes asked. "The you of this time. You've been souled for almost a decade."
"America," Angel said. He hoped Wes would leave it at that.
"All right," Wesley said. He let out a whoosh of air. "That's good, at least. One less problem to worry about. We won't run into you, or have to worry about overly changing your history."
Angel felt a twitch at that, but didn't say anything.
"I, on the other hand, am a product of this time," Wesley said. "Quite literally. As fortunate as it is that we can lie to these people and find shelter, this is my history. Any large changes to it and - "
"You start vanishing," Angel said, having watched that time-travel movie with Cordy back before - well that was *another* thing he didn't want to think about too much right now.
"Literally or metaphorically," Wes agreed. "One mistake and it's possible that I shall never be born. Or that things are so fundamentally changed that I will no longer be the man you know."
"Can't have that," Angel said.
Wes gave him a small smile at that. "Indeed. And thank you."
"Just got you back," Angel reminded him. "So, okay. Sounds to me like we get in and out as quick as we can."
"Correct," Wes said. "But in the meanwhile I still need to find out how to get us home. During which time our only option is to create as few ripples as possible in the order of events."
"Low profile," Angel translated.
"Precisely," Wes said.
Again there was a long silence. Angel realized that Wes was now waiting for *him* to get something that seemed obvious. "Um... not really seeing how the boyfriend thing fits into that."
Wes shook his head, bemused. "Angel, don't you remember what 'man' means in this time?"
"Male..." Angel tried, guessing the words as he threw them out, "member of the..."
"*My* man," Wesley said. He stood up, holding up the outfit Angel had been loaned. "Angel, I said you were my gentleman's personal gentleman."
"Okay now you're just making stuff up," Angel said.
"My *butler*," Wes translated, handing the outfit over.
Angel looked at it. He looked at Wes's clothes. He suddenly recognized the difference between the two of them.
"No way," he said, giving the clothes back.
"Angel - "
"You've got to be *kidding* me," Angel said. "We've got to get home and you're telling me the best plan we've got is for me to act like your servant?"
"It won't be easy," Wesley told him. "This is a strict hierarchical society, Angel. I don't know how much you remember, but - "
"I don't have to remember anything," Angel told him. "I'm not doing it."
"Why?"
"Okay, we're gonna start at the top with 'the suit's ugly' and take it from there."
"Angel -"
"No."
"*Angel*."
"Stop me if you've heard this before," Angel said. "No."
Wes looked pissed at him. He threw the suit back. "We are surrounded by *Watchers*. What do *you* suggest is a better idea?"
"Something where I don't serve Watchers?" Angel suggested. "You know, just for a start."
"You *wouldn't*," Wes said. "Angel, you would be *my* gentleman's personal - "
"Butler, got it."
"Butler," Wes said. "Not theirs. Not anyone else's in this household. Don't you realize? It's the perfect way to hide you."
"I'm only humoring you," Angel warned him, "but go on. Explain."
"Edwardian England was *fanatical* about class structure," Wes told him. "Upper classes did not mingle with lower classes and vice versa. At least not outside of the strict rules and regulations that governed their interactions."
"And making me a lower class peon helps because...?"
"As far as the Council is concerned," Wesley said, "you are still Angelus. They had no record of your transformation until at least ten years from now."
Angel shrugged. "So?"
"Who do you look like?"
Angel blinked. "Huh?"
"Who do you look like?" Wes asked again. "If I were to lay my hands on a photograph from this era, who would you look *exactly* like right now?"
"I'm not really - "
"*Yourself*," Wes snapped. "You look exactly like yourself. The vampire that the Council knows of as the most evil creature to have ever lived. Now how do you think - "
"I don't look *exactly* like myself."
"- they're going to react - "
"Hair's different, for a start."
" - if they discover you here and notice the resemblance?" Wes finished, then added, "And you haven't changed it since 1999, forgive me for assuming you haven't changed it since 1899 either."
"Not everybody *needs* a new haircut every year," Angel muttered.
"Could we perhaps stay on point?" Wesley asked. "If the anyone on the Council sees you, I can guarantee you you'll be killed."
"So let's get out of here," Angel said.
"And go where?" Wes asked. He gestured to the world around them. "Ignoring the fact that our point of arrival was on these grounds and we should therefore stay near it, where precisely do you think you'll be safer? We're surrounded by Watchers. There isn't a house for miles that won't have a Council member in it."
"What about the villages?" Angel asked.
Wes shook his head. "Even there. Angel, I know it isn't pleasant but our best bet right now is to stay put. Particularly since I may need to avail myself of the library if I can't find any of the books back home that can help us."
"Okay," Angel said, "I get that. But I have to be your butler because...?"
"Because you fade into the woodwork that way," Wes explained. "I told you. They're obsessed with hierarchy. No one would ever *look* at you if you were my servant, let alone notice who you were. If anything, even if they *did* they would probably dismiss it. After all, how likely is it that Angelus would even pretend to be my man?"
"Just a little more unlikely than me doing it," Angel replied.
"So you see my point."
"I'm still not seeing why - "
"I have the accent," Wesley said, exasperated. "And the name."
"Still."
"I actually know the names of the 50 pieces of crystal, china and silverware that I'm likely to encounter at dinner tonight."
"Amazingly you sound proud of that."
Wesley rolled his eyes, then turned back to his clothes.
Angel realized an olive branch or two was in order. "Sorry. Sorry. Fine. I'll do it. But get us out of here quick, okay?"
"Not like I was planning on making this a holiday," Wes retorted. He struggled to get his tuxedo in order. "Now then, don't speak unless you are spoken to. Don't make eye contact. If anyone passes you in the hall, you'll have to make way for them. Well - any of the family that is. Lesser servants will have to make way for *you*."
"Lucky me," Angel nudged Wes aside and righted the tux for him.
"Fortunately you won't be expected to do much of the dirty work around here," Wes continued, getting out of his way. "The staff of the house will deal with most of the cleaning. Although we should possibly keep as much as we can to ourselves. I can't imagine what they'd make of my cell or your Palm Pilot."
"I actually don't have that with me," Angel said.
"How many times must you be told to carry it?" Wes asked, then dismissed it. "Never mind. Bigger problems at hand. We can hide my things in the meanwhile."
Angel nodded in the direction of the armoire. "Looks uninviting enough. Could toss your stuff in there."
"Good idea," Wes said. He gathered up all of their things into his satchel, then buried it in the armoire, covering it with spare blankets. "That should do it. For now at least. I'll try to find something better in the morning."
Angel stood back from the tux, brushing his hands clean. "Okay, now what?"
"Now I go downstairs and attempt to convincingly lie to perhaps 20 people," Wes said. He gestured towards the tuxedo. "While wearing that. I'm going to need your help."
"First off don't volunteer more than you have to," Angel said. "Let them lead and then just agree with whatever they're saying."
Wes shot him a bemused smile. "I meant with the clothes."
"Oh," Angel said, feeling a little disappointed. Then confused. "Why?"
"I can't make head nor tails of it," Wes said.
"You've worn a tux before."
"Not in this *era* I haven't," Wes replied. He sighed, then pointed to one of the items on the bed. "Something tells me I'm not going to like where that goes."
Angel cleared his throat. "Yeah, probably not."
"What do you think the chances are of me getting out of this having only worn modern undergarments?"
"About even odds with the likelihood of you washing them every night," Angel threw back.
Wes chuckled at that, then began to shed his clothes. "All right. Sacrifices all around then. And I'm going to need your help with more than this. I can remember enough history to muddle through but you've *lived* it. I'll need you to stay close. Help me figure out what to say."
"Do m'best," Angel said. He watched Wes for a moment, then decided the best way to keep this from being more awkward than it already was was to change into his own new clothes. He just hoped the suit would fit. Apparently it belonged to the house butler, a guy who'd looked about as old as Angel *actually* was. "Not like I was big with the polite dinner conversation."
"You were in America," Wes said. He'd stripped down to his boxers, then reluctantly shed those as well. Angel caught himself watching then immediately looked away. "I know you don't care to talk about it but can you remember enough for me to muddle through?"
"Anybody here ever been to the States?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then yes," Angel said. He finished dressing and turned to see Wes still struggling with the various fastenings and folds of his own clothes. He came over and started to help. Wes froze for half a second, then relaxed and let him get to it. "Wouldn't offer to *lecture* on it but I can fake it. *We* can fake it."
Wes turned around and let Angel help him into the shirt. "I hope so. You realize this has every chance of going *phenomenally* wrong."
Angel snorted. "Already on that page back when you called me your boyfriend, Wes. But thanks for the warning."
***
The house was mostly silent as they made their way down the stairs towards the dining hall. They'd gotten a brief tour upon their arrival, but Wesley found his steps needed no instructions. He'd visited Heppenstall on more than one occasion in his pre-California days. He knew were everything was. In point of fact, he was mildly unsurprised that the *decorating* hadn't changed much either.
Wesley felt a moment of insight. "Angel, can you hear anything?"
The vampire stopped and cocked his head. "No. Well - dinner sounds like it's that way but otherwise - "
"Everyone's there," Wesley finished. He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Come on."
Angel fell into step behind him. "Where are we going?"
"The library," Wesley said. He turned down a hallway and looked for the familiar door. "Unless they changed it in the next eighty years, it has a section on the history of this land. It's entirely possible I can find something in it about our portal."
"Think they'd write something like that down?" Angel asked.
"This is a Watcher house," Wesley told him, "they write *everything* down. Especially if its supernatural."
Wesley found the doors and pushed them open. The room was dimly lit, with a small fire dancing in the fireplace. The presence of a pool table in the middle of the room - one Wesley remembered as having been two doors down during his visits - told him he'd be expected to come back here after the meal.
A quick glance around told him he'd need more than a minute to get his bearings.
"Go on to dinner," he told Angel. "Let them know I'll be a few moments late. Tell the butler or the first footman. Anyone else - "
"Yeah, yeah," Angel said, waving it off and heading back down the hall. "God forbid I tell the *second* footman or the Hellmouth's gonna open again. Want me to come back when I'm done?"
"Please," Wesley said. He closed the door, greatly tempted to lock it on the odd chance a stray maid happened to pass through, but decided not to in case Angel needed to reach him quickly.
He started to search through the books.
As he had hoped, things weren't too different. There were some books he didn't recognize but still others that he knew quite well. A few sections had been moved, but eventually he managed to locate the shelves that spoke of the house's history.
He pulled a book at random and began to skim.
"Oh!" a voice said, startling him, "I didn't realize anyone was here."
Wesley turned to see a young woman in perhaps her twenties emerge from one of the bookcases. He mentally kicked himself for forgetting the library's secret passage.
She came forward. The light from the fireplace gave red highlights to her hair, which was piled on top of her head in the style of the time. A smile spread across her face, and she raised a gloved hand to clutch at the spray of diamonds at her neck. "My goodness. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, is that you?"
"Yes, yes," Wesley said. He quickly closed the book and shoved it into his other hand, reaching to take hers. She held it out limply and Wesley realized he was expected to kiss it instead of shake. He tried to pull the move off as smoothly as possible, all the while frantically searching his memory to see if he could find a name to go with her familiar face. "Pleasure to see you again... my dear."
Her brows quirked together. "Have we... yes, I suppose we have. At Bath, wasn't it?"
"Bath indeed," Wesley said, taking his hand back when she didn't seem inclined to release it. "Wonderful times, at Bath. Why just the other day I was telling my friend - er - Fred of the time you and I had at Bath together."
"You often speak to your friend Fred of things you did when you were five?"
"It was a nostalgic moment," Wesley said, clearing his throat. "And - and a moment of anticipation, obviously. At the thought of seeing you here. Again."
She smiled. "That's so kind of you to say."
"Nonsense," Wesley said, warming to the subject when it seemed to be one she was happy to agree with. "I've greatly looked forward to our meeting."
"Is *that* why you're in the library?" she asked. She looked around, as though trying to find someone. "Did Teddy tell you that I always come through here?"
Wesley took advantage of the moment to slide his book back onto the shelf unnoticed. "Well... one doesn't like to reveal sources."
"Doesn't one?" she teased. "Still, how like him to be so gallant."
"Indeed," Wesley said.
"Particularly considering how awkward the whole thing is," she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand for a moment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - "
"Nonsense," Wesley assured her. "It's been years since we've seen one another. Naturally things would be a bit awkward. In point of fact I've been thinking that myself. A lot."
"Have you?" she said. She came forward, reaching out to put her hands over his. "Please, I hope you don't think me too forward - "
"I think nothing of the sort," he said.
" - but everything here is so *dreadfully* old-fashioned - "
"You don't know the half of it."
" - and utterly, *utterly* stifling," she shook her head, then appealed to him. "I mean Lydia scolded me just the other night for spending all my time here. Can you *imagine* such a thing?"
"And here I'd thought we'd left the 19th century behind us," Wesley said.
"Then Spenser," she shuddered, clutching Wesley's hands as though to steady herself. "No, I shan't even repeat what *he* said."
"I'm sure I don't agree with it," Wesley told her.
She smiled at that. "You see? This is what I told Honoria. I said to her that the Wyndam-Pryce men were different. They're avant guarde. *Modern*."
"I'm more modern than most, I think you'll find," Wesley said.
She grinned. "So you are. Tell me - is it true you've spent time in the States?"
"Quite a bit," he said.
"There's all the difference then," she replied. She squeezed his hands again, and Wesley realized that once more she was showing no signs of letting him go. "It's good that you waited for me. I think it's best that we see one another like this. As we are. Outside of formality."
"True," Wesley said. He wondered if he could free himself without offending her. And something about what she'd said was nagging at him. He tried to review the conversation to see what it was.
"Perhaps we could see one another like this again," she suggested.
"Entirely possible," Wesley said. In the back of his mind he felt as though a flashing light had gone off, warning him to abort this mission.
"I'm sure we could manage it," she said. Her hands slid up his arms. "Particularly as everyone will be so busy getting ready for the garden party."
"Yes, true," Wesley said, stepping back and not liking it at all when she went with him. "The party. Yes."
"Besides," she continued, "I'm sure even Lydia wouldn't raise a fuss about it. We're intended, how could she?"
Wesley stopped. He felt the last piece of the puzzle click into place. "You - you said you spoke with Honoria?"
"Yes," she said.
"Your *aunt* Honoria?"
"That's right," she told him. She started to frown. "Jonathan, is something - "
Wesley held his hand up for silence. He opened his mouth, then closed it when part of him insisted he truly did *not* want this answer, but then forced himself to speak once more. "Rosie?"
"Yes?"
"As in Rosemary *Mapleton*?"
Rosie's lips twitched as though she wasn't sure if she should be worried or bemused. "Yes."
"Oh God," Wesley said. He covered his eyes and tried to blot out the view of his great-grandmother. "Oh *God*..."
"Hey, We-um, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" Angel's voice, more welcome than it had ever been in all the years Wesley had known him, came to him from the library's door.
"Right here," Wesley said. He rubbed his eyes, trying to compose himself.
Rosie came closer. "Jonathan, what on earth - "
"*Not* Jonathan," Wesley told her, stepping back again. "Wesley. His cousin. *Second* cousin. I'm sorry. Terrible mix-up. Angel, *please* tell me they're waiting for me at the table."
"They're waiting for you at the table," Angel repeated, dutifully. His lips curled into a grin as he added, "*Sir*."
"Oh good," Wesley said. He tried to think of something to say to Rosie, but found it to be one of the rare moments when words failed him. Instead he bolted for the door. Angel flashed him a curious look, but Wesley shut him up with a glare. "*Don't* ask."
The vampire looked as though he might ignore that, but Wesley pushed past him.
Suddenly lying about himself over dinner wasn't as daunting a task.
***
"Wes?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Angel said. He sat down on the bed of the suite he and Wesley had been led to. Wes, for his part, tried to undo all of the buttons and fastenings of a tuxedo that had been loaned to him. "Because I don't mean it like that."
"Mean what like what?" Wesley asked. He managed to get the vest undone and moved it aside.
"I'm flattered," Angel said. "Honestly. I never would've figured it was something you were interested in but, you know me, I'm not real big on judging. There's a whole glass houses thing to it."
"You're not making any sense," Wes told him. He struggled with the tiny buttons of his dress shirt.
Angel got up to help him. "What I'm trying to say is - you and me, we just got back to being friends. And I know you're just saying it because we need a cover right now, but with things being the way we are I think we need to be careful and not confuse things with any, you know, funny stuff."
"Funny stuff," Wesley repeated, as though he'd heard the words before but couldn't place them.
"Yeah," Angel said. "Even if it's only pretend. I don't wanna risk it."
Wes gave up on the shirt and faced him. "Angel, *what* on earth are you talking about?"
"I think we should tell those guys I'm not your boyfriend," Angel said.
Wesley stared at him. He started to speak, stopped himself, then held up a hand for silence. Angel recognized the look as the one Wes used when he was trying to translate something. Angel left him to it, concentrating instead on the buttons of the shirt since Wes was having such problems with them.
"Angel," Wesley finally said, a few moments later. "I don't need to tell them that you are not my boyfriend because, at this moment in time, they don't think that you *are*."
"But you told them."
"I said you were my man."
There was a long moment of silence before Angel realized Wes was still not getting it. "Uh *huh*," he prompted, wondering if maybe Wes needed to lie down more than he needed dinner, if this was how slow he was thinking. They needed him in top form if he was going to figure out how to get them home.
Wesley sighed, then sat down in the place Angel had vacated. "Angel, do you recognize what era we are in?"
"Early 1900s?" Angel guessed, having figured that one out when Wes had bugged him about the car.
"Correct," Wes said. "We have been dumped in England at about, if I'm guessing correctly, 1908. Though I'm not sure about that one. We'll have to find a newspaper."
"You're familiar with all this?" Angel asked.
"Somewhat," Wes said. He gestured around them. "I've been here. This home. But years in the future. Or my past, I suppose. It belongs to a friend of my family's. Everyone we have met I know from stories and photographs. They're friends or relatives of my great-grandfather's, the latter of which makes them relatives of mine too I suppose. I've never met the man, but apparently I look enough like him that they recognize the resemblance. Which is good. My name will get us far. Particularly when I need to use the family account at Harrod's to buy us a few things."
"With you so far," Angel said.
"Speaking of which, where *are* you, right now?" Wes asked. "The you of this time. You've been souled for almost a decade."
"America," Angel said. He hoped Wes would leave it at that.
"All right," Wesley said. He let out a whoosh of air. "That's good, at least. One less problem to worry about. We won't run into you, or have to worry about overly changing your history."
Angel felt a twitch at that, but didn't say anything.
"I, on the other hand, am a product of this time," Wesley said. "Quite literally. As fortunate as it is that we can lie to these people and find shelter, this is my history. Any large changes to it and - "
"You start vanishing," Angel said, having watched that time-travel movie with Cordy back before - well that was *another* thing he didn't want to think about too much right now.
"Literally or metaphorically," Wes agreed. "One mistake and it's possible that I shall never be born. Or that things are so fundamentally changed that I will no longer be the man you know."
"Can't have that," Angel said.
Wes gave him a small smile at that. "Indeed. And thank you."
"Just got you back," Angel reminded him. "So, okay. Sounds to me like we get in and out as quick as we can."
"Correct," Wes said. "But in the meanwhile I still need to find out how to get us home. During which time our only option is to create as few ripples as possible in the order of events."
"Low profile," Angel translated.
"Precisely," Wes said.
Again there was a long silence. Angel realized that Wes was now waiting for *him* to get something that seemed obvious. "Um... not really seeing how the boyfriend thing fits into that."
Wes shook his head, bemused. "Angel, don't you remember what 'man' means in this time?"
"Male..." Angel tried, guessing the words as he threw them out, "member of the..."
"*My* man," Wesley said. He stood up, holding up the outfit Angel had been loaned. "Angel, I said you were my gentleman's personal gentleman."
"Okay now you're just making stuff up," Angel said.
"My *butler*," Wes translated, handing the outfit over.
Angel looked at it. He looked at Wes's clothes. He suddenly recognized the difference between the two of them.
"No way," he said, giving the clothes back.
"Angel - "
"You've got to be *kidding* me," Angel said. "We've got to get home and you're telling me the best plan we've got is for me to act like your servant?"
"It won't be easy," Wesley told him. "This is a strict hierarchical society, Angel. I don't know how much you remember, but - "
"I don't have to remember anything," Angel told him. "I'm not doing it."
"Why?"
"Okay, we're gonna start at the top with 'the suit's ugly' and take it from there."
"Angel -"
"No."
"*Angel*."
"Stop me if you've heard this before," Angel said. "No."
Wes looked pissed at him. He threw the suit back. "We are surrounded by *Watchers*. What do *you* suggest is a better idea?"
"Something where I don't serve Watchers?" Angel suggested. "You know, just for a start."
"You *wouldn't*," Wes said. "Angel, you would be *my* gentleman's personal - "
"Butler, got it."
"Butler," Wes said. "Not theirs. Not anyone else's in this household. Don't you realize? It's the perfect way to hide you."
"I'm only humoring you," Angel warned him, "but go on. Explain."
"Edwardian England was *fanatical* about class structure," Wes told him. "Upper classes did not mingle with lower classes and vice versa. At least not outside of the strict rules and regulations that governed their interactions."
"And making me a lower class peon helps because...?"
"As far as the Council is concerned," Wesley said, "you are still Angelus. They had no record of your transformation until at least ten years from now."
Angel shrugged. "So?"
"Who do you look like?"
Angel blinked. "Huh?"
"Who do you look like?" Wes asked again. "If I were to lay my hands on a photograph from this era, who would you look *exactly* like right now?"
"I'm not really - "
"*Yourself*," Wes snapped. "You look exactly like yourself. The vampire that the Council knows of as the most evil creature to have ever lived. Now how do you think - "
"I don't look *exactly* like myself."
"- they're going to react - "
"Hair's different, for a start."
" - if they discover you here and notice the resemblance?" Wes finished, then added, "And you haven't changed it since 1999, forgive me for assuming you haven't changed it since 1899 either."
"Not everybody *needs* a new haircut every year," Angel muttered.
"Could we perhaps stay on point?" Wesley asked. "If the anyone on the Council sees you, I can guarantee you you'll be killed."
"So let's get out of here," Angel said.
"And go where?" Wes asked. He gestured to the world around them. "Ignoring the fact that our point of arrival was on these grounds and we should therefore stay near it, where precisely do you think you'll be safer? We're surrounded by Watchers. There isn't a house for miles that won't have a Council member in it."
"What about the villages?" Angel asked.
Wes shook his head. "Even there. Angel, I know it isn't pleasant but our best bet right now is to stay put. Particularly since I may need to avail myself of the library if I can't find any of the books back home that can help us."
"Okay," Angel said, "I get that. But I have to be your butler because...?"
"Because you fade into the woodwork that way," Wes explained. "I told you. They're obsessed with hierarchy. No one would ever *look* at you if you were my servant, let alone notice who you were. If anything, even if they *did* they would probably dismiss it. After all, how likely is it that Angelus would even pretend to be my man?"
"Just a little more unlikely than me doing it," Angel replied.
"So you see my point."
"I'm still not seeing why - "
"I have the accent," Wesley said, exasperated. "And the name."
"Still."
"I actually know the names of the 50 pieces of crystal, china and silverware that I'm likely to encounter at dinner tonight."
"Amazingly you sound proud of that."
Wesley rolled his eyes, then turned back to his clothes.
Angel realized an olive branch or two was in order. "Sorry. Sorry. Fine. I'll do it. But get us out of here quick, okay?"
"Not like I was planning on making this a holiday," Wes retorted. He struggled to get his tuxedo in order. "Now then, don't speak unless you are spoken to. Don't make eye contact. If anyone passes you in the hall, you'll have to make way for them. Well - any of the family that is. Lesser servants will have to make way for *you*."
"Lucky me," Angel nudged Wes aside and righted the tux for him.
"Fortunately you won't be expected to do much of the dirty work around here," Wes continued, getting out of his way. "The staff of the house will deal with most of the cleaning. Although we should possibly keep as much as we can to ourselves. I can't imagine what they'd make of my cell or your Palm Pilot."
"I actually don't have that with me," Angel said.
"How many times must you be told to carry it?" Wes asked, then dismissed it. "Never mind. Bigger problems at hand. We can hide my things in the meanwhile."
Angel nodded in the direction of the armoire. "Looks uninviting enough. Could toss your stuff in there."
"Good idea," Wes said. He gathered up all of their things into his satchel, then buried it in the armoire, covering it with spare blankets. "That should do it. For now at least. I'll try to find something better in the morning."
Angel stood back from the tux, brushing his hands clean. "Okay, now what?"
"Now I go downstairs and attempt to convincingly lie to perhaps 20 people," Wes said. He gestured towards the tuxedo. "While wearing that. I'm going to need your help."
"First off don't volunteer more than you have to," Angel said. "Let them lead and then just agree with whatever they're saying."
Wes shot him a bemused smile. "I meant with the clothes."
"Oh," Angel said, feeling a little disappointed. Then confused. "Why?"
"I can't make head nor tails of it," Wes said.
"You've worn a tux before."
"Not in this *era* I haven't," Wes replied. He sighed, then pointed to one of the items on the bed. "Something tells me I'm not going to like where that goes."
Angel cleared his throat. "Yeah, probably not."
"What do you think the chances are of me getting out of this having only worn modern undergarments?"
"About even odds with the likelihood of you washing them every night," Angel threw back.
Wes chuckled at that, then began to shed his clothes. "All right. Sacrifices all around then. And I'm going to need your help with more than this. I can remember enough history to muddle through but you've *lived* it. I'll need you to stay close. Help me figure out what to say."
"Do m'best," Angel said. He watched Wes for a moment, then decided the best way to keep this from being more awkward than it already was was to change into his own new clothes. He just hoped the suit would fit. Apparently it belonged to the house butler, a guy who'd looked about as old as Angel *actually* was. "Not like I was big with the polite dinner conversation."
"You were in America," Wes said. He'd stripped down to his boxers, then reluctantly shed those as well. Angel caught himself watching then immediately looked away. "I know you don't care to talk about it but can you remember enough for me to muddle through?"
"Anybody here ever been to the States?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then yes," Angel said. He finished dressing and turned to see Wes still struggling with the various fastenings and folds of his own clothes. He came over and started to help. Wes froze for half a second, then relaxed and let him get to it. "Wouldn't offer to *lecture* on it but I can fake it. *We* can fake it."
Wes turned around and let Angel help him into the shirt. "I hope so. You realize this has every chance of going *phenomenally* wrong."
Angel snorted. "Already on that page back when you called me your boyfriend, Wes. But thanks for the warning."
***
The house was mostly silent as they made their way down the stairs towards the dining hall. They'd gotten a brief tour upon their arrival, but Wesley found his steps needed no instructions. He'd visited Heppenstall on more than one occasion in his pre-California days. He knew were everything was. In point of fact, he was mildly unsurprised that the *decorating* hadn't changed much either.
Wesley felt a moment of insight. "Angel, can you hear anything?"
The vampire stopped and cocked his head. "No. Well - dinner sounds like it's that way but otherwise - "
"Everyone's there," Wesley finished. He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Come on."
Angel fell into step behind him. "Where are we going?"
"The library," Wesley said. He turned down a hallway and looked for the familiar door. "Unless they changed it in the next eighty years, it has a section on the history of this land. It's entirely possible I can find something in it about our portal."
"Think they'd write something like that down?" Angel asked.
"This is a Watcher house," Wesley told him, "they write *everything* down. Especially if its supernatural."
Wesley found the doors and pushed them open. The room was dimly lit, with a small fire dancing in the fireplace. The presence of a pool table in the middle of the room - one Wesley remembered as having been two doors down during his visits - told him he'd be expected to come back here after the meal.
A quick glance around told him he'd need more than a minute to get his bearings.
"Go on to dinner," he told Angel. "Let them know I'll be a few moments late. Tell the butler or the first footman. Anyone else - "
"Yeah, yeah," Angel said, waving it off and heading back down the hall. "God forbid I tell the *second* footman or the Hellmouth's gonna open again. Want me to come back when I'm done?"
"Please," Wesley said. He closed the door, greatly tempted to lock it on the odd chance a stray maid happened to pass through, but decided not to in case Angel needed to reach him quickly.
He started to search through the books.
As he had hoped, things weren't too different. There were some books he didn't recognize but still others that he knew quite well. A few sections had been moved, but eventually he managed to locate the shelves that spoke of the house's history.
He pulled a book at random and began to skim.
"Oh!" a voice said, startling him, "I didn't realize anyone was here."
Wesley turned to see a young woman in perhaps her twenties emerge from one of the bookcases. He mentally kicked himself for forgetting the library's secret passage.
She came forward. The light from the fireplace gave red highlights to her hair, which was piled on top of her head in the style of the time. A smile spread across her face, and she raised a gloved hand to clutch at the spray of diamonds at her neck. "My goodness. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, is that you?"
"Yes, yes," Wesley said. He quickly closed the book and shoved it into his other hand, reaching to take hers. She held it out limply and Wesley realized he was expected to kiss it instead of shake. He tried to pull the move off as smoothly as possible, all the while frantically searching his memory to see if he could find a name to go with her familiar face. "Pleasure to see you again... my dear."
Her brows quirked together. "Have we... yes, I suppose we have. At Bath, wasn't it?"
"Bath indeed," Wesley said, taking his hand back when she didn't seem inclined to release it. "Wonderful times, at Bath. Why just the other day I was telling my friend - er - Fred of the time you and I had at Bath together."
"You often speak to your friend Fred of things you did when you were five?"
"It was a nostalgic moment," Wesley said, clearing his throat. "And - and a moment of anticipation, obviously. At the thought of seeing you here. Again."
She smiled. "That's so kind of you to say."
"Nonsense," Wesley said, warming to the subject when it seemed to be one she was happy to agree with. "I've greatly looked forward to our meeting."
"Is *that* why you're in the library?" she asked. She looked around, as though trying to find someone. "Did Teddy tell you that I always come through here?"
Wesley took advantage of the moment to slide his book back onto the shelf unnoticed. "Well... one doesn't like to reveal sources."
"Doesn't one?" she teased. "Still, how like him to be so gallant."
"Indeed," Wesley said.
"Particularly considering how awkward the whole thing is," she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand for a moment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - "
"Nonsense," Wesley assured her. "It's been years since we've seen one another. Naturally things would be a bit awkward. In point of fact I've been thinking that myself. A lot."
"Have you?" she said. She came forward, reaching out to put her hands over his. "Please, I hope you don't think me too forward - "
"I think nothing of the sort," he said.
" - but everything here is so *dreadfully* old-fashioned - "
"You don't know the half of it."
" - and utterly, *utterly* stifling," she shook her head, then appealed to him. "I mean Lydia scolded me just the other night for spending all my time here. Can you *imagine* such a thing?"
"And here I'd thought we'd left the 19th century behind us," Wesley said.
"Then Spenser," she shuddered, clutching Wesley's hands as though to steady herself. "No, I shan't even repeat what *he* said."
"I'm sure I don't agree with it," Wesley told her.
She smiled at that. "You see? This is what I told Honoria. I said to her that the Wyndam-Pryce men were different. They're avant guarde. *Modern*."
"I'm more modern than most, I think you'll find," Wesley said.
She grinned. "So you are. Tell me - is it true you've spent time in the States?"
"Quite a bit," he said.
"There's all the difference then," she replied. She squeezed his hands again, and Wesley realized that once more she was showing no signs of letting him go. "It's good that you waited for me. I think it's best that we see one another like this. As we are. Outside of formality."
"True," Wesley said. He wondered if he could free himself without offending her. And something about what she'd said was nagging at him. He tried to review the conversation to see what it was.
"Perhaps we could see one another like this again," she suggested.
"Entirely possible," Wesley said. In the back of his mind he felt as though a flashing light had gone off, warning him to abort this mission.
"I'm sure we could manage it," she said. Her hands slid up his arms. "Particularly as everyone will be so busy getting ready for the garden party."
"Yes, true," Wesley said, stepping back and not liking it at all when she went with him. "The party. Yes."
"Besides," she continued, "I'm sure even Lydia wouldn't raise a fuss about it. We're intended, how could she?"
Wesley stopped. He felt the last piece of the puzzle click into place. "You - you said you spoke with Honoria?"
"Yes," she said.
"Your *aunt* Honoria?"
"That's right," she told him. She started to frown. "Jonathan, is something - "
Wesley held his hand up for silence. He opened his mouth, then closed it when part of him insisted he truly did *not* want this answer, but then forced himself to speak once more. "Rosie?"
"Yes?"
"As in Rosemary *Mapleton*?"
Rosie's lips twitched as though she wasn't sure if she should be worried or bemused. "Yes."
"Oh God," Wesley said. He covered his eyes and tried to blot out the view of his great-grandmother. "Oh *God*..."
"Hey, We-um, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" Angel's voice, more welcome than it had ever been in all the years Wesley had known him, came to him from the library's door.
"Right here," Wesley said. He rubbed his eyes, trying to compose himself.
Rosie came closer. "Jonathan, what on earth - "
"*Not* Jonathan," Wesley told her, stepping back again. "Wesley. His cousin. *Second* cousin. I'm sorry. Terrible mix-up. Angel, *please* tell me they're waiting for me at the table."
"They're waiting for you at the table," Angel repeated, dutifully. His lips curled into a grin as he added, "*Sir*."
"Oh good," Wesley said. He tried to think of something to say to Rosie, but found it to be one of the rare moments when words failed him. Instead he bolted for the door. Angel flashed him a curious look, but Wesley shut him up with a glare. "*Don't* ask."
The vampire looked as though he might ignore that, but Wesley pushed past him.
Suddenly lying about himself over dinner wasn't as daunting a task.
***
