bookishwench | Fic: Dirty Laundry (Mayor, Wesley, PG)

Author: Meltha
Rating: PG
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Through BtVS season 3, to be safe
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: The Mayor needs to clean up a little accident and bumps into the new Englishman in town.
Author’s Note: Written for the

lilachigh for the Richard Wilkins III Memorial Ficathon. She requested Wesley, chocolate ice cream, laundry, and rock concert tickets.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.

Dirty Laundry

Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, is harder to get out of a nice, white silk business shirt than chocolate ice cream. Well, almost nothing. In that category, chocolate ice cream is probably in a very close race with Fyarl mucus, and who ever that those two things would wind up in the same sentence?

Still, none of that changes the fact that, yes, my very best shirt got splattered with a remaining half scoop of double chocolate ripple today. I can’t blame poor Faith, though. After all, it was really quite a nice gesture when you think about it; she saw that crazy bike messenger pedaling along at top speed, and whoomp! Out went her arm to keep me from being mowed down, and she just plum forgot she happened to have an ice cream cone in that hand. That’s not all that surprising, when I think about it. She hasn’t had nearly enough ice cream cones in her life, so it’s not like she had any practice. She needs more fun in her life. Maybe I should let her kill the bike messenger…

That’s what brings me here. Oh, not homicide! Well, not right now, anyway. No, the shirt. Of course the mayor’s residence has its own washer and dryer, but I just can’t abide all this sticky, gunky gyah all over the inside of my nice, clean Maytag. Hence, I’m visiting the Sunnydale Laundromat. It’s not the most creative name, I grant you, but it gets the point across. Now, say, there’s a question. What would I name a laundromat? Maybe Happy Scrubby Bubbles or Lean and Mean Clean Machines or something, well, more whimsical, but I suppose that’s out of fashion now, kind of like morals and dependability and virgin sacrifices. Do you have any idea how long poor Alan had to search to find ten virgins for that ritual last August? Well, let me tell you, that just underlined to me the complete moral degradation we’ve fallen into in this country. We wound up having to send out to Canada for a few young ladies. Truly shocking.

Where was I? I must be getting old, letting my mind wander like that. Oh, well, not literally. I mean, I haven’t aged in over a hundred years. And also not literally that my mind was wandering around the room. There’s a demon that does that; what’s it called again? Its head opens up like a flip-top can when it wants to feed and then, when you least expect it, howdy-doody there’s a brain a-coming at you, flapping its tentacles and shrieking. I just love demons. They’re so colorful. Well, except the oozing ones. Those are just unsanitary.

Which brings me back to my original subject: laundry. I put my poor soiled shirt through a good scrub down with some mystical stain removers, guaranteed to get out any spot or stain except those on your soul, and popped it in the laundry a few minutes ago. You know, gosh darn it, but I kind of find laundry fun. That’s why I decided to come down here myself tonight. I don’t know what it is, but watching the clothes swirl around with all the soap through the glass door on the front of the washer is just so… I don’t know. Meditative, I suppose.

There’s only one other person here besides the attendant, and he doesn’t really look like he’s enjoying the wonders of laundry all that much. In fact, he looks downright glum. Now wait just half a second, there. Isn’t that… yes, I do believe that’s our new resident Watcher, all the way from England. Well, it was certainly be inhospitable of me not to welcome him to these fair shores, even if I am planning to kill all of that little clique of Buffy’s.

“Quite a metaphor for life, isn’t it?” I say loudly enough to draw his attention, then point at the machine sudsing away.

“I beg your pardon?” he says, a little primly, but I have to give him credit for being polite. Then again, all those English people are. Well, perhaps not all. I’ve had quite enough of a certain Rupert Giles and his bad attitude to last me a lifetime or three.

“The laundry,” I say, smiling brightly.

“How, precisely, does, ehm, laundry become a metaphor for life?” he says, and the look he’s giving me seems to suggest he’s not sure whether I’m pulling his leg or being serious.

“Well, look at it this way,” I say, walking towards him and tapping on the glass window of his machine. “These were all filthy dirty when they went in, weren’t they?”

“Rather,” he says, still unsure of himself.

“But now they’re in there, working hard, bumping up against each other, getting rid of all the stains of the past. Oh, sure, they’re squishing around and slapping into each other, maybe a few buttons will need to be mended afterwards, and you can bet that if those socks had any feelings at all, they wouldn’t be the least bit happy to be thrown in that scalding hot water, would they?” I say. On that last part, I’m very sure. Nothing alive that I’ve ever thrown in scalding hot water has been thrilled with it.

“I suppose,” he says, still regarding me carefully.

“But when it’s done,” I say, “they come at fresh as daisies. It’s a whole new life, and whatever trouble they had in the past is over and done with, just like you coming over here to California. Whatever was bothering you is oceans away, and looking at you, no one would ever know about what they were, now would they? New start, April fresh and clean.”

He mulls this over carefully for a moment.

“There’s just one small flaw in your reasoning,” he says slowly.

“And that would be?”

“Some stains don’t come out,” he says.

Hmm. Well, I knew there had to be a logical fallacy in there somewhere.

“Maybe so,” I say, “but then again, some do. I’m Richard, by the way.”

“Wesley Wyndham-Pryce,” he says, putting out his hand and shaking mine just a shade forcefully.

The kid’s got a decent handshake, though maybe it shows he’s a little too eager to please. Yes, the Council of Watchers tends to have that effect on its recent graduates. He probably knows the entire series of Watchers’ diaries frontwards and back but hasn’t ever been in a real fight, he knows it, and it scares him. Yes, I’d say this has been a most illuminating meeting.

“Nice to meet you, Wesley,” I say, smiling broadly in the way that works best for the newspapers. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here.”

“Thank you,” he says and there’s a sigh. “I do believe that you’re the first person to extend any sort of greeting to me in this dismal place. I was beginning to fear there were no civilized people left in America.”

“Aw, now that’s a shame,” I say, and really it is. What’s the country coming to when we aren’t welcoming visitors from abroad with open arms and a friendly howdy? You know, I may just have to buy this boy an ice cream cone too. He should get to see some of the nice things about our country before he dies.

“It’s unimportant,” he says, and I can tell he’s embarrassed about letting that little complaint slip out. “I’m here on business anyway.”

“Well, I hope your business comes to a quick and fortunate end,” I think, mentally adding the words “for me” after it.

He nods, and just then my washer dings to say that my shirt is done. I pull it out of the machine and examine the spot closely, and sure enough, there’s not the least speck of chocolate left. I’m really going to have to thank that shaman for the superb spot remover. Maybe I should send him some flowers tied up in entrails or a nice apple pie from the bakery. Yes, definitely the pie. They make them so tasty there! Oh, and a gallon of milk, of course, because really, what’s apple pie without a cold glass of milk?

“See?” I say, holding it up to my new friend’s inspection. “Clean as can be.”

He nods his approval, but he still doesn’t look very happy or hopeful. Well, I tried my best, but there are some gloomy Gusses that just don’t want to be content.

“The tag says I’m not supposed to use a dryer, so I guess I’ll just walk home and let it drip dry,” I say. “Have a pleasant night, Wesley.”

“You too, Richard,” he says as I leave and the little bell over the door jingles merrily.

Well, now I just need to keep that meeting with the PTA, open up a portal for some Groznik demons, and pick up concert tickets for Faith for Aerosmith. I do hope they’re a well behaved band. She seems to like them, though, and since I’ll be there to act as chaperone, I think everything will be fine. Just as I’m about to turn the corner, I look back over my shoulder at Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. Too bad, really. Ever since Alan died, I’ve needed a new assistant, and he seems just the type. Ah well. Nothing to be done about it. Besides, I need to hurry or else those monsters I’m meeting will tear the place apart, and the Grozniks won’t be too happy either!