He thinks about every moment of that first meeting, dwelling on each detail, obsessively deconstructing each word, each expression he used. Sometimes he thinks he’s identified the critical moment when he lost them; when his Slayers stared at him with amused contempt instead of awed respect. Then it slips from him and he’s left shaking his head in despair.
Finally, in a blinding flash, just like in the clichés, it comes to him, and he knows, beyond doubt, where he made his first fatal error.
And Wesley wishes, oh so hard, that he’d worn the striped tie, not the spotted.
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