# Title: White Linen Suit: A History or The Clothes Make the Man
# Author Name: kaliflower
# Rating: K+
# Warnings: Spoilers through the show but it ends before the comics.
# Disclaimer: I do not own this, many other people like Fox and Joss own this. I just play in the sandbox
# Summary: A series of ficlets that follow Wesley and those suits of his from his days in Sunnydale
White Linen Suit: A History or The Clothes Make the Man
The material was off-white and soft with a fine, even grain. Tailor-made, it had been sewn into a suit befitting the role of Watcher; one of many his father had paid for as a gift. Wesley once again felt how important it was that he had been given the position as the new Active Watcher - of two Slayers! - on the Hellmouth. He had trained his whole life for this position, as any child in a Watcher family would be, but the promotion surpassed his dreams and those of his father's. Wesley admired his reflection in the mirror, tugging lightly at his sleeve cuff. This is what his father had always wanted. This is what he always wanted.
All he could afford, with his meager severance check from the Council, was either a ticket home to England or the motorcycle in front of him. He saw the classified ad this morning in the paper. For the price, he expected it to be a rust scarred piece of junk. However, the black paint gleaming in the sun and the purring motor proved him wrong. The man selling the bike was moving away from the Hellmouth in a hurry. Wesley briefly felt he should be concerned why this man was fleeing, but he wanted this bike more than he cared about the man and his problems. Watching his fingers leave steaks on the chrome fender, he heard the man say, "I've got some leathers that go with the bike. I'd be willing to throw them in for a little more."
Wesley looked up at the man, riding leathers and a motorcycle would be a good way to give Sunnydale the two-finger salute on the way out of town. They would be better, by far, than those Watcher fashions he no longer had the right to call his own. He held out his hand. "That sounds wonderful."
When he saw Angel again, he was delighted to have the vampire see him in his motorcycle leathers. Wesley felt they made him look rather tougher than when he'd been in Sunnydale. But after the first dismissive glance, he wished he was in one of those suits from his Watcher days. He'd only kept his light colored suits when he'd packed up six months ago, in the summer. Lord knows why now, they weren't very practical for a Rouge Demon Hunter. If he continued to work with Angel – for this case only, mustn't get carried away from his mission – then he should wear his suits, and not these embarrassing leathers.
There is no exact date when he began dressing more casually at work. It was sometime after Faith. If one could expect to be tortured by the crimes of ones past then one could wear something more relaxed than a white three piece suit. It had a nasty tendency to stain.
However, it wasn't until after working with Gunn, and dating Virginia, that he felt anywhere near comfortable not wearing one to work. They both responded better to him when he was wearing more relaxed clothing – so very Californian of them. Gunn once remarked that Wesley seemed more comfortable now. Wesley never bothered to correct him.
He had to move the suits out of storage to install the cage in his bedroom closet. He threw all of them away with a rage that he was beginning to realize would never leave him. Before he tied the garbage bag tight and tossed those suits down the rubbish chute, which smelled of soured beer, he took one final look inside. On top was the last suit out of his closet, his favorite that he had taken from Sunnydale. Absently he reached for his neck while he remembered wearing the white linen suit, peering down at his Slayers through his glasses, with the smug knowledge that he was always correct, because he was their Watcher. That night was just one of a million that proved he was more often wrong than right. Hastily, he grabbed the suit and shoved it into his front hall closet, so the white fabric could taunt him every time he opened the door.
Angel said to live this day like it was your last. Sadly enough Angel had meant that in more of a carpe diem sense of the phrase. As he had told Illyria, he didn't plan on dying tonight, but he wasn't stupid and he didn't want to leave behind a legal mess if he did. After making sure his affairs were in order, he wandered around his apartment. Rifling through his hall closet he found the suit he had put there almost two years earlier, it was wrinkled and smelled like his closet: stale and stiff. He fancied wearing it for a few moments. Images of him walking up to Vale in a crisp suit, with his grim eyes set, amused Wesley. A heroic Watcher, all in white, there to vanquish the supernatural foe; that was a child's fantasy. He'd known for a long time that those suits weren't practical.