Lineage

Part One

Lilah entered the coffee shop and scoured her surroundings - she'd been summoned to a private meeting and she didn't know who by. She did not appreciate being yanked around like this, but on the other hand she was a woman who enjoyed an intrigue. If someone was plotting - then she wanted to know who and what; whether she wished to join in the scheme or not, she still wanted to know the score. Gather all the information. Hold all the cards.

As her eyes passed over the crowd she spotted her mark - and let out a sardonic bark of laughter. She crossed the room and sat down at the table, crossing her long legs and letting her purse slide to the floor. 'This had better be good,' she said.

The meeting was being held in a warehouse, dark and deserted - on the wrong side of the tracks. Emil had brought his muscle with him - and was now laying down the way things worked. 'It comes down to trust,' he said. He was sitting on a chair backwards, straddling it, his arms folded across the back. He looked relaxed, whilst his flunkies glowered behind him. 'There's no Better Business Bureau for what we do. Customer complaints are dealt with through … killing, torture, beating … sometimes fire.' He glanced back at his muscle and then smiled at the man opposite him, sitting stiffly in his own chair. 'We call it word of mouth advertising.'

'If I'd known this was going to be a seminar, I'd have worn my name tag,' Wesley said - sounding distinctly unimpressed, for all Emil's threats. But that only made Emil laugh. 'I just want to make sure we both know where we stand,' he told the watcher.

'Right now you're standing on the brink of my patience,' Wesley said, coldly. 'I agreed to meet with your distributor, Emil, not your … muscle,' he raked a glance over the two flunkies, curling his lip to indicate his disdain. 'This is a waste of time,' he said, getting to his feet.

But Emil gestured to him to sit back down - to take a moment to reconsider. His distributor was merely cautious, he explained, he wanted the merchandise verified before they moved ahead with the deal.

There was the sound of high heels tapping against the hard concrete of the floor, and Emil raised an eyebrow and smiled, 'now who is this?' he asked - as Fred placed a silver briefcase on the table and opened it. Wesley glanced over at her and then looked back at Emil - dead in the eyes, 'my muscle,' he said.

Fred started to take parts out of the briefcase and put them together, assembling a massive gun silently and efficiently. 'What we've got here is a modification of the TS-113 sniper rifle,' she explained once it was fully assembled and held in her hands. 'We've altered its targeting and firing mechanisms to fit the parameters you gave us. Scope works along amplified thermal wavelengths. We replaced the delivery system with a bylantine energy charge, eliminating the need for conventional ammunition.'

'Wolfram and Hart has 200 units ready now,' Wesley told Emil, 'we'll begin making more once we receive payment.'

'And your boss doesn't mind selling this exciting weaponry to someone like me?'

Wesley only shrugged. 'As long as they don't show up in L.A. We choose our battles, Emil, and you sidestepped the issue of payment.'

Emil laughed again. 'You'll get your money.'

Wesley nodded and got to his feet. He took the gun away from Fred and began to disassemble it, placing the component parts back in the briefcase. 'You'll get nothing until I've met with your distributor,' he said, 'I'm not going through a middle man.'

Emil slammed his hand down on the back of his chair. 'Did you just refer to me as a middle man? You're lucky Wolfram and Hart have such good word of mouth advertising.' He reached into his inside coat pocket and took out a pen and a scrap of paper and began scribbling something down. 'There - call this number, he'll arrange everything.' He handed the paper to Wesley and then shook his head in disbelief, glancing at Fred. 'Can you believe I used to sell this guy collapsible swords? Almost makes me...'

He was cut off as one of his guards suddenly grunted and was then dragged backwards through the air by a hook skewered through his throat. Everyone looked around in alarm and Wesley hastily pushed Fred behind a tower of packing crates - out of sight.

Emil had jumped to his feet in anger. 'No one double crosses me,' he yelled.

Hidden behind the crates, Fred and Wesley held a whispered and hurried conversation. 'What hit that guy?' she asked.

'Not sure.'

Emil and his guard now had their guns pulled out and were on the defensive, backing up and looking around for whatever had killed the other flunkey. Wesley took two pistols out of his own jacket pocket and held one in each hand. He leaned round the side of the crates to take a look and then dove across the warehouse, shooting from both guns.

Left alone in their hiding place, crouched down and completely unprotected, Fred looked irritated. 'Yes, thank you, Wesley. I'd love a gun!'

Wesley shot the remaining guard, who fell to the floor. Across the warehouse, a black-clad figure dropped down from the ceiling and landed in front of Emil. Emil began to back away from him, 'I don't want any...' but the dark figure wasn't listening. It whipped a chain out and threw it like a lasso, wrapping it around Emil's neck. Then the figure yanked the chain - and Emil's neck broke. The arms dealer fell to the ground.

Watching from a distance, Wesley pulled his guns - making ready. But, before he could shoot, the mysterious black-clad figure had disappeared - as silently as it had arrived. The watcher crept through the warehouse, his guns pointed and ready, alert for any noise. But he was blindsided by another dark figure - who grabbed him.

There was a crash as the window to the warehouse was kicked in - the shards of glass scattered, to fall in broken fragments - and Angel tumbled through the space. He landed on the concrete, rolled and jumped to his feet; grabbing the man who was attacking Wesley. He grabbed hold of the chain the black figure was using as a weapon and wrapped it around his opponents neck. Then - just as had been done to Emil - Angel yanked the chain and broke the fighter's neck. The black clad figure slumped to the floor - but bolts of electricity crackled around the break.

Angel and Wesley glanced at each other, bemused, and cautiously made their way to the fallen man's side. Crouching down, Angel pulled the man's hood from his face - only to reveal that he didn't have one. Instead there was a face plate made of silver chrome. More electricity crackled from the broken cyborg - and the two men exchanged another mystified glance.

Then they heard a soft and pained moan coming from behind the packing crates. 'Fred!' Wesley realised and ran back to where he had left her. Angel got to his feet, looking confused, 'Fred?' he asked. He followed Wesley - and found him standing above her. looking horrified. Fred was barely conscious - and there was a large, ugly wound in her shoulder - she was bleeding heavily. Wesley pulled out his handkerchief and knelt by her side, pressing the cloth against her wound, trying to stem the flow of her blood. He gazed off into space as he worked - his expression one of terror.

Above him - Angel was looking more angry than worried.

Breakfast plates and bowls, and mugs of coffee lay strewn across the dining room table. Doyle sat in his chair, in his dressing gown, and finished off a last bit of toast. Across the apartment, Cordelia was running round like a mad thing - throwing things into her bag, brushing her hair and yelling questions and instructions through to her boyfriend. Doyle just stayed quiet and let her get on with it.

'Are you sure you'll be OK?' she shouted to him, now with her head buried under the bed, rooting out a missing shoe. 'We could ring them and rearrange…'

'I'll be fine, Cordy, I got all the stuff I need.'

'You got your social security number?'

He nodded his head - and then remembered she couldn't see him, from her vantage point underneath the bed, and shouted back a 'yes'. 'I got proof of I.D, proof of your I.D, birth certificates and social security numbers. Plus proof o' my divorce from Harri - just in case they wanna see it again. They'll hand it over darlin' - no worries.'

Cordelia had emerged from the bed and wrestled her now found shoe onto her foot. Then she looked in the mirror and cried out in alarm, seeing the state her hair was now in after her sojourn under the bed. She grabbed the hairbrush and began to comb it out again. 'What if there's a problem?' she called across to him.

He finished chewing his bit of toast and swallowed, before he answered. 'There won't be a problem.' He picked up his coffee mug and took a thoughtful sip. 'And if there is - they'll tell me what it is and I'll sort it. Or we'll sort it later. It's just paperwork, Cordy - no need to freak out.'

'No need to freak out?' she repeated, disbelievingly, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation. 'This is only our marriage license! If they don't let us have one, then we can't get married. Full stop. End of. No green card. Back to merrie olde England for you.' She left the bedroom and walked out into the living area - scowling at her boyfriend who was sitting there so calmly, drinking his coffee.

'England and Ireland aren't even on the same land mass, Cordy,' Doyle rolled his eyes, 'we've only been goin' out for four years and you don't even know which country I'm from … hey - maybe they won't give us a marriage license, that is pretty terrible!'

She threw a cushion at him.

'Ow! You know you can throw pretty hard these days. I'm gonna have a bruise.'

She ignored him and wriggled into her jacket. 'Are you sure you'll be OK?' she asked again.

He nodded, 'I don't know why you're freakin' out so much, I'm just pickin' the damn thing up - we already did the hard part.'

'I just figured we'd be going to get it together you know - so I'd be there, to make sure nothing went wrong.'

'You have dangerous, control freak tendencies, Cordelia, anyone ever tell y' that?'

She gave him a dark look. 'I just thought - you know, our marriage license! We should both be there, but now…'

Doyle got out of his chair and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around and giving her a kiss. 'But now you've got a modellin' gig booked for the same day we're meant to pick it up and you're freaking.'

'It's not even much of a job - just modelling knitwear for knitting patterns, hardly Claudia Schiffer.'

'But it pays better than the nothin' we usually earn - and it probably isn't evil - so you have to take it. You'll have a nice day modelling sweaters, pick up a paycheck and by the time you get home, I'll have the license and we can start planning the wedding in earnest.' He kissed her again. 'All in all, things will be pretty sweet.'

'I guess.' She kissed him this time. 'You've got your social security number?' she asked one more time. He just laughed. 'Go,' he said to her, 'knock 'em dead - not literally. Have a nice day and don't worry about nothin'. I'll take care o' all the paperwork.'

'OK - I guess I'll see you this evening. If you're sure - we could reschedule.'

'Go,' he said, firmly, giving her a final kiss and pushing her towards the stairs. She laughed, this time. 'OK - bye then. I love you.'

'Love you too, princess.' He watched her leave - still smiling - and once the sound of her leaving the office had died away, he turned back to the breakfast table, gathered up all the crockery and did the washing up.

'She could have been killed!' Angel said, his voice was angry. Wesley was in his office, standing in front of him - and Angel was demanding answers. Lilah was there too - and she seemed to be enjoying herself rather a lot. And that only made the vampire angrier. Fred had no reason to be at that meeting last night. Those people were too dangerous - and look what had happened to her.

'Medical are optimistic,' Lilah said, she was working hard to cover up the shadow of her shark's smile - neither men were in the smiling mood. 'It looked worse than it was. Gidget's a bleeder … but she should make a full recovery.' There was a slight edge to her tone that suggested she was a little disappointed with that news.

'That's not the point,' he leaned on the bag of his chair and glowered across at Wesley, 'what the hell was she doing there in the first place?'

'I needed someone who could explain the weapon convincingly,' Wesley explained. His voice was calm - but his expression was haunted, the thousand yard stare was back.

'Nobody else knows how to explain a gun?'

'I needed someone who wouldn't arouse Emil's suspicions.'

'And so conveniently the only person who could go with you was Fred?'

'That is pretty convenient, lover,' Lilah chimed in, biting her lip to hide her smile. 'Some people - not me - but some people might think you were looking for an opportunity to spend more time with the doe eyed Miss. Burkle. And get her out of the way of Mr. Knox. Fraternising not working… The Senior Partners would not approve.'

Wesley made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. 'Don't be ridiculous. I needed someone I trust. Someone who knew the weapon - that narrowed my options down to one. Fred has more than proved herself in the field there was no reason to think…'

'We found her bleeding to death on the ground,' Angel interrupted him. His voice was quiet but it trembled with suppressed fury. He glared at the watcher. 'From now on you clear it with me before using any of my people.'

'Your people?' Wesley sounded surprised by the turn of phrase.

'Got it?'

Wesley nodded and turned on his heel - leaving the office. Angel slumped down into his chair. 'What was all that about?' Lilah asked him - she perched on the edge of his desk, crossed her long legs and raised a sardonic eyebrow. 'You went kind of hard on him.'

'She could have been…'

'Killed - yeah - I got the memo. But he's right. Fred's been on the team for over two years now. Last night was not the first time she was in danger - not the first field mission she's ever been sent on. It's not even the first time she's been hurt.'

'You weren't there. You didn't see her.'

But she only laughed - a throaty chuckle. He glanced up at her annoyed. 'Angel - wonderbread - I get that you like to think of yourself as the shining white knight, protector of the damsels. But you're also the man who cut off my hand. You're not squeamish and you're pretty equal opportunities when it comes to inflicting damage. So what's with this sudden need to protect little Fred? Because she's a girl? Or would you be getting this het up if it was Gunn that got hurt in the line of duty? In fact - correct me if I'm wrong … but didn't Wesley himself once sustain a serious gunshot injury out on the job? He really did nearly die. Yet you're still happy to send him out - and beat him up over Fred getting injured. What gives?'

Angel grit his teeth, his fingers were interlocked, elbows resting on the desk, and he was squeezing so hard his knuckles were turning white. 'It was a reckless decision.'

'Was it?' She slid off the desk and headed towards the door. 'Or was it Wesley looking at the big picture? Risking anything - or anyone - for the greater good. He's right you know - he needed someone he trusted, and someone who could explain the gun. He doesn't know the rest of the science team - know if they're loyal. Fred was the only one who fit the spec. So he took her. Risking Fred's safety to bring down an arms dealer ring. That's big picture, shades of grey stuff - right there. All the things you hate about working at Wolfram and Hart. All the things Wes is so effortlessly good at.' She reached the doorway and leaned on the frame, her arms folded. 'Isn't that why you're mad at him? Because he's so good at the hard decisions. There's nothing he won't sacrifice. Makes you worry if you can really trust him. Because rest assured, if the day ever came, my Wesley would sacrifice you.'

She smiled one last time, nodded her head at the stewing vampire and walked out of the office. Angel stayed behind his desk, hands still clasped, and settled down to brood.

Wesley was back in his office, he was staring out of the window - though not taking in anything of the view. The old thousand yard stare was still on his face and he was cursing himself in his head. So stupid. So reckless. To put her in that level of danger and then fail to protect her … He turned, when he heard her voice.

'They gave me the all clear,' Fred came through the door, her arm in a sling, smiling and chipper. He took a step towards her. 'I was just coming down to find you.' He couldn't match her smile - the guilt was too much.

'Though I do have to take a boatload of antibiotics,' she told him, 'apparently there are some concerns about where that grappling hook's been.' She giggled. 'Oh, we're taking that cyborg apart in the lab right now. You should see how intricate that thing is - like an M.C Escher, but with wires and flesh instead of geese.'

He stared at her blankly, barely comprehending her merry chatter - being eaten away with the guilt of what he had done, and the relief that she was all right, despite his stupidity. 'I'm sorry about what happened, Fred.'

She looked surprised. 'Are you kidding me? All I had to do was hide and I couldn't even do that right.'

'I should have done a better job protecting you.'

The surprised smile slid off her face. She looked more stunned, now - and annoyed to boot. 'What?' her voice had a hard edge to it. He sighed. 'That didn't come out right,' he tried to tell her.

'Do you realise how patronising that sounds?' she demanded, 'protecting me?'

'You shouldn't have been there in the first place,' he replied, remembering Angel's words. And Angel was right - of course he was. Wesley had no business putting Fred in danger.

'That's not for you to decide!' she told him.

'Yes it is, actually. I made the call. I screwed up.'

'Listen to you!' she was almost shouting - and there was no trace of a smile left on her face now. 'You're blaming yourself because poor Fred got hurt. Stop trying to be all valiant. You're coming off like a self pitying child.'

But Wesley wasn't even listening to her anymore. He was staring past her, over her shoulder, at the man who had just walked through the office door. 'Hello father,' he said.

Fred, with her back still to the door, hadn't seen the newcomer - and didn't understand. 'Oh well that's mature,' she said. 'Well I wish I was your father. I'd tell you to grow up.'

'It doesn't work - I've tried,' A deep, stiff upper lip voice said from behind her. She whirled around and saw the old man standing in the doorway. She glanced between the two men - speechless.

'Why are you here?' Wesley asked the older man.

Fred was still glancing between the two of them. 'You're Wesley's…'

'I see manners are still not my son's strong point.' The old man extended his hand to Fred, 'I'm Roger Wyndam Pryce.'

Clumsily, Fred gripped the proffered hand with her own uninjured one and shook it. She was blushing and stuttering. 'Winifred Burkle, how do you do?' she glanced back at Wesley, 'I didn't know you were… we were just … I, um, have an employee I need to belittle and show him who's in charge. I should let you two catch up. It was really nice to meet you. I'm sure I'll see you again.' She took her hand back and scuttled towards the door. 'The pleasure was all mine,' Mr. Wyndam Pryce smiled graciously.

The door shut behind her and he turned back to his son. 'A self pitying child - imagine how humiliating that will be for her employee.'

Wesley was still just staring at his father. 'Why are you…' a sudden thought hit him. 'Is mum OK?'

'She's fine. Sturdy as ever. No, you and I have business to discuss.'

Business - of course. Of course this wasn't a social visit. Of course his father had not taken the trouble to come and see him for the pleasure of coming to see him. There was something Wyndam Pryce senior wanted from his son - the only reason he would ever come and visit him. He ushered his father over to the couch and cleared the books from it, making space for them to sit down.

'As you may well know, the watcher's council was destroyed last year,' Roger told him. He nodded - of course he had heard that. Even as he had been dealing with an apocalypse of his very own, he had heard about the fate of the council. They had been destroyed in the same war that had left Spike less than a ghost and doomed to haunt Wolfram and Hart for all eternity.

'The remaining former watchers, myself included, have decided to reform the council. And I have been sent to contact you.'

Wesley inhaled sharply. He bit his tongue to stop himself from pointing out that the council was defunct anyway - neither Buffy nor Faith had any need for a watcher, beyond what guidance Giles - or perhaps himself - could give them. If the retired watchers were reforming then they would be nothing more than a back slapping, brandy sipping, cigar smoking, gentleman's club. Instead, he concentrated on the role that seemed to be expected of him. 'Are you saying the council wants me to come back?' That came as something as a surprise - when they had fired him they had refused to even pay for his airfare home. It was how he came to work at Angel Investigations in the first place. And he had only since heard from the council when they wanted something from him - last time when they wanted his access to Angel to help them bring in Faith. He shouldn't take this offer at face value. One should never take any offer from the council at face value - they always worked primarily for their own interests.

But Roger shook his head. 'Not necessarily. Your name's been proven to be a point of contention. There are some who believe that your tenure as watcher ranks as our most embarrassing failure.'

That stung. 'Really?' he replied, acidly, 'I beat out everybody dying in an explosion as most embarrassing failure.'

'Friends and colleagues lost their lives in that event,' his father said sternly, 'a little respect.'

'Sorry.'

'The council have agreed to take you back - pending my assessment,' Roger told him.

'I see.' Wesley got to his feet. 'Well I'll save you the trouble. I'm not interested.'

Doyle arrived at city hall, double checked he had all the documents he needed - Cordy would kill him if he'd left something behind - and then went inside. He spoke to someone on the front desk, explaining why he was there, they gave him directions and he headed for the elevators, taking one up to the floor where the registrars worked.

There was another front desk on that landing - and he spoke once more to the person there. They told him to take a seat and directed him to the row of chairs lining the corridor. There was a coffee machine, down the hallway, and Doyle got himself a cup of coffee and then took it to the seating area, waiting his turn. There were a few other people there waiting - couples mostly - and a young family with a baby, presumably there for a birth certificate. He nodded at them all affably and sat down.

One by one - the groups of people got called into the registrar's office. The line dwindled. More people showed up and took a seat. Doyle waited patiently, sipping his coffee. The young family went into the office - and came back out a few minutes later, clutching a certificate - along with their new baby - they thanked the woman on the front desk, and then left. Then the next person was called into the office. Doyle frowned and checked his watch - this was someone who had turned up after him. But he just shook his head and continued to wait - he'd been a few minutes early. Maybe they had had an earlier appointment and had just cut it more fine with the timing. After all - city hall was close to the office, he'd been able to walk there. If they still lived at the hotel, if he'd had to cross town - and get stuck in traffic - he might have been a bit tardy as well.

But the hands on the clock kept on ticking away - travelling further and further past the time for his appointment, and people who had turned up after he was already supposed to have been seen were still being called in before him. He was getting worried now - and the other people in the hallway were starting to shoot him suspicious glances.

He got to his feet and went back over to the front desk, 'uh - excuse me,' he said to the lady. She looked up at him. 'Can I help you?' she didn't sound particularly like she wanted to be helpful.

'Um - yeah - I was supposed to have my appointment to pick up my marriage license nearly an hour ago, I was just wonderin'...'

'The registrar must be running late,' she said to him, sounding bored. Doyle nodded. 'But - uh - he's callin' in people who have arrived after I'm supposed to have already left. No one else is bein' left hangin' around for hours, like me. Would you mind, maybe, checkin' he hasn't forgotten about me?'

The woman sighed and got to her feet - she did not appear happy at being asked to intervene. Doyle watched her, feeling guilty - and telling himself he was being ridiculous, it was OK to make a fuss - Americans made a fuss all the time, he was allowed to demand better quality service. She knocked on the office door and then, after a moment, disappeared inside. When she came back she sat down at her desk and started tapping away on her computer.

Doyle swallowed. 'Um - what did he say?' he asked. She looked up at him irritated. 'Oh - you're still here. He says he knows you're waiting, you just need to wait your turn.'

He nodded and thanked her and went to sit back down. Now he was feeling annoyed with himself. He shouldn't have thanked her. He had waited his turn. More than waited. If Cordelia were here she would march right up to that door, yank it open and demand to be seen right now. He imagined doing that himself, but then shook his head - he was being silly. That was not his style. No one would buy it coming from him. At best he'd be laughed at and told to sit back down. At worst he'd be arrested for disturbing the peace or something.

At half past twelve, the latest person had been called into the office and the lady behind the desk picked up her bag and disappeared. Presumably gone for lunch. No one else turned up for an appointment - probably because it was the lunch hour, he assumed - and so Doyle was left alone in the hallway. He sighed and got to his feet. This was ridiculous - he'd be better off leaving now and sending Cordy another time. He'd like to see them try and pull a stunt like this on her … well, he'd like to hear about it later. It would be far too embarrassing watching her, in real time, as she yelled at people and forced her way into offices and demanded to speak with the mayor.

He had just pressed the button to call the elevator, when the office door opened and the registrar appeared in the hallway. 'Mr. Doyle?' he asked. Doyle looked round, surprised and nodded. 'I'm sorry to keep you waiting - would you come this way?' The door was pushed open wider and the registrar ushered the Irishman inside.

Wesley headed for the door - wanting to get out of this enclosed space with his father, wanting to get rid of him. Just these few minutes had brought up … so much. The disappointment, the humiliations, the constant grinding down of his self esteem, the ever present sense of failure … and all those hours locked under the stairs. 'This is no time to be stubborn boy,' Roger called out to him. 'The council are giving you a chance to clear your name … our name.'

Yes that was the crux of it. The nub. Watching was a family tradition, passed down from generation to generation. The Giles'. The Wyndam Pryces. The Posts. The Travers'. And the actions of one of their clansmen would reflect on the family lineage and reputation forever more. Great things had been expected of Wesley, growing up. And his father had been hard on him to make sure he lived up to his name. Too hard. Much much too hard. Expected too much too soon - and punished harshly any failure to live up to expectation, grinding down his son until he was afraid of his own shadow. The resulting failure - with Buffy, with Faith - had been almost inevitable. But it had stained his father's reputation as well as his own - and he knew Roger would never forgive him for that.

The only way to break free was - to break free. What he'd already done. Find a new family and use his skills learned at the academy to help them, free from the constant criticism. He was a new man now - unrecognisable. But even these few minutes with Roger had worked to strip so much of that away; remove the competent, skilled leader who could make the hard decisions - leaving only the quivering, frightened wreck in his place. He opened the door and held it open. 'I'm sorry you made the trip, but I'm perfectly happy where I am.'

'Ha!' Roger let out a bark of laughter and got to his feet. 'Wolfram and Hart! So this is a haven of evil is it?' he walked through the door. Wesley followed him out, 'not any more,' he protested, 'this isn't the Wolfram and Hart…' he tripped over his own feet and bumped into the door frame. As he righted himself, he stumbled into a woman walking past, knocking all her papers to the ground. 'Oh sorry!' He crouched down and helped her pick up the scattered paper, as she assured him it was fine. Above his head, his father tutted, impatiently. Wesley cringed.

'Sorry,' he said, one last time to the woman as she walked away. He got back to his feet. 'You have the wrong idea about this place,' he said to his father.

'Do I? The atrocities committed by Wolfram and Hart are well documented.'

Wesley shook his head - that was precisely what they were working to change. Things were different now. In their hands, the firm was becoming a powerful weapon for good - one that would make a huge difference in the battle against evil. 'Believe me we take our work here very seriously.'

...

The elevator door opened and Lorne walked into the lobby, talking on his cellphone and laughing exuberantly. 'You're killing me. If Louis Gossett, Jr. wants this foam party to happen, he'll keep his mouth zipped tight. I've been working on this guest list all week. Yes, my entire week. I don't care about Iron Eagle II, Van. Nobody did. Oh, no. Don't tell him that.'

...

Hearing the content of the demon's conversation, Mr. Wyndam Pryce raised a sceptical and mocking eyebrow at his son. Wesley closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Once he'd opened them again, Lorne had hung up the phone and was standing right in front of them - grinning. 'Wesley Wyndam Pryce, you should be ashamed - I didn't know you had a younger brother.'

Wesley grimaced and tried to turn it into a smile. 'Lorne. Yes. This is my father, Roger Wyndam Pryce.'

'How do you do?' Roger bowed his head in greeting. Lorne looked delighted. 'A father? I don't believe it.' He shook his hand and laughed, and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. 'Well OK, I do - but only because I heard you were in the building.' He laughed again and pulled back to get a better look at the older man. 'Well look at you, It's like Winston Churchill and a young Richard Harris had a beautiful love child. Which, according to my sources, may not be as ridiculous as it sounds.'

'Lorne runs our entertainment division,' Wesley told his father, stiffly.

'Entertainment division? Yes - I can see how that would be very useful in the fight against evil.'

'You'd be amazed at how many horrible movies we've stopped.' Gunn came down the stairs, also grinning. Wesley sighed again. 'Gunn, this is my father.'

'It's an honour,' Gunn said, shaking Roger's hand. 'This place is buzzing about you. Better watch out. If you're anything like your son we might put you to work.'

'You might well be out of luck.'

Both Lorne and Gunn were being so pleasant, so smooth, so delighted to meet Wyndam Pryce senior. They missed the sneer in Roger's voice as he demurred against being compared to his son. They just didn't hear it - they carried on smiling, exchanging pleasantries - like proper grownups. He didn't affect them the way he affected Wesley, they couldn't feel every ounce of confidence and capability just melting away as they stood beside him, until nothing was left but an insecure, neurotic nub. They couldn't know what was standing in front of them. What it was doing to Wesley.

'Hey listen,' Gunn said to the younger watcher, 'the lab called for you. They're working on Robocop upstairs. They need your help.'

'We encountered a cyborg last night whilst we were infiltrating a weapons ring,' Wesley explained to his father. I should head up there…' he gritted his teeth. 'Would you like to come along?'

'Yes - if I'm not in the way.'

He gave his head a curt shake, 'no, not at all' and led his father up the staircase. Lorne and Gunn glanced at each other - and then headed back to work.

Doyle took his seat, in the office, and the registrar went round to his side of the desk and sat down. 'Evan,' he said, sticking his hand out. Doyle shook it, 'D - uh - Francis,' he said in reply.

Evan nodded and opened up the file on his desk. 'And you're here to pick up your marriage license - that correct?'

Doyle nodded.

'And your wife to be isn't here with you?'

'No she - she had to work.'

'Oh that's a shame,' Evan smiled, 'today's a big day. What does she do?'

'Well - today she's modellin' knitwear for knittin' patterns,' he said, thanking providence she wasn't out slaying vampires, demons and the forces of darkness.

'You're marrying a model?' the registrar sounded - and looked - surprised. Doyle frowned. 'Yeah … am I really that hideous that you're surprised a pretty girl might wanna marry me?'

'No-no of course not,' he chuckled uncomfortably. 'I would have just thought in your circumstances… but then maybe she doesn't know.'

'Know what? What's wrong with my circumstances?'

'Nothing, nothing. Now let me see.' He squinted down at the papers. 'Allen Francis Doyle - birth date May 23rd 1974, born Dublin, Ireland is marrying Cordelia Diana Chase - birth date January 14th 1981, born Sunnydale, California - that right?'

Doyle nodded again, 'I got all the proof of ID and stuff if you need to see it,' he offered. But the registrar shook his head. 'Not necessary,' he said. He looked through the file and began to frown.

'Is there somethin' wrong?' Doyle asked him anxiously.

'Well now - there is some irregularity...'

Doyle felt his heart sink.

The dead cyborg from the night before was now up in the lab, laid out on a table - its chest had been cracked and Fred was examining the insides, explaining her findings to Angel and Lilah.

'We found cybernetics throughout the body,' she said to them, 'in most places replacing entire organic systems.'

'Was it human?' Angel asked. She nodded. At least, they thought so. The nervous system seemed human - if nothing else - but the rest of the technology was so foreign to them that they couldn't be sure of anything. 'This thing really blurs the line between human and robot,' she said.

Over in the corner, playing with a glass beaker - attempting to concentrate hard enough that he could touch it - Spike glanced across at the huddled group. 'Aha! So you're not ruling out the possibility that a human being could have boffed a robot?' He saw their blank expressions staring back at him. 'Sex with robots is more common than most people think,' he told them. Lilah's lip curled in disgust. Spike went back to trying to interfere with the beaker.

Fred continued to stare at Spike for a couple of moments - but then she blinked and forced her mind back to the subject at hand. She had some good news - if they could decipher the technology. 'The cybernetics require central processing to function. Which means, if we can crack its memory, we may find a record of everything it's done to this point.'

Angel nodded, 'and maybe find out who or what it wanted.'

There was the sound of glass shattering - they all looked up. The beaker was in pieces on the floor and Spike was looking very pleased with himself. 'Hey did you -' he saw their unimpressed expressions. 'Sorry.' He held his hands up in apology.

'So far we haven't had much luck decoding the encryption,' Fred said, ignoring the interruption. Knox came out of her office and walked up behind her. 'It seems to be a binary based system, so we'll get there eventually,' he told the others. 'We just have to find the right transform variable.'

Angel nodded again. 'OK - I need you on this till we get some answers.'

'Let us know if you need more resources,' Lilah said - then she and Angel turned to leave the lab.

But they were blocked in the doorway by the arrival of Wesley and his father. The younger watcher introduced Roger to the assembled team. Spike raised an eyebrow and left the corner he was lurking in to come and get a better look. 'Daddy eh?' he said, scanning the older man up and down. 'I always thought Wesley was grown in some sort of greenhouse for dandies.'

'Spike,' Roger said. His voice was hard. Unimpressed.

Spike, on the other hand, was delighted - his facing lighting up in a grin. 'Oh! you've heard of me?'

'No. We've met,' Mr. Wyndam Pryce told him, shortly. '1963. My colleagues and I fell upon you slaughtering an orphanage in Vienna. Killed two of my men before you escaped.'

'Oh … how've you been?'

The older watcher snorted in disgust and Spike returned to his lurking corner. 'Wesley I didn't know your father was visiting,' Angel said, sounding surprised. He held his hand out to introduce himself, 'I'm Angel, pleasure to meet you.'

Roger stared at the offered hand disdainfully. 'You can't honestly expect me to shake that?'

'Well I'm not really comfortable with hugging…'

Standing beside his father, Wesley sighed deeply. Lilah caught his eye and gave him a smile. A real one, soft and warm - not the usual wolf's grin. Wesley smiled back in gratitude.

Having failed to even raise a smile from the old man, Angel was shuffling uncomfortably; clearing his throat and trying to extricate himself from the situation. 'No - well - I realise that this must be something of a horror show for you. But - uh - I hope you can keep an open mind. We're doing good work here.'

'So I'm informed,' Roger replied, coldly, 'incessantly.'

Angel gave Wesley a commiserating glance - and then he shuffled out of the lab, glad to be away. Lilah followed him out. After they were gone - Wesley spoke to Fred. 'I heard we could be of some use.'

She nodded and showed them over to the autopsy table and indicated a circular device embedded in the robot's abdomen. It had strange symbols inscribed on it, which they hadn't been able to decipher. But they were getting trace radiation signatures from it - so were unwilling to just crack it open. 'It could be a bomb, or some kind of self destruct, device. Anyway, we wanted you to decipher it before we went digging around in there.' She spoke to Roger, then, smiling in admiration as she did. 'Wesley handles this stuff all the time. He's a genius when it comes to languages.'

'Yes,' Roger agreed, 'well he wasn't made head boy of the academy for nothing.'

Across the room, Spike raised an eyebrow. Roger took his glasses off and began to clean them. 'Though as I recall, pickings were rather slim that year.'

Wesley sighed.

Evan got up from his desk and walked across the room, to a filing cabinet, opening up one of the drawers and rooting inside. Doyle twisted in his seat to look at him. 'An irregularity?' he asked, 'what sort o' irregularity? Can we fix it?'

'I'm not sure there is a fix - your circumstances - they are … unique.' He must have found what he was looking for because he suddenly closed the drawer shut. But whatever it was he had, Doyle didn't see - as he hastily slipped it in his pocket.

The registrar began to head back to his desk and Doyle twisted in his seat once more, so his eyes could track him across the room. 'That's the second time you've mentioned my circumstances, bud,' he said. 'What's wrong with my circumstances? Is it because I'm Irish? 'Cause I'm tellin y' - I'm marryin' Cordelia 'cause I'm crazy about her, the whole Green Card thing is just a bonus. Our relationship is the real deal.'

'I'm sure it is, Mr. Doyle.' Evan came to a stop behind Doyle's chair and stood still. Doyle twisted right round to look at him - but the man stood quite still and just stared down at him, his hand in his pocket, and eventually the crick in his neck meant that the Irishman had to twist back away.

And that was when Evan whipped the Kosh out of his pocket and brought it down hard on the back of Doyle's head. Doyle only had time to think 'ow', before he slumped forward onto the desk - and everything went black.

Wesley leaned over the body of the cyborg, trying to blot out his father's words - his constant criticisms, his all too familiar belittling and undermining comments - and started to study the symbols. 'The pattern indicates a Hellenic derivation,' he said, frowning, thoughtfully. 'I'd say early Moracian, in fact. It's a directive of some sort. A battle prayer … or a binding spell. The full text is obscured.' He pulled some of the cyborg's flesh away, revealing more of the device. 'I'll need to prepare some sort of effective counter spell…'

He was cut off by the device suddenly lighting up and starting to beep. Knox and Fred stared at Wesley - their faces frightened. Roger frowned down at the beeping. 'What did you just do?' he demanded.

Wesley stared around at them all - horror stricken - but when he spoke his voice was deadly calm. 'Unless I'm very much mistaken, I've just activated the bomb.'