Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 4, My Turn

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 33: A Deal is a Deal

Chapter Notes:

What is Spike up to? Time to find out!

Chapter 33: A Deal is a Deal

Spike is single. He's left Dru.

'This changes things,' thought both Giles and Joyce as they stood in the foyer watching the embarrassed Willow scurry out the door and clamber into Oz's van, which had just pulled up in front of the house.

Giles was the first one to put voice to his thoughts. "I believe it's vital, for Buffy's sake, to send Spike on his way as soon as possible. Perhaps even a disinvite spell would be warranted, just to make the point perfectly clear to him."

Joyce turned astonished eyes on the man, who leaned heavily on his cane, trying to take weight off his injured leg. "Why would you say that?"

"Well, it seems obvious. He's kept the fact of his break with Drusilla a secret—at least from you and I. We do not know why he's done this, but I think we can assume his reasons wouldn't be for our benefit. If Buffy reveals her feelings for him, he'll undoubtedly find a way to use it against her—take advantage of her weakness."

"You think having feelings for someone is a weakness?" Joyce asked, her voice turning brittle.

"For someone, no. For something, yes. It's proven to quite a weakness. If I may remind you of Angelus—"

"Spike is not Angel," Joyce insisted.

"No, he's got no soul to lose. He is, in fact, worse than Angel. He'd have no qualms about taking advantage of Buffy, twisting her heart and mind until it's shredded," Giles contended, meeting Joyce's eyes unwaveringly.

"Spike has never shown the slightest desire to do any such thing," Joyce pointed out. "In fact, he's done the complete opposite at every opportunity. Including, I might add, saving your life."

"And look at the milage he's got out of it! You and Buffy have both been fawning over him ever since. He knew it wouldn't dust him—"

"It may very well have!" Joyce interrupted.

"He had no knowledge of the wooden bullets when he made that decision," Giles shot back, the two toe-to-toe now, both barely restraining their anger.

"What about the decision to fight Kralik to save me? Or the decision to come here in the first place when Buffy and I called him? I've seen nothing that makes me distrust William in the slightest. I'm disappointed that he lied—"

Giles let out an indelicate snort. "Disappointed that a vampire lied to you? Just exactly what do you think they are, Sunday school teachers? They're soulless demons! Lying is the least of their sins."

"I think you've let your guilt over Angelus color your judgement," Joyce accused.

"And I think it bloody well should color my judgement!" Giles agreed. "I let Buffy down. I should not have allowed—"

"And just how did you think you could've stopped it?" Joyce challenged, her voice acerbic.

"Well, in hindsight, dusting Angel would've been the sane choice, I believe, considering the consequences."

"And just what do you think that would've accomplished? Buffy's heart would've still been shredded—perhaps more so, because she would've lost you, too. She'd never have been able to forgive you if you'd done that... especially before... before Angelus."

"And now that's all come to pass anyway, hasn't it? It's clear she'll not forgive me my sins. And Jenny's still dead!"

They were both breathing hard, faced off against each other in the ravaged foyer, the door standing open to the night. They remained that way for several long moments, the tension thick between them before Joyce broke the silence. "I'm sorry about Jenny," she said quietly, really meaning it. "I know you loved her, and I know you feel a heavy weight of guilt for her death, but the only one to truly blame for it is Angel. Angel had decades to learn more about the curse, you only had a few months. And Spike's theory, along with the research Buffy and Willow have done, well... it seems like maybe the whole situation had been contrived to free him of it. If that's true, then there truly is no one to blame but Angel."

Giles dropped his gaze, looking down at the floor, shaking his head slowly. He could feel the heaviness of that loss still, like a cold, lead weight in his chest. His leg ached, throbbing with the rapid pounding of his heart, and the corset-type contraption they'd wrapped around his broken ribs dug into his flesh like a medieval torture device.

"Rupert," Joyce entreated, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder gently. "Please believe me when I say that you will earn Buffy's trust again. She loves you—she's never stopped. But if you do anything to Spike, if you drive him away or, heaven forbid, attempt to dust him, if you try to interfere with her life like that, you'll lose her for good."

Giles rolled his eyes to the ceiling before closing them against the tide of emotion swirling inside him.

"She's an adult now," Joyce continued. "She's going to make her own decisions, and you and I would both be fools to try and do more than offer advice if she asks for it, and keep our mouths shut if she doesn't."

He opened his eyes and looked back at the woman. "So, you intended to allow Spike to remain your... guest?"

Joyce shrugged. "I intend to speak to him about the situation and see what he says. Then I guess we'll see."

"I'm not certain that is the wisest choice," Giles advised as he started limping for the door. "But, of course, it's not up to me."

"No. It's not," Joyce agreed, following him to the threshold.

"I hope, for all our sakes, that your decisions turn out better than mine have," he said without turning back as he started down the porch stairs.

Joyce pursed her lips, closing the door behind him with a sigh. "Me too," she whispered to the empty house.

* X-X *

Though Spike had known when he'd jumped in front of that gun that it would hurt like a royal buggering, he hadn't quite been prepared for the level of agony that had come with the bullets. He was no stranger to pain, of course, but he hated feeling so… impotent, helpless. So, now, the absolute lack of pain was like a drug, carrying him forward, lifting him up onto the downtown rooftops, and sending him soaring across the streets and alleys between with unbridled glee.

Buffy had helped him when he'd needed it, and though that might be considered simply making them even for him saving the Watcher, Spike wanted to do something for her now, something to repay her kindnesses. Plus, her non-birthday bash was coming up and he intended to make sure it was the best sodding National Hot Chocolate Day the girl had ever had.

He'd been surprised and touched by her offer to come with him tonight—but then, she was getting good at surprising him. Hot and cold. Up and down. Off and on. She could never stay on one setting long enough for him to get a read on her. If he was doing nothing but going for some air, he would've been chuffed to have her along, but this was a mission, and she couldn't know. Not yet. Not until it was the perfect time.

And, with any luck, it might even nudge Buffy's pinballing attitude toward him into a steady groove that was solidly in his favor and extend his guest status a while longer, even beyond the upcoming party. It couldn't hurt, at any rate. And he was doing as the wolf had suggested, setting out the catnip and backing away. This whole night was killing a whole flock o' nasty little birds with one bloody big rock.

Spike came to a stop atop the Sun Cinema, the light from its bright neon sign casting a green haze over the rooftop. As he dropped down off the roof, out of that glow and into the murky side alley, he wished he had his duster on. He looked bloody cool doing that with his duster—like a proper supervillain… or superhero, he supposed. Hmm, William the Bloody Hero? What had the strumpet said? 'Saving Happy Meals from evil since 1998.' Certainly not his character— at least it hadn't been for over a century—but would it be so bad if it meant being around Buffy?

Spike sauntered around the corner and into the grubby lobby of the cinema. The aroma of years of popcorn, fake butter, Twizzlers, and mustard slathered on burned hotdogs assailed him as he came through the door. He had to stop breathing lest he be overwhelmed by the miasma that permeated the place. He looked around and found what he was looking for—what he'd looked up in the phone book while Joyce had gone back out to the car to retrieve the rest of the shopping. He headed over to the small office off to one side. The sign beside the door read, 'Admit One Ticket Gallery.' Then, below that, 'Ticket Broker. Tickets for all your entertainment needs'.

Spike pulled the door open and stepped in. It was the size of a broom closet, but it was large enough for the small man who sat behind a miniscule desk, barely large enough to hold a computer and a printer. There was just enough room left over for two chairs for customers—providing the customers weren't very tall, otherwise their knees would hit the desk. Luckily, Spike wasn't too tall, so he took one of the seats.

"How may I help you?" the balding man asked, looking up from his computer screen with watery, blue eyes.

"Need some tickets… you can get 'em for anywhere yeah? L.A. or San Fran?"

"Certainly," the man relied. "We can procure tickets for any event worldwide—providing they are on our network, which most major venues are. Just what are you looking for?"

Spike grinned, leaned forward eagerly, and told him.

* X-X *

With one of his errands completed, Spike settled onto the roof of the Bronze where he could hear and even feel the music pulsing below him. The bass drummed through him like a heartbeat, spreading up from where he sat on the gravel roof and engulfing him. It made him think of Buffy, of the strong beat of her heart against him when he'd had the pleasure of holding her. Of course, it wasn't like Buffy at all—this steady rhythm—it was too constant, with none of those erratic stutters or leaps her heart made. And the cold, hard roof was the furthest he could get from the soft warmth of the Slayer… his Slayer.

His Slayer. That was what this mission was about, and he needed to get back to it. Spike pulled out his cell phone and the yellow page he'd ripped out of the Slayer's phone book. He started at the top, dialing the first number.

"AAA Travel Lodge, Sunnydale," a bored, androgynous voice answered.

"Yeah, connect me with Lydia Chalmers' room, if ya don't mind."

There was a pause, then, "I'm sorry, we don't have a guest by that name."

Spike ended the call and tried the next one.

"Best Western, Sunnydale." This time the voice was more cheerful and clearly female.

Spike made the same request and was met with the same response. He hung up and tried again. Surely the bint was in a hotel and hadn't rented a sodding house.

He finally got to, "The Edna May House, how may I assist you this evening?"

This voice was very male and very proper. Spike smirked, knowing he'd found the right place before even asking. Of course, the Council wouldn't put their people up in one o' the run-of-the-mill motor lodges. Too sodding dignified for that rubbish.

"Connect me with Lydia Chalmers' room, if ya don't mind."

"One moment, please," came the polite reply and in a moment the phone had begun ringing.

The familiar feminine voice answered, "Hello?" a moment later.

Spike grinned and ended the call. He checked the address on the listing then climbed back to his feet, stuffing the phone and the page back into the pocket of his jeans. In a moment he was heading toward The Edna May House out near Kingman's Bluff, and his second objective of the evening.

* X-X *

Buffy's coppery-shadow didn't have to be told what to do as they hit the sidewalk in front of the house—track. The dog's nose snuffled at the ground up and down at the end of the walk for a few moments, then picked up the most recent scent, and off he went. Buffy jogged behind him looking for all the world like a girl out exercising her dog—even if the dog was the size of a small horse—not a Guardian and a Slayer tracking a master vampire.

Despite her conviction that Spike wouldn't just end the truce without telling her, Willow's question haunted the Slayer. What if he decided that getting a snack from the Happy Meals on legs was somehow okay, as long as he didn't do it in front of her? He was a vampire, after all, and her track record on trying to understand how they thought was less than stellar.

She just needed to find him and see what he was up to. And what if he was snacking on the local population? A knot of sharp, painful icicles formed in her stomach—she'd have to dust him. Buffy had assured Travers she could handle Spike, but that didn't mean it wouldn't rip through her insides as surely as a chainsaw.

So much for all her efforts to stay detached. Clearly, that boat had sailed, capsized, and sunk.

* X-X *

The Edna May House turned out to be a large Victorian house turned B&B nestled on a manicured acre of land overlooking the bluff, marina, and ocean on one side, and proper English gardens on the other three. The wrap-around porch on the first floor supported a balcony on the second, all festooned with planters full of ferns and ivy, Ficus trees, and peace lilies. The only thing 'off' about the English garden theme were the palm trees and other tropical plants scattered around the grounds.

Though the house had been modernized, the plaque near the main entrance indicated that it was built in 1903 by Richard Wilkins, the founder of Sunnydale, for his beloved wife, Edna May.

Finding Miss Chalmers would be easier than Spike thought. The place was relatively small—there couldn't be more than ten or twelve rooms—and it appeared they all opened onto either the porch or balcony. It was likely he wouldn't even have to go through the main entrance to knock on her door. He slid off into the shadow of a hanging planter full of brightly blooming petunias, and redialed the number for the B&B, once again requesting to be connected to Lydia's room. He kept the line open this time, but took it away from his ear, allowing him to listen to the ambient sounds better.

From above and to the back of the house he heard a phone ringing. An easy leap took him up onto the second-floor balcony and a swift dash had him at the back of the house. Another ring of the phone allowed him to pin down which room it was—the last one—the one with the best views of both the marina, the ocean, and the grounds. Of course. Spare no expense.

Well, he was about to find out just how much expense they were willing to not spare.

* X-X *

"Hello?" Lydia's voice came one moment from the room and, after a beat or two, from the phone in Spike's hand. Spike flipped the phone closed and slipped it back into his pocket as he tried the door. He smirked. 'This was just too sodding easy,' he thought as the knob turned in his fingers and the French door swung open.

"Hello, gorgeous," he replied from a few feet behind the woman, who had changed out of her work attire and into her night clothes. She wore a fluffy white robe over… Spike focused on the little he could see sticking out from beneath the robe—yes, it was absolutely a flannel nightgown, something fit for Paul Bunyan's wife.

Lydia spun around, dropping the phone in her shock. Her blonde hair was out of its bun and flew wildly around her disbelieving face, her glasses discarded. "You… you… can't!" she stuttered, diving for her bag on the dresser.

Spike snorted and casually closed the glass door behind him. "Hotel, pet—not a proper home. Got no threshold," he informed her as he jerked the curtains closed over the door. You'd think the sodding Council would know that. Was a bloody wonder any Slayer lived beyond a month or two as ill-informed as they were.

When he turned back around, Lydia had her glasses back on and a large wooden cross held out in front of her. "It wasn't my fault! It was that little witch," she defended, her hand shaking as she valiantly fended off the vampire with the religious symbol. "I had no idea she was so ill-trained. I blame Mr. Giles for that. If anyone is to pay for this mistake, it should be them."

Spike smiled and hooked his thumbs over his belt buckle, unfazed by the cross or the stake she blindly fumbled out of the bag with her other hand.

"Not here for retribution, pet," he assured her as he began wandering slowly around the room, looking it over as if he were thinking of renting it himself. "Came t' discuss business."

Lydia didn't move, but turned her body as he roamed, keeping the cross between them, the stake clutched tightly in her right hand. "B-Business?" she questioned.

Spike dropped onto his back on the bed, bouncing a few times before coming to rest, his boots leaving black marks on the antique chenille spread. "Pillowtop. Nice," he remarked as he folded his arms beneath his head and looked at her.

"W-What do you want? I assure you I will not… I am not… that type of person," she stammered, her blue eyes luminous behind her glasses.

Spike grinned. "Aren't you, then?" he wondered. "Seemed right keen on an interview with William the Bloody. Seems like a little tit-for-tat would be in order."

"Tit…" the woman repeated, blinking, her already racing heart accelerating into a full gallop. "…for tat?"

"Thought you did your thesis on me, luv. Must know I'm not one t' just give away my secrets. Nothing comes for free."

"Comes," Lydia repeated breathily, her mouth going dry.

"Gotta be a little give and take, back and forth, I scratch your back, you scratch my…" He ran his tongue over his teeth suggestively and shrugged. "Well, I'm sure we can find something for you to scratch."

The woman blinked and took a step back, trying to close her robe even tighter while still holding to her weapons. "I… I'm really not that sort of person."

"So, you want me to wag my tongue, but you're not willin' to do anything with yours?" Spike wondered, releasing one hand from behind his head and sliding it down his body to come to rest on his zipper. "Thought you liked me, pet."

A startled, little 'eep' escaped Lydia's throat as her eyes followed the track of his hand and her heart stumbled in its headlong sprint, lurching and crashing against her ribs. All she could do was shake her head now, no more sound could make it past her shock.

Spike shrugged and was on his feet again in the space of one of her erratic heartbeats. "Right then, how about cash… merry bushels of it? You that kinda person?"

Another blink. Her hands were both sweating and trembling, making her grip on the cross and stake tenuous. "C-cash?"

"Cash, dosh, dinero, sterling, dollars, even Krugerrands would do," he clarified. "Lots and lots of it. And maybe some favors due in the future."

"Favors? W-what type of favors?"

"Some considerations for the Slayer… dunno what exactly, but if something comes up and she needs a friend on the Council—you step up."

"C-Council... favors. N-Not... err... any other types of... favors?"

Spike grinned at her lecherously. "Thought you weren't that type o' person," he rumbled, his blue eyes blazing.

Lydia flushed then paled. "I am not... quite not... that is, I mean, quite right."

Spike turned the 'come hither' down a notch or two. "So, Council favors and cash—" he reminded her.

"H-how much cash?"

Spike shrugged as he began prowling around the room again, surveying the carpet, the wallpaper, the furniture, even the bath—just calmly taking it all in. "What's the damage for a room like this?" he wondered, looking up at her finally.

"Uh… four-hundred a night."

Spike brows shot up. "American?" he squeaked.

"It includes a buffet breakfast and a proper tea… a-and a wine tasting in the evening," Lydia added hastily.

"Ah, well, then, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?"

Lydia's heart had slowed back to a trot, though she still followed his slow progress around the room, turning her body to face him with each step. She was sure his question was rhetorical and didn't bother answering.

"So, what do you reckon a trip around the world would cost, assumin' this level o' luxury? Maybe on the QE2 or some such. You know, with the breakfast and tea and wine tasting? Maybe some o' those fancy chocolates on the pillow at night."

"I—I don't really know," Lydia admitted.

Spike stopped his perusal of the suite and turned to face her fully, now only about five feet between them. He could be on her in a second, have her disarmed and dead in the next. But that wasn't what he wanted, not at all.

"Tell ya what, Miss Chalmers," Spike said in a perfectly reasonable tone. "You get quotes on that, yeah? A proper trip around the world in the manner to which you've become accustomed." He waved a hand around at the room in illustration. "Then multiply it by…" He stopped to think a moment. Buffy was one. Joyce was two. He would make three. The red witch, the handyman, and the wolf-boy would make six. The Watcher would make seven. He frowned at that and subtracted him from the count. He considered subtracting the handyman, but in the end settled on, "Six. Plus an enormous dog. Best call it ten, just to be safe."

"Money enough to cover ten trips around the world..." Lydia repeated dazedly. "Including a dog."

Spike gave her a sharp nod. "Now you've got it. And a favor or three for the Slayer in the future—unspecified."

Lydia's brows furrowed, her brain finally starting to get enough oxygen to begin working properly. "I—I don't believe they allow animals on cruise ships," she pointed out.

Spike waved it off. "Let me worry 'bout that—you just worry about the dosh and the favors."

Lydia's mind had started turning over possibilities, calculating risks and rewards, her years of training finally overcoming her shock and fear. "So, to make sure I understand. You want to trade an interview for a trip around the world for the Slayer and her friends?"

"And her big, slobbering hound," Spike confirmed. "Unless you'd like t' make payment the old-fashioned way," he suggested, wagging his brows at her as his tongue peeked out from between his lips.

Lydia flushed, her heart lurching again. It was one thing to crush on a vampire from afar, or even up close, and another thing entirely to be called upon to make good on her flirtations. She'd read too many accounts of how getting intimate with vampires ended, and though it might be a perfectly wonderful way to die, she had no desire to stop breathing just yet. "I… no, I think… cash would be preferable. But why would you do such a thing for the Slayer? Not just the Slayer, but her… Sku-bees, I presume?" she wondered, letting the cross drop a bit as her arm started getting tired.

Spike shrugged nonchalantly. "Seems like someone should do something for 'er. Not like you lot will."

"And that someone is William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers?" she asked, her head tilting, her eyes now bright and considering.

"Don't be so shocked. Made deals with the Slayer before. Just upping the ante, aren't I?"

"Yes, but on those prior occasions, the deals were for your benefit," Lydia pointed out. "The rumors we heard indicated that both previous truces were made in order to assure the safety of your long-time paramour, Drusilla the Mad. Of course, Mr. Giles' diaries obfuscated the circumstances, but his letters to Robson confirmed this."

Spike stiffened at Dru's moniker. He hated people calling her that, despite the accuracy of the description. "Not the only reason," Spike insisted with a sniff. "Helped the Slayer save the world the first time, didn't I? A world I'm rather fond of, if I'm honest. And got her that fleabag of a mutt in the process. Second time was just as much for Cujo's safety as Dru's."

"Fascinating," Lydia breathed, momentarily forgetting the danger and turning her back on the vampire as she dropped her weapons on the polished mahogany dresser and retrieved her journal and a pen. "It's been years since…" She stopped suddenly, realizing her stupidity. She spun back around, adrenaline pumping again, only to find that Spike hadn't moved.

"Years since what?" he asked, his head canted curiously, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans.

Lydia backed up until her butt hit the dresser, bringing the cross and stake within reach. As if she could actually reach them before his fangs were buried in her flesh. She cleared her throat. "There have been accounts of vampires… assisting Slayers before, working with them… even becoming…"

Spike waited; his brows raised. Finally, he prompted, "Becoming?"

"Err, well, lovers," she admitted, once again tugging at her robe to make sure it fully covered her flannel gown beneath.

Spike's dead heart turned over in his chest. He wasn't the only vampire to be attracted to a Slayer? He wasn't a deviant? An aberration? And these other Slayers had reciprocated? "That so?" he asked carefully.

The woman nodded jerkily, holding her journal up against her chest like a shield. "The last one I recall hearing about was in Ireland in 1882. Catherine Doyle. Her Watcher called her Cat, and apparently that name fit her skills—very stealthy, agile, and bright. Much like you gave to Buffy, she received assistance from a vampire to avert an apocalypse. Apparently, the vampire's former family—his mother and siblings—lived quite near what was to be the epicenter, and he came to her with information she needed to be successful in order to protect them... to avert the danger."

"And did she?" Spike wondered.

"Indeed, yes. From the reports, the vampire—his name was Patrick Quinn—continued to assist her after that. The Watcher had been unaware of the relationship that had developed until sometime later when they moved to London, only to find that Patrick had followed."

"What happened to them?" the vampire pressed, taking a step toward the woman.

Lydia slid a step away, her back still against the hard wood of the chest of drawers. "They, uh… well, they remained lovers and allies for some years until she was killed in London in 1887. From the few details our operatives could garner from the Watcher, her family, and locals, it had been a routine patrol. There... there seemed to be several attackers, based on one eyewitness, and confirmed by the injuries. She didn't go easily… or quickly. They kept her alive for some hours before she was finally drained. She... she'd been quite badly abused in that time."

"Where was the sodding mick?" Spike demanded, taking another step toward the woman, his hands dropping into fists at his sides.

Lydia paled, realizing she was backing herself into a corner. Her eyes darted around, trying to find a route of escape other than crawling over the bed.

Recognizing her distress, Spike stopped in mid-stride and, instead, took a step back, holding his hands out. "Just tell me—where the fuck was the Irish bugger?"

The woman cleared her throat, feeling only slightly better. "Patrick had gone back to Ireland to check on his family. When he came back, it was all over. She was dead and buried. Her Watcher had… he had beheaded her prior to burial as a precaution."

"Bloody hell," Spike growled, his knuckles popping as his hands curled into even tighter fists. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down. It wasn't Buffy. That wouldn't happen to Buffy. He'd bloody well make sure of it.

"He, Patrick that is, hunted them down—the clan that attacked her," Lydia continued. "I'm sure you've heard of the Theatre Royal fire in London in 1887. Nearly two-hundred people lost their lives, and an unknown number of vampires perished as well. Including Patrick, who remained inside, blocking their escape."

Spike opened his eyes, flashes of gold gleaming in the blue. "Good on him."

"Not so good for the innocent bystanders who were just out for an evening's entertainment," Lydia pointed out huffily.

Spike shrugged, unconcerned. "Worth it, long as he got the bastards."

"Fascinating," Lydia repeated, once again lost in her thoughts as she opened her journal and began scribbling down notes.

"What's so fucking fascinating?" Spike demanded, narrowing his gaze.

"Well, if circumstances were different, that might've been you being hunted and burned in that fire, in retribution for one of the Slayers you've murdered. And yet, you're cheering their demise—these vampires who are just like you."

"Not like me," Spike barked angrily, making Lydia jump. "Don't hunt Slayers in sodding mobs. Bloody cowards killed that Slayer. You fight Slayers fair and square, one on one, just you and them. You look it up in your bloody books," he told her, jabbing a finger at her journal. "Slayers I've fought—the ones I killed—just them and me. No tricks. No family backin' me up. Vampire. Slayer. Nothing more. How it's supposed t' be."

Lydia's eyes sparkled and a smile curved her lips for the first time since Spike had come in. "I don't have to check, I already know. It's all in my thesis."

"Yeah, well… then don't be sayin' I'm like those tossers," he insisted, his voice softening as he began to pace back and forth across the spacious room.

"My apologies, Mr. Bloody," she offered with a nod. "So…" She cleared her throat. "This interview you're offering in exchange for cash and… Council favors. It would need to be quite in-depth for that price. Several sessions, perhaps many hours. Is that… agreeable?"

Spike stopped his pacing and looked at her. He'd nearly forgotten his whole mission, having become too caught up in the story of Cat and Patrick, and in realizing that maybe he wasn't the only vampire in history to feel this way about a Slayer. "Got a couple more demands," he replied. "Want all the details you've got on other vampire and Slayer, er, partnerships. Or any vamps making any truces with Slayers… switching sides, or whatnot."

Lydia hesitated. While she was working to gain entrance into the elite and highly secretive inner-circle of the Archival Research Unit—to gain her Archival Research Inquisitor, First Class, status— she did not yet have it, and did not have access to the files contained in there. But her father did. He'd been working in that division for decades, which is how she knew about these illicit pairings. Watchers were hesitant to report them outright in their diaries or even in post-mortems or debriefings, but there were always rumors, personal letters—and now emails—between friends, clues to be found if one looked. And the Archival Research Unit looked, piecing clues together, trying to understand this unholy phenomenon that no one spoke of openly. Lydia had overheard her father on the phone discussing cases—she made a point of overhearing him—a couple of times she'd even found unguarded files on his desk at home, so she knew. And now she had a vampire—not just any vampire, but one whose history she'd researched thoroughly—standing in front of her offering her firsthand insight into this peculiarity. Insight that could get her on the fast track to First Class status, perhaps even a promotion to the Chief's position.

"All right," Lydia agreed, keeping her calm demeanor firmly in place, despite her inner eagerness. "Anything else?"

"Buffy's working on a theory about Angelus… Angel," he began.

"Yes, I've heard. That the perfect happiness must come from a Slayer to break the curse," she offered.

Spike nodded. "Give her access to whatever journals or whatnot that she needs t' get that sorted. Help her out if she needs it."

"So, enough cash for ten luxury trips around the world, free access for Buffy to all diaries and journals, and an unknown number of 'favors' from me regarding Council business in the future… You're asking for quite a lot," Lydia pointed out. "I'm not certain that even you are worth that."

Spike snorted. "Should'a dropped the linen earlier, sweets. You wouldn't have any doubt what I'm worth."

Lydia's blush returned, setting her cheeks aflame, and she once again tugged nervously at her already closed robe. "Perhaps you could add something else to the deal. Information about the Master… Darla, Drusilla, Angelus? Having a glimpse into the inner workings of the Order of Aurelius could be quite a boon for me. And, of course, the more I succeed at the Council, the more my favor would be worth in the future."

Spike considered a moment, then shrugged. "No skin off my nose."

"I will need a promise from you that all questions will be answered truthfully and fully," she continued, her research and analytic training kicking in.

"I get the right t' refuse ten questions," he bartered.

"Three."

"Three!?" he repeated indignantly. "What bloody school o' negotiation did you go to?"

"The winning one," she replied with a confident smile.

"Seven," he countered. "Last offer."

"Three," she repeated, not wavering.

Spike rolled his whole head up to the ceiling, huffing out a disgusted breath. "Fine. Five."

"Three."

"Bloody hell, woman! You're killin' me here!"

"You're already dead. Ten luxury trips around the world… including a dog. That doesn't come cheaply, I'm afraid."

"Bloody hell," Spike spat. "Fine, three."

Lydia's smile widened. "One more thing."

Spike sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, waiting.

"Anything you could to do pave the way for me to conduct my inspections of the Slayer's facilities, and interviews with Miss Summers and her friends would garner some appreciation and consideration in the reciprocation of favors at a future date."

"Help you get in good with the Slayer?" he summarized.

Lydia shrugged. "It is for her own benefit, assuring a smooth transition to the new Watcher."

"Can't make her like you... she's a right bitch and she holds a grudge," he pointed out.

"I don't need her to like me, I simply need her to work with me."

Spike pursed his lips thinking for a moment, but then nodded. "Okay, got a deal. Want it all in writing—and no mucking about with double-crossing lawyer-talk. Need it sealed in blood, too—no namby-pamby biros. And I wanna see the brochures and whatnot for these trips, all the bells and whistles spelled out—no 'Europe on a Dime' bollocks."

Lydia nodded and began writing things down in her journal again. "I will likely have to run this past the Chief Financial Officer to have this type of expenditure approved."

"Don't want that git Travers involved. Those favors won't do a lick o' good if he knows about them in advance. Find a way to counter 'em if he does."

The woman frowned and looked up, her pen poised over the page, considering. "Fair point," she agreed. "I'll file it as a confidential contract with the CFO. She's not involved in the day-to-day policies or operations, apart from approving expenditure requests. She's not part of the… political realm that Mr. Travers inhabits, and would have no real means to use any such knowledge herself. It's not an unusual request."

Spike pursed his lips but finally nodded. "Get her blood on it too, then," he stipulated. "Half the dosh up front," he continued. "Another quarter at the halfway point. The rest when we're done. No more than… twenty hours. And I want sodding cash on the barrelhead. No mucking about with checks or IOUs."

"Eighty hours—two typical workweeks," Lydia countered. "And we have a deal."

"Eighty!? Have you gone barmy?"

Lydia shrugged. "Sixty then," she acquiesced. "What you're asking for is not cheap or easily acquired. Especially the favors."

Spike's lips thinned, his hands planted on his hips, thinking.

"It's just time," the woman pointed out, glancing up at him. "Which you have an unlimited supply of."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Fine. Sixty hours."

"Excellent," she muttered, still making notes.

"Oh, and the Slayer knows nothing about this, got it? I'll tell her in my own time after I've got the dosh."

Lydia nodded, looking up at him. "The Council's training in keeping secrets is second to none. I shan't breathe a word to the Slayer."

"Or anyone else!" Spike insisted.

"Or anyone else," she agreed.

"A deal is a deal," the vampire insisted as she began writing again. "No take backs. If something happens to me, Buffy still gets everything I've earned—break it down by the hour. And if you renege on any o' this, you can be sure I'll track you down and take the rest of your blood."

Lydia swallowed hard, but nodded resolutely, feeling that promotion to not only to First Class status, but to Chief Archival Research Inquisitor, coming closer by the moment.

End Notes:

Theatre Royal: A fire on 5 September 1887 became the worst theatre fire in British history. The fire broke out backstage where gas lighting ignited some gauze. The number of exits from the gallery of the auditorium proved to be inadequate, and in the resultant panic amongst the audience, 186 people died.

The Edna May House is actually The Simpson House Inn in Santa Barbara: .

Back to the regular posting schedule next week – Thursday and Saturday.

Thank you so much for reading and for your patience as I try to catch up with your wonderful comments! I thought things would slow down a bit for me, but so far no luck with that. But I'll get there – I love reading all your notes! They keep me incredibly inspired!

Thanks also to my wonderful beta readers and friends: All4Spike, Paganbaby, and TeamEricNSookie. Holi117 has switched to a pre-reader, which I'm so happy she's finding time for that. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I'll fix it.