TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn
#38 "Correct forms of Address"
AUTHOR: Nmissi
PART: 38/?
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing
and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,
what makes you think I'd
share him with you?
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just
credit me and let me know where it's
going.
Feedback: Please.
Nmissi@aol.com
SUMMARY: The way the world
would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.
"There's a package for you on the kitchen table."
Spike laid his jacket over the back of the sofa, unlacing
his tie as he followed Dawn's voice into the kitchen.
"What is it?" he asked.
She shrugged at him, as she fished a coke from the
fridge.
" I don't know. Do I look like your secretary? Besides, I
don't open your mail. Just Buffy's."
She plopped herself down in a kitchen chair, and opened a
bag of fritos and the canned soft drink.
Spike picked up the fed ex box. Angel'd been right
prompt, he had. Only three days since he'd asked him about the papers, and here
they were.
He tore the box open and slid out a large manila envelope.
Dawn watched him with undisguised curiosity.
"Whatcha get?" she asked.
He looked up at her, smiling wickedly.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
He sat down, opening the envelope carefully. He slid the
papers free, and looked them over.
Birth certificate for William Anthony Walthrop VI. Born
to William Anthony Walthrop V and Elisa Walthrop on April 18, 1975.
He noted with pleasure that the birth itself was
untraceable; the London hospital listed had burned to the ground in '77.
A baptismal certificate for the same year. O levels,
driver's permit, green card….
Angel had been extremely thorough. He wondered what this
box of fiction had cost.
A folded sheet fell from the sheaf of papers, and he
picked it up. It was good stationery, and he recognized the handwriting
immediately.
As he read, his eyes grew moist. He got up from the table
and walked out, leaving Dawn perplexed behind him.
She picked up the dropped letter, and read.
"Spike. Here are your papers. I've tried to be as
accurate as possible with them, as you asked. Should anyone contact your high
school, they will find detailed records of your time there. Should your
ancestry be questioned, it's a matter of public record in the Peerages. Should
someone investigate you, they will find no shortage of people willing to say
that they know you, attended school with you, and remember you fondly.
If
you decide to go home, you will find that your title has been restored and your
ancestral home purchased. The line died out with your turning. It was not
difficult to change that, from a records standpoint. Enough money can do just
about anything.
In
short, you have everything we took from you that could be returned.
I know it's more than you asked for. But it made me feel
better- If things don't work out here in the U.S., you have somewhere to go.
Your family home is in appalling condition. It was sold several times, and no
work has been done there in the last fifty years. I'm sorry to say the
surrounding grounds were surrendered to the Crown to pay taxes. But the house
still stands, and if you chose to do so, you could make a life for yourself
there.
I've
opened an account at Lloyds' in your name, and transferred a respectable sum
into it. You are neither without friends, or resources.
I love you,
Angel "
Title?
House? Her head was full of questions. She got up from the table, and went out
into the living room.
She
found Spike standing at the window, looking out. Tears streaked his cheeks, and
his two-toned hair was in disarray, where he'd clawed at it.
She put a hand on his
shoulder.
"This
is good, right? I mean, Angel tried to help you out. I don't think he meant for
it to hurt you."
Spike
sighed, and turned to her. Then he smiled wanly.
"No,
love. He had the very best intentions. It's just too much, is all. My house. My
name. You can't possibly understand what that means to me."
He
took her hand.
"Come
with me outside. I think I need a cigarette."
She
followed him, and together they sat down on the porch. She watched him light
his fag with trembling fingers.
"I
knew he'd come through for me, I just had no idea he'd do all of this."
There
was wonder in his tone.
Dawn
thought quietly for a moment.
"So,
does this mean you're Lord Whatsis, or something, now?"
He
chuckled.
"No,
love. In England, thanks to the maneuverings of Angel, I'm Sir Whatsis. Or Sir
William, actually. A baronet is not even really a peer."
She
looked even more confused.
"Never
mind, love. Besides, I'm in America. You lot don't use titles."
She
smiled again, brilliantly.
"I
like it. 'Sir Spike.' It's cool."
He
grinned back at her.
"Yeah,
it is, innit?"
She looked him over, taking in his disheveled appearance.
His "work clothes", as he called them- grey slacks, blue shirt, black tie. All
a little wrinkled. His hair, rather shaggy around his face, in two shades. Dark
blonde at the roots, white at the ends.
She reached over and smoothed the untidy curls around his
face.
"You need a haircut, Sir Spike."
He considered a moment, running his free hand over the
top of his head.
"You're right. I do. Want to ride over to the Barber shop
with me?"
She nodded, getting to her feet.
"I'll run get my purse. Can I go in the drugstore while
you're in there? There's a magazine I want to pick up."
"Yeah, sure. Just the one across the street, though. I
don't want you out of my sight too long."
"You'll never even know I'm gone, word of honor," she
promised.