Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1
Death Awaits: chapter 2 - The Slayer
Rupert Giles was listed in the phone book for Sunnydale, and with his address firmly in my memory, I set out to find his house. Standing in front of it now I can barely believe that this is the home of a Watcher - a Spanish-influenced courtyard does not seem like a Watcher sort of place. Still, this is the right number, and so I knock.
Mr Giles himself opens it, one hand to his glasses and the other holding the door open.
"Yes?" he says, politely, and I take my courage into my hands and contravene Council orders for the first time ever.
"Rupert Giles?" I check. "My name's Mike Fletcher; I'm with the Council."
He stiffens, and his eyes flick round and back to me. I hurry on.
"They don't know I'm here. I was ordered not to contact you." Silence. "It's important. Vital, even."
"You're not a Watcher," Mr Giles says.
"Active agent."
He purses his mouth, and seems to come to a decision, and holds the door open. He doesn't speak an invitation, which I expected.
Inside, I look around at the neat room with books everywhere, and, surprisingly, people everywhere too. The place seems to be filled with young men and women about six years younger than me, perched on sofas and chairs and sitting on the floor. There are three girls, and I can't initially decide which one is the Slayer, though it would seem obvious that she would be the one not curled up to a boy - the redhead, therefore, dressed in a bright orange corduroy skirt and a green jumper.
I am instantly proved wrong. Rupert Giles turns to the slim blonde who is sitting on the edge of an armchair filled by a tall, all-American basketball type, and says aloud, "he's Council, Buffy."
"Erm ." I begin, and wave a hesitant hand at the onlookers. Mr Giles raises his eyebrows, and then smiles a thin smile.
"I do apologise. I should have introduced you."
"It's not that," I say, "it's that the business I am on is really with Miss Summers and yourself."
"They're my friends," the Slayer says, a firm, young voice with a touch of steel in it. "They can hear whatever it is you have to say, Mr?"
"Fletcher. Mike. I sort of shouldn't be here, really, but I came to the conclusion I couldn't be in Sunnydale and not come clean."
"Trafficking vampires or something?" a gangly boy seated on the floor says, ironically.
"Xander, shut up," the Slayer retorts, and stands, her arms folded. "Well?"
"I'm here to dust some vampires," I say.
"This is Sunnydale. I slay the vampires here."
"They didn't want you involved," I return. "Mr Travers was quite specific."
"Yeah, well, he would be," the Slayer says. Mr Giles meets my eye.
"Mr Travers and Miss Summers do not get along," he explains.
"I got that," I agree. "The thing is, Miss Summers, they're particular vampires. It's complicated."
"We've done complicated here," the Slayer responds.
I give up, and pull the files out of my bag, and pass them to her. She takes them, and opens the first one up, and then looks at me.
"She's dead. Dusted." Mr Giles comes over and glances at the portrait of Darla.
"She was resurrected," I say. "By a law firm, Wolfram and Hart, in Los Angeles."
"LA?" Now Buffy Summers' eyes are narrowed. "Giles, call Wesley."
I take a deep breath. "Wesley's dead. He died three weeks ago. Three vampires, they say."
Mr Giles takes his glasses off, and sits down.
"Then why . why hasn't ." The Slayer looks at the large young man in the armchair beside her, and then at me, and then slowly she turns to the next file, flips past the picture, and reads the biographical notes before passing them to the redhead who has so far said nothing.
"Council sources," I say, "think that the third member of that group - the other file, Miss Summers - was responsible for casting the spell that removed Angelus' soul. They weren't sure of the exact details."
"Which other vampire?" the Slayer asks.
"His name's Luc Tarpeau," I say. "He's French."
"I've heard very little about him," Mr Giles says, after a moment. "Perhaps ."
"If it was a spell we could try and put it back," the redhead says suddenly. "I kept Miss Calendar's notes. I bet we could find an Orb ."
"Willow, I won't let you try that again," the Slayer puts in. "Not again."
"I agree. It's too risky," Mr Giles adds.
"Thirded!" the boy addressed earlier as Xander calls.
"How sure are you this happened?" the Slayer asks me. "How sure?"
I am forced to admit that we're not fully certain, and she relaxes. "Maybe something else killed Wes," she suggests.
The redhead, Willow, looks up from the file. "I wasn't going to mention it," she says, quietly, "but I haven't heard from Cordy in a few weeks. She usually emails me, once a week, and she hasn't. I guessed they were busy."
"I always said never trust him!" Xander says suddenly.
"Xander, that's hardly relevant now," Mr Giles replies.
"Isn't it?" Xander stands up. "Why isn't it? If Buffy had killed him last time this happened, we wouldn't be here now."
"It's not that simple," the Slayer says, softly. "Would you kill Anya, if she turned back into a demon?"
I swivel round and stare at the sharp-faced girl against whose leg Xander was leaning. "I wasn't a vampire," she says, indignantly.
"You killed people, though," the Slayer says. "Probably more than Angel . Angelus ."
"Only when other people asked me," the girl clarifies.
"Demon?" I manage to get out, in the minute pause.
Mr Giles sighs again. "Anya was until quite recently a vengeance demon. Anyanka. Protector of spurned women."
A memory springs to my mind, a story-telling session in a pub near Headquarters one night. "That Anyanka?" I say. "I've heard of you."
Anyanka looks ridiculously pleased, and lifts her chin up. "Good."
"But . you're human now?" I check.
"Stuck like this. He -" she points at Mr Giles, "smashed my amulet in another dimension. But it has its good points, being human." She smiles at Xander, and reminds me of my grandmother's cat when it is being stroked. No doubt of the nature of the relationship between them.
"Moving swiftly on," says Mr Giles, "to matters at hand. Xander, the past is the past. What we are dealing with now is the present. I suggest we speak to Spike tomorrow."
"If he's seen Angel," the Slayer says, "I swear I'll dust him."
"Are we talking about William the Bloody?" I ask, ever more confused.
"Unfortunately, yes," Buffy Summers confirms. "He can't hurt anyone. Got a chip in his head. Thanks to Riley."
She smiles down fondly at the all-American type who has so far said nothing, and he smiles back up at her. I can see there is a lot more explaining to be done, things that the Council know nothing about, and decide to tackle Rupert Giles at some point.
"I'll go and ask Spike tomorrow," the Slayer continues. "For now, we all go home, and nobody goes out alone at night unarmed or alone." She fixes big green eyes on me. "Can you fight?"
"Yes, Miss Summers," I say.
"Remember those three who came for Faith last year?" Mr Giles says to the Slayer, who nods. "They were in Mr Fletcher's division of the Council."
"Hmm. Well, I hope you fight better than them, then," Buffy Summers says. I think of Weatherby, Smith and Collins, respectively confined to a wheelchair, retired, and on restricted duty, and remember that this small girl in front of me reduced at least one of them to that state. Then I remember that Angelus was responsible for Weatherby's paralysis, and a shiver runs down my spine.
"I can fight well enough," I reiterate.
"Good. Then you and Giles walk Willow home. Riley and I'll take Xander and Anya to Xander's place, and then mine. We reconvene here at ten in the morning." I marvel at her organisation. "Mom!" she says suddenly, and leaps for the telephone, dialling and tapping her fingers until it is answered. "Mom . yeah, I'm on my way home. Just, if Angel shows, don't invite him in, okay? It's important. Tell Dawn. Yes, I'm fine. Don't invite anyone in. I'll be home soon. Bye!" She puts the telephone down and rolls her eyes. "Parents. Okay, Giles?"
"Be careful," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She smiles, and the stern Slayer-look is gone, replaced by something tender.
"I will. You too. Call when you're back here."
Rupert Giles nods, and collects a jacket from where it hangs beside the door. "Willow, Mr Fletcher - ready? Are you armed?" he asks me.
I swing my coat back to show him the stake and small battleaxe I have, and he nods, satisfied. Opening the door, he lets Xander and Anyanka, the Slayer and her tall boyfriend, go first, and then the redheaded Willow and myself, and finally locks the door carefully. Outside the apartment block we split up, and the other four head off in the opposite direction.
None of us say very much as Mr Giles pushes his red convertible through the night. Few people are out on the streets, and we each glance around far too much. I look particularly at the darker corners. On the lengthy drive to Willow's lodgings, we pass no less than three cemeteries, but no vampires. We see the girl inside the building where she lives, apparently some sort of university hall of residence, and Mr Giles turns the car to return to his apartment. He pauses with a hand on the handbrake.
"Where are you staying?" I tell him, and he frowns. "Better stay with me."
"I hope the Council don't find out," I worry aloud.
"You've already contravened direct orders," Mr Giles says. "Now you really should try and be safe. We'll go and fetch your things, and you can have my sofa."
I thank him, and he waves it off, starting the car up, and we drive away in silence.
Death Awaits: chapter 2 - The Slayer
Rupert Giles was listed in the phone book for Sunnydale, and with his address firmly in my memory, I set out to find his house. Standing in front of it now I can barely believe that this is the home of a Watcher - a Spanish-influenced courtyard does not seem like a Watcher sort of place. Still, this is the right number, and so I knock.
Mr Giles himself opens it, one hand to his glasses and the other holding the door open.
"Yes?" he says, politely, and I take my courage into my hands and contravene Council orders for the first time ever.
"Rupert Giles?" I check. "My name's Mike Fletcher; I'm with the Council."
He stiffens, and his eyes flick round and back to me. I hurry on.
"They don't know I'm here. I was ordered not to contact you." Silence. "It's important. Vital, even."
"You're not a Watcher," Mr Giles says.
"Active agent."
He purses his mouth, and seems to come to a decision, and holds the door open. He doesn't speak an invitation, which I expected.
Inside, I look around at the neat room with books everywhere, and, surprisingly, people everywhere too. The place seems to be filled with young men and women about six years younger than me, perched on sofas and chairs and sitting on the floor. There are three girls, and I can't initially decide which one is the Slayer, though it would seem obvious that she would be the one not curled up to a boy - the redhead, therefore, dressed in a bright orange corduroy skirt and a green jumper.
I am instantly proved wrong. Rupert Giles turns to the slim blonde who is sitting on the edge of an armchair filled by a tall, all-American basketball type, and says aloud, "he's Council, Buffy."
"Erm ." I begin, and wave a hesitant hand at the onlookers. Mr Giles raises his eyebrows, and then smiles a thin smile.
"I do apologise. I should have introduced you."
"It's not that," I say, "it's that the business I am on is really with Miss Summers and yourself."
"They're my friends," the Slayer says, a firm, young voice with a touch of steel in it. "They can hear whatever it is you have to say, Mr?"
"Fletcher. Mike. I sort of shouldn't be here, really, but I came to the conclusion I couldn't be in Sunnydale and not come clean."
"Trafficking vampires or something?" a gangly boy seated on the floor says, ironically.
"Xander, shut up," the Slayer retorts, and stands, her arms folded. "Well?"
"I'm here to dust some vampires," I say.
"This is Sunnydale. I slay the vampires here."
"They didn't want you involved," I return. "Mr Travers was quite specific."
"Yeah, well, he would be," the Slayer says. Mr Giles meets my eye.
"Mr Travers and Miss Summers do not get along," he explains.
"I got that," I agree. "The thing is, Miss Summers, they're particular vampires. It's complicated."
"We've done complicated here," the Slayer responds.
I give up, and pull the files out of my bag, and pass them to her. She takes them, and opens the first one up, and then looks at me.
"She's dead. Dusted." Mr Giles comes over and glances at the portrait of Darla.
"She was resurrected," I say. "By a law firm, Wolfram and Hart, in Los Angeles."
"LA?" Now Buffy Summers' eyes are narrowed. "Giles, call Wesley."
I take a deep breath. "Wesley's dead. He died three weeks ago. Three vampires, they say."
Mr Giles takes his glasses off, and sits down.
"Then why . why hasn't ." The Slayer looks at the large young man in the armchair beside her, and then at me, and then slowly she turns to the next file, flips past the picture, and reads the biographical notes before passing them to the redhead who has so far said nothing.
"Council sources," I say, "think that the third member of that group - the other file, Miss Summers - was responsible for casting the spell that removed Angelus' soul. They weren't sure of the exact details."
"Which other vampire?" the Slayer asks.
"His name's Luc Tarpeau," I say. "He's French."
"I've heard very little about him," Mr Giles says, after a moment. "Perhaps ."
"If it was a spell we could try and put it back," the redhead says suddenly. "I kept Miss Calendar's notes. I bet we could find an Orb ."
"Willow, I won't let you try that again," the Slayer puts in. "Not again."
"I agree. It's too risky," Mr Giles adds.
"Thirded!" the boy addressed earlier as Xander calls.
"How sure are you this happened?" the Slayer asks me. "How sure?"
I am forced to admit that we're not fully certain, and she relaxes. "Maybe something else killed Wes," she suggests.
The redhead, Willow, looks up from the file. "I wasn't going to mention it," she says, quietly, "but I haven't heard from Cordy in a few weeks. She usually emails me, once a week, and she hasn't. I guessed they were busy."
"I always said never trust him!" Xander says suddenly.
"Xander, that's hardly relevant now," Mr Giles replies.
"Isn't it?" Xander stands up. "Why isn't it? If Buffy had killed him last time this happened, we wouldn't be here now."
"It's not that simple," the Slayer says, softly. "Would you kill Anya, if she turned back into a demon?"
I swivel round and stare at the sharp-faced girl against whose leg Xander was leaning. "I wasn't a vampire," she says, indignantly.
"You killed people, though," the Slayer says. "Probably more than Angel . Angelus ."
"Only when other people asked me," the girl clarifies.
"Demon?" I manage to get out, in the minute pause.
Mr Giles sighs again. "Anya was until quite recently a vengeance demon. Anyanka. Protector of spurned women."
A memory springs to my mind, a story-telling session in a pub near Headquarters one night. "That Anyanka?" I say. "I've heard of you."
Anyanka looks ridiculously pleased, and lifts her chin up. "Good."
"But . you're human now?" I check.
"Stuck like this. He -" she points at Mr Giles, "smashed my amulet in another dimension. But it has its good points, being human." She smiles at Xander, and reminds me of my grandmother's cat when it is being stroked. No doubt of the nature of the relationship between them.
"Moving swiftly on," says Mr Giles, "to matters at hand. Xander, the past is the past. What we are dealing with now is the present. I suggest we speak to Spike tomorrow."
"If he's seen Angel," the Slayer says, "I swear I'll dust him."
"Are we talking about William the Bloody?" I ask, ever more confused.
"Unfortunately, yes," Buffy Summers confirms. "He can't hurt anyone. Got a chip in his head. Thanks to Riley."
She smiles down fondly at the all-American type who has so far said nothing, and he smiles back up at her. I can see there is a lot more explaining to be done, things that the Council know nothing about, and decide to tackle Rupert Giles at some point.
"I'll go and ask Spike tomorrow," the Slayer continues. "For now, we all go home, and nobody goes out alone at night unarmed or alone." She fixes big green eyes on me. "Can you fight?"
"Yes, Miss Summers," I say.
"Remember those three who came for Faith last year?" Mr Giles says to the Slayer, who nods. "They were in Mr Fletcher's division of the Council."
"Hmm. Well, I hope you fight better than them, then," Buffy Summers says. I think of Weatherby, Smith and Collins, respectively confined to a wheelchair, retired, and on restricted duty, and remember that this small girl in front of me reduced at least one of them to that state. Then I remember that Angelus was responsible for Weatherby's paralysis, and a shiver runs down my spine.
"I can fight well enough," I reiterate.
"Good. Then you and Giles walk Willow home. Riley and I'll take Xander and Anya to Xander's place, and then mine. We reconvene here at ten in the morning." I marvel at her organisation. "Mom!" she says suddenly, and leaps for the telephone, dialling and tapping her fingers until it is answered. "Mom . yeah, I'm on my way home. Just, if Angel shows, don't invite him in, okay? It's important. Tell Dawn. Yes, I'm fine. Don't invite anyone in. I'll be home soon. Bye!" She puts the telephone down and rolls her eyes. "Parents. Okay, Giles?"
"Be careful," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She smiles, and the stern Slayer-look is gone, replaced by something tender.
"I will. You too. Call when you're back here."
Rupert Giles nods, and collects a jacket from where it hangs beside the door. "Willow, Mr Fletcher - ready? Are you armed?" he asks me.
I swing my coat back to show him the stake and small battleaxe I have, and he nods, satisfied. Opening the door, he lets Xander and Anyanka, the Slayer and her tall boyfriend, go first, and then the redheaded Willow and myself, and finally locks the door carefully. Outside the apartment block we split up, and the other four head off in the opposite direction.
None of us say very much as Mr Giles pushes his red convertible through the night. Few people are out on the streets, and we each glance around far too much. I look particularly at the darker corners. On the lengthy drive to Willow's lodgings, we pass no less than three cemeteries, but no vampires. We see the girl inside the building where she lives, apparently some sort of university hall of residence, and Mr Giles turns the car to return to his apartment. He pauses with a hand on the handbrake.
"Where are you staying?" I tell him, and he frowns. "Better stay with me."
"I hope the Council don't find out," I worry aloud.
"You've already contravened direct orders," Mr Giles says. "Now you really should try and be safe. We'll go and fetch your things, and you can have my sofa."
I thank him, and he waves it off, starting the car up, and we drive away in silence.