Chapter 8. The Generation Gap.
Connor stood up and shook hands again with the slight, dark Englishman who had just outlined the summer vacation work-placement to him.
"Thank you very much, Mr Kane," he said.
"I wish you every success, young man," replied Kane. "I'm sure you deserve every experience the Company has to offer."
Spike had remained silent throughout the meeting, which had been brief and to the point. Connor had been offered the opportunity to observe various sections of the firm at work throughout the Summer Vacation. He would earn his maintenance allowance by working in the Archives Department each morning, leaving the afternoon free for observation and work shadowing. This sounded straightforward and above board to Spike. But what concerned him was the man who had been introduced to him as Eden Kane. The name rang a bell, and so did the face, but the two did not belong together, Spike was sure of that. He opened the door and nodded his goodbye to the man, studying his face one last time, in the hope that he'd recall where he'd seen him before.
"That's neat, don't you think?" asked Connor, as they walked down the corridor towards Spike's office. "I get to stay in my room and earn some study credits."
"A little too neat if you ask me," muttered Spike. He hoped Wesley had unearthed some information on the origins of this scholarship before anything else happened to threaten the boy. It had been a week since he'd killed Jennof's son and, although there had been no more demon attacks after the night of the football game, the college authorities were still on high alert. Angel and Wesley were agreed on one thing, this meant that Connor had been identified by Jenoff's henchmen as Angel's progeny. However, neither of them was sure how the Blood Clause was linked to Connor's scholarship.
"Professor Pryce?" Connor caught sight of Wesley coming out of his office. "I didn't expect to see you here. It's Connor," he elaborated, misinterpreting Wesley's look of panic as one of incomprehension. "I was at your lunchtime lecture."
Wesley fiddled with the papers he was carrying and glanced at Spike, who shrugged. He couldn't be expected to anticipate Wesley's movements in the building.
"I'm here on business," replied Wesley. "What brings you here?"
"The same."
"I'm just taking Connor to watch a spot of footy," interrupted Spike. "Want to join us, Wes?"
Connor frowned. "You two know each other?"
Spike mentally kicked himself and grimaced, looking to Wesley for help.
"We're – um – working on a project together," said Wesley. "It's – um -"
"About the nature of gang culture and violence on the terraces," Spike finished for him. "That's why this match is so interesting. See, it's what we call a local Derby – Man United against City. A bit like your Yankies and Confederates, or the Wars of the Roses or . . ." he stopped, noticing Welsey's raised eyebrow.
"It's a little more local than that, surely?" Wesley's voice was acerbic. What on earth was Spike thinking?
"Well," said Spike, leading the way past Harmony's desk, "that's one of the things we'll have to thrash out, isn't it?"
Spike's progress was halted by Harmony calling to him. "Spike!"
He cringed. Silly Bint. Did she have to use that name? "Not now, Harm!"
"Yes, now, Buster. You've been avoiding me for days."
"I'm busy," he hissed.
The phone on Harmony's desk began ringing, but she ignored it. "Too busy to check your e-mail? You should, you know, every day. You never know what you'll miss if you don't. There's a message about someone you really need to go and see."
"The phone, Harm," Spike insisted, marching on. His heart lurched. Who would he really want to see? Buffy? He stopped in front of his office door and closed his eyes, seeing once again Buffy's tear-stained face as he told her to leave him at the Hellmouth. Wesley had assured him that Giles would say nothing, that his wish to contact Buffy in his own good time, would be honoured. He swallowed and clenched his jaw. He'd check his mail later, much later.
"Make yourself at home," he said to Connor, waving a hand in the direction of the sofas.
Connor looked from Spike, to Wesley, and back again. The uneasy feeling he'd experienced at meeting Wesley in the corridor had increased when he realised that 'Will' and 'Professor Pryce' knew one another. Co-incidence? Perhaps, but Connor was more than a little surprised when Harmony had called Will 'Spike', and intensely curious as to why these two very different Englishmen were working together on such an implausible sounding project. Violence on the terraces? It was such a European phenomenon. Why come to the US to study it?
The academic project was not the only thing concerning Connor. He was unable to work out why it was that he felt so at ease with Will/Spike and so uneasy about Professor Pryce. Within an hour of meeting Will, he'd fallen into the kind of easy banter he enjoyed with his family and friends, despite the fact that he found things about him so contradictory. A college professor who fought the way Will did was not something Connor had come across before. An Oxford professor whose taste in music and hairstyle seemed to be stuck somewhere in the middle of the punk era was something else Connor couldn't quite accept. Professor Pryce fitted his idea of what an Oxford professor might look like, more closely than Will did.
Connor shook his head. It made no sense. He trusted Will, whereas the other man sent a shiver of fear down his spine.
Spike noticed the slight head shake. "You changed your mind? Suddenly remembered a previous engagement?" He'd sensed the boy's fear and tilted his head at Connor as a challenge.
Connor returned Spike's gaze and accepted the dare. He'd stay and find out just what was going on. After all, this was a respectable law firm, one which had provided him with a generous scholarship and now the opportunity of an internship. It was unlikely that he could come to any harm within these walls.
"No," he replied, "not changed my mind. Just wondering how you two came to be working together."
"Oh, that's easy," replied Spike motioning the TV, which was tuned to Dishnetwork's English Premier League. "Mutual love of the game. That right, Wes?"
Wesley, too, had been unnerved by Connor's reaction to meeting him outside his office door. He'd inwardly cursed himself for his ill-conceived plan of adopting the Professor Pryce persona. His only excuse was that he'd been in a state of total shock at regaining his memory of all the events of the previous year. A major feature of that shock was his deep guilt at the part he himself had played in Angel's loss of Connor. In fact, he reasoned it was guilt that he enabled him to regain his memory in the first place, when he'd watched the video Angel had received. Not guilt about Connor, but about Lilah, about his failure, in the end, to save her.
And now my stupidity has roused Connor's distrust, he thought. There had been no need for Wesley to appear on campus as visiting Professor Pryce. Campus security was tight, and, thanks to Gunn, they had known of Connor's appointment with the scholarship Trustee.
Still, what's done is done, and can't be undone. Wesley wondered just how many times he'd hear that phrase before they solved their problems.
----------
"It should have been more," he heard Spike say. "Four – two is nothing on the home pitch. City haven't beaten us at Old Trafford for 30 years."
"Yes, but they were one man short. If Neville hadn't been sent off . . ." Angel heard his son leap to his team's defence.
"Bloody stupid bugger." Spike snorted his disgust. "It took all of Howard's skill as a goalie to stop City running away with the match. That save of Barton's point-blank range shot was nothing short of miraculous."
"Huh! Arason did the same with Giggs's shot in second half," argued Connor. "I still say United is nothing without Beckham. Fergie should never have let him go to Spain."
Angel pushed open the door just wide enough for him to observe what was going on without being seen. Wesley, with his back towards him, was busy making tea and toasting something hidden from view behind the teapot. Spike and Connor sat side by side on the large leather sofa, examining a magazine. Strewn on the table in front of them were several photographs and old newspapers.
"They're nowhere near the team they were before Beckham," scoffed Spike. "This team's a bunch of fairies compared with the 1968 squad. Look," he pointed at one of the photos, "that's the team that first brought the European Cup to England. "There," he turned to another photo," is the holy trinity, Charlton, Law, and the Irish Boy Wonder, Georgie Best. That boy could move – pure poetry in motion to watch." Spike looked up from the photo and caught Connor's quizzical expression. "What? Haven't you seen the old footage? There was a special on a few years back. Best's 50th birthday. Showed all the classic games." Spike sighed. "Shame how he's gone to the dogs."
Angel watched as the two heads bent together, pouring over the magazines, the blonde silhouetted against the dark, each stirring very different emotions. He heard Connor say something about Best and poke Spike in the ribs.
Angel felt a sharp pang of jealousy as Spike grabbed Connor playfully in a headlock and cried, "Take that back! No way is Beckham better than Best. The Big Fairy's whipped by that Missus of his."
Connor laughed gleefully and the two of them fell to the floor, rolling in a mock-fight, scattering photos and newspapers as they fell.
"Children, children," chided Wesley. "Have a care for those, they're historical documents. If I'd known they were falling into the hands of two hooligans, I'd never have brought them out of my archive."
Wesley carried a tray over to the table and set it down. Spike and Connor ceased their wrestling match and picked themselves up off the floor, gathering the fallen papers as they did so.
"Sorry, Profess . . . Wesley," said Connor. "But he is," he shot at Spike. "Fitter, stronger, more stamina . . ."
"It might interest you to know," interrupted Wesley, "that the professional ballet dancer is fitter than the average Premiership footballer."
"I heard that," said Spike. "Don't believe it though." He flung himself back on the sofa and helped himself to a couple of crumpets from the tray. As he bit into one of them, the butter immediately ran down his chin. "Where'd you get these? Haven't had one in years. Don't you just love it when the butter does that?" He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and continued eating.
Angel marvelled at Spike's ability to enjoy life. He envied him this seemingly effortless capacity for finding pleasure in the small, very human, everyday actions of eating, drinking and enjoying the company of others; the other, in this case being Angel's own son. When did they get to be such great pals? Angel wondered. He wanted to put a stop to any feelings of friendship Connor might be developing for Spike. His own relationship with Connor, even at its best, had never been like this, except in his dreams. What was Spike up to?
"Lorne found a bakery on the Internet that specialises in English products," Angel heard Wesley tell Spike. "They supply us with crumpets and scones made to order."
"Lorne?" Connor asked.
"Our Entertainment Manager," explained Spike. "Throws great parties." Spike grinned and looked up, reaching to take the paper napkin Wesley was holding out to him. "The Jolly Green Giant was a big hit, eh Wes?"
"He's on sick leave at the moment," Wesley added hastily, giving Spike a warning glance.
Angel hesitated in the doorway. He didn't know if he could face Connor without betraying his feelings for him. But he needed to speak to Wesley about the communication he'd just received from Jennoff demanding the payment of the honour price. Angel took a deep breath and stepped into the room. In the same instant, Connor took his mobile out of his pocket and answered its insistent ringing.
"Connor. Oh, hi Mike. No I haven't forgotten, I'll be back in time. Thanks for reminding me. See ya." He snapped the phone shut. "That was my room mate," he said, turning to Spike. "There's a ten o'clock curfew. He was worried I'd miss it."
"There's plenty of time. I'll run you back if you like," Spike offered.
"You've time for tea before you go," added Wesley. "Won't you try one of these?" He held out the plate of crumpets for Connor to select one, noticing Angel's presence as he did so. "But first, let me introduce you to our CEO. Angel, this is Connor, Wolfram and Hart's scholarship recipient."
"Pleased to meet you Mr. . . ." Connor rose from his seat and hesitated uncertain of the correct mode of address.
Angel grasped Connor's outstretched hand and shook it firmly. "It's Angel, just Angel." He gazed at Connor and resisted the urge to pull him into a close embrace.
Connor stiffened and released Angel's hand. Cold, just like Will's, he thought. But that wasn't what made him loose his grasp. He'd felt a charge of energy just like an electric shock as their hands had touched.
Angel turned on his heel without another word and left the office. Spike and Wesley exchanged knowing glances and continued the activities they'd started as Connor and Angel shook hands. Wesley poured three cups of tea and buttered more crumpets. Spike finished putting the photographs and papers back into the storage folders in which Wesley had delivered them to his office earlier that day.
They drank their tea in silence, each lost to his own thoughts, until Spike finally decided he couldn't stand it any more. Typical bloody Angel, he thought, spoiling everyone else's fun 'cos he never gets to have any. With a sigh, he stood up and walked over to a cupboard beside the door, pulled out his duster and put it on. He reached onto the top shelf and took down a motorcycle helmet and handed it to Connor. "Time we were off, then, if we're to get you back before curfew."
----------
"Is that the bike from the other night?" Connor asked, as he and Spike approached the Harley Spike had parked in Angel's garage.
"No – just looks like it."
"It is!" Connor's eyes lit up. "It's got the scrape from the fire hydrant you hit."
"Uh – well – yeah, OK. Fair cop. It's the same bike."
"So we're riding a stolen bike out of one of the biggest law firms in L.A.," observed Connor. "Why do I feel this is something else I don't want to know about?"
"'S not stolen, more . . ." Spike checked the traffic as he swung out onto the highway and searched for the right word, "Commandeered. That's it."
"Is that legal?"
"Dunno," Spike admitted.
"You work for a law firm and you don't know?"
"I told you, I'm not a lawyer. "Just visitin'."
Connor decided to voice his fears. "You're weird, you know that? In fact, I'm beginning to think this whole set up is beyond weird. It's surreal. You, Wesley, the scholarship. I mean just how many co-incidences can one person suffer in a day? And I have to tell you," he went on before Spike could stop him," that CEO of yours is creepy."
Spike pulled onto the sidewalk and stopped the bike. Time to come clean, he thought. "You're right. There are too many co-incidences. Truth is. I'm not a professor, visitin' or otherwise. I've been hired as a sort of bodyguard, to keep an eye on you."
Connor removed his helmet and studied Spike's face, finding it difficult to understand what he'd just heard him say. "A bodyguard?" he asked incredulously. "Why would I need a bodyguard?"
"Because . . ." Spike scrabbled frantically for a plausible explanation that wouldn't reveal the truth about Connor's identity, "your father has enemies who want to harm you."
"My father has no enemies," Connor said evenly.
Oh yes he has, thought Spike, but before he could respond with something more convincing, he fell to his knees, his head reeling from a blow to the back of his skull. The demon attack took him completely by surprise this time. He'd failed to notice them appear from the shadows as soon as he'd brought the bike to a halt.
"Will!" yelled Connor, struggling to free himself from the grip of two demons who'd grabbed him as the third had struck Spike.
Spike staggered to his feet. He could feel the trickle of blood on the back of his neck from the wound caused by the head of the axe that was descending for a second blow. Spike blocked its descent with his right arm and grasped hold of the axe handle with his left hand, wrenching it from the demon's grip. Using the demon's own momentum, Spike rolled forward, pulling it onto its knees, thrusting the tip of the curved blade into its face as he did so. There was a sickening crack as metal met bone, followed by blood gushing from the hole in the demon's head as Spike continued to drive the blade upwards, splitting the skull in two. The demon crumpled and fell, twitching for a moment before finally lying still in a puddle of its own blood. Spike picked himself up and looked over to where Connor had been standing beside the bike.
Connor had managed to free himself from the two demons who'd held him and was fighting furiously for his life. This wasn't like the fight in the football stadium; these demons were armed with knives and seemed intent on killing rather than capture. Connor was already covered in wounds and was beginning to flag.
Spike closed the gap between him and Connor in a flying leap, knocking one demon down and slicing its head off with a single sweep of the axe. As Connor was brought to his knees by a stab to his side from the surviving demon's knife, Spike hurled himself towards them. "No . . .. o!" he screamed, vamping out as he did so. The demon recognised he was no match for Spike. He side-stepped Spike's charge and jumped onto the bike. Roaring away along the sidewalk, he called "Tell your boss he can't avoid payment any longer, vampire."
Spike dropped to his knees, resuming his human features as he did so. He examined Connor who was slipping in and out of consciousness. Connor was losing a lot of blood from the wound in his side. The other wounds were more superficial but this one needed immediate attention. Spike lifted up Connor's jacket and jumper and winced at the sight of the gash that was visible through the tear in his T-shirt.
"Connor, I'm going to have to lift you," he said gently. "It's gonna hurt but I need to get you to some help."
Connor moaned and opened his eyes. "Will?"
"'S all right, you're gonna be all right," Spike reassured him. "I'm gonna try to stop the bleeding but you have to help me." Spike tore a strip from the bottom of Connor's shirt and folded it into a pad. "Now, hold this against your side," he said, pressing the pad into Connor's hand and placing it against the wound. Talking to him and encouraging him to stay awake the whole time, he lifted Connor carefully in his arms and made his way slowly back to Wolfram and Hart,
---------- Spike had felt sure that Angel was going to kill him this time. He'd taken Connor to Fred's lab and, after satisfying himself that he was in no real danger, he'd left her administering first aid and feminine tenderness to the wounded boy.
Eventually, Spike tracked Angel down to his apartment where he'd apparently retired after yet another disagreement with Wesley. As he told the story of why he'd had to bring Connor back to the building, he had the distinct impression that Angel was less interested in Connor's physical state and more in why Spike had disobeyed him once again over the bike. According to Angel, the latest attempt on Connor's life was Spike's fault for not taking one of the cars. It was more than that, it was Spike's stupidity that had caused the threat in the first place. One step forward, two steps back, thought Spike.
"You told him?" Now Angel was into the topic of truth telling – his version.
"Not exactly. He doesn't know you're his dad. He thinks his real father is the one with the enemies." Spike called through the door Angel had slammed in his face when he'd retreated into his bedroom.
"I'm his real father," stormed Angel opening the door and glaring at Spike, barely able to conceal his anger at being unable to protect Connor himself.
Spike desperately wanted to shake Angel out of the charade he insisted on continuing to play. He'd willingly handed Connor over to the care of another family, but was reluctant to release his need to control how that care was provided. The fingers of Spike's hands twitched as he suppressed the urge to grab Angel by the throat. The frustration at not being able to make Angel see that it was time to start telling the truth to everyone was taking its toll on Spike's patience, not that he had much of that to begin with where Angel's modus operandi was concerned. Angel was the one for games of cat and mouse, always had been, certainly when Angelus was in the ascendant anyway. Spike was all for the full frontal attack, fists and fangs, and failing that, boots and head. He had no time for the waiting game, the psychological torment before the kill. As far as Spike was concerned, time had run out. Jenoff was calling in the debt and, having failed by the most direct route of capture and kill, was about to employ the legal beagles to do the job for him. Spike looked at Angel's face and sighed. There was no point in trying to reason with him, he was looking for a scapegoat. Spike experienced the sinking feeling in his stomach that told him he was the fall guy.
"Where is he now? Is someone taking care of him?" Angel asked walking slowly over to the window.
Spike considered Angel's concern for his son's well being to be a step in the right direction at last. "I left him with Fred. She's patching him up."
"She shouldn't have to patch him up. He shouldn't have been injured in the first place. I told you to lose that damn bike. If you'd done as you were told . . ." Angel turned away from Spike and looked out into the night sky.
One step forward . . . "I thought you were over blaming everything on me!" Spike could contain himself no longer; it was time to have it out with Angel, although it was one thing to ask Angel to be truthful about Connor's real parents, quite another to expect the boy to accept his father's true identity. Connor was a smart kid, he probably wouldn't believe it, and would be sure to ask a lot of questions. What a mess, thought Spike wondering why he'd allowed himself to get caught up in the web of lies and deceit. He wondered how he was going to raise the fact that he'd vamped out during the fight and he couldn't be sure that Connor hadn't witnessed it.'.
Angel hadn't heard what Spike had said. Angel didn't want to hear anything Spike had to say. "I never should have trusted you to take care of him," he berated him. "I should have listened to Wes. Kept him here, with me."
Spike's patience finally snapped. "And just how would you have done that?" He grabbed Angel's arm and swung him round, his eyes glinting dangerously. "He already thinks you're a creepy old man. Trying to persuade him to stay the night? Screams pervert to me!"
Angel slumped against the window as Spike relaxed his grip on his arm. All his anger drained away, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Why had Spike been sent to Wolfram and Hart? Was it to torment him? Angel tried to rid himself of the image of Spike and Connor enjoying one another's company in a way he never had. His dreams of teaching his baby to walk, taking his little boy night fishing and teaching his teenage son to defend himself, had all been taken away from him, leaving just the nightmare, the reality of the killer Connor had become. Angel dropped his gaze from Spike's eyes. He couldn't face this other child; the one who had fought his own way back from the Darkness; the one who had chosen to fight to become a better man, not had his memory wiped and replaced by false ones.
Spike watched Angel struggle with his emotions. He reached out one hand to pat him on the shoulder, but drew back quickly as Angel raised his eyes and looked at him sadly. "Things are looking up. He's safe now," said Spike. "We're all together, three generations under one roof. What a team we'd make, eh? The Three – Musketeers, the Three . . ." Spike paused, he'd already run out of heroic threesomes. Somehow the Three Stooges didn't match up to the image he was trying to create. "Anyway, you get the picture."
"Yeah," said Angel, wearily. "Trouble is. I don't know what will happen when he finds out. And he will find out. The court hearing's in two days, unless Gunn can arrange a deferral."
The door of the elevator swished into action, revealing Charles Gunn carrying a large box file. "I've got something for you," he said to Angel, "by way of a peace offering. I'm trying for a deferral. And you might like to take a look at these files. Something's going on. Something we need to put right."
The phone beside Angel's bed began to ring. Angel hesitated just for a second before saying, "Answer that will you, Spike? I need to speak with Gunn."
Spike lifted the receiver and listened as Fred gushed her relief at finding him down the earpiece.
"I thought you'd gone back to your apartment," she said. "And I don't have your number, so I wondered if Angel had it and then I didn't know whether to call him because of all that unpleasantness the other night and . . . "
"Hey, slow down, slow down," said Spike, "you'll burst something if you keep that pace up too long. I'm here, not going anywhere. Least, not yet, anyway. How's Connor?"
"That's what I wanted to tell you," replied Fred, lowering her voice to a whisper. "He's going to be fine, but he needs to sleep and he says he can't go back to his dorm because of some curfew." Fred sounded puzzled and anxious.
"I'll be with you in a tick, pet," Spike soothed her. "We'll sort something out for tonight." He replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked over to where Gunn and Angel sat, sifting through the content of the box file and talking quietly. It looked to Spike as if Gunn had recovered from whatever resentment he'd been feeling the night before and was genuinely exited by what he'd found.
"That was Fred," Spike called to Angel. "I'm going down to sort out a bed for Connor for the night."
Angel looked up from the paperwork he was perusing and studied Spike's face for a moment. He desperately wanted to see his son, to check for himself that he was going to be fine. But he realised that what he wanted to do and what was reasonable for him as CEO to do, was incompatible. Creepy old man. He didn't want Connor's view of him to be based on that notion.
Angel sighed; he hated the idea that Spike was the only person in the building who Connor trusted. "Put him in your office for the night," he suggested. "And Spike," he added as Spike crossed the room to the elevator, "stay here yourself."
Spike nodded his assent and stepped into the elevator. As he descended to Angel's office, he considered, again, why he'd decided to stay at Angel's side, instead of working alone, or making his way to Europe, to Buffy. It all boiled down to belonging. He'd belonged in Sunnydale, fighting alongside Buffy right to the end. Now, there was nothing left. No more Sunnydale, no more Buffy. She was still alive, and even living happily ever after in Rome with Dawn, according to Andrew at least. That was why he'd set her free from him, why he'd been happy to die as her Champion. What was he was going to do about letting Buffy know he was alive? He was no closer to working out the answer to that question. He'd asked Andrew to let him do it in his own time, in his own way, and the right time would come. Now, though, there was Angel's problem to consider and the complication of Connor.
As he walked into Fred's lab and caught sight of Connor's battered face and bandaged hands, Spike decided he belonged at Wolfram and Hart, for the time being. The decision to stay had nothing to do with his relationship with Buffy, being a Champion, or having a soul; it was about family, his family, Angel and Connor.