Mortal Allies Series

Episode 5

War and Roses

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 17: Hexagonal Candle

Chapter Notes:

I again apologize for my tardiness in posting and in not replying to your wonderful comments. I'm having to do a bit of rescheduling and rearranging of my life. Funny how one little kitten can throw a spanner into the works! But he's doing well, super cute, super smart, and SUPER energetic! I promise to get to all the comments just as soon as I can; I love them so much, they really do fill my heart with joy.

Thanks to All4Spike and MissLuci for their generosity in betaing this chapter. All mistakes are mine because I can't stop fiddling.

Standing alone in his half-dismantled house, Spike popped a handful of Maximum Strength No-Doz pills into his mouth and washed them down with a can of Red Bull. He tossed the empty can into the rubbish bin at the end of the kitchen-island-cum-construction-desk, where it clanked against the four that had preceded it tonight. He lit a fag and inhaled deeply, hoping the combination of caffeine and nicotine would be enough to keep him upright. Sometimes a vampire constitution was a pain in the arse, like when you were burning your multi-wicked, hexagonal candle at all ends and in the middle as well, and needed something to help keep your eyes from drifting closed while you waited for the solvent t' solve the problem of ten coats of sodding varnish on the wood floor he was stripping.

To give his eyes something to do, he surveyed the list of projects that he and Xander kept on a clipboard on the island. There were a few that had been checked off—clearing out the rubbish, fumigating the bloody bugs, and shoring up the tunnel to the sewers, among others. A heavy, metal door was on order to complete the basement sewer access project, so that should be able to be checked off next week.

The roofers were busy removing the old metal roof. Thus far, only minimal wood damage had been found beneath it, which his mediocre construction foreman—AKA Xander—seemed quite pleased about. They should have the new roof on in a couple of weeks, and then that could be checked off the list.

The electricity and water were on and working, but an electrician was to come out the following week to upgrade the breaker panel so fuses didn't blow every time you plugged something in, like when you ran both a radio and the refrigerator on the same circuit, for example.

Spike flicked the ash off his ciggy onto the floor and yawned as he scanned the big family room, which looked even larger with all the old, ratty furniture out. It also, somehow, looked worse now than it had when he'd first seen it, rats and roaches notwithstanding. The old wallpaper had turned out to be a challenge to remove, and, despite the kiddies working on it diligently, only about half of it was down, and little bits of it was strewn all over the sodding house. The witch kept wanting to look for magical ways to remove it, but Spike wasn't too keen on that idea, and the Watcher hadn't been either, so they continued working with good, old-fashioned elbow grease and every sodding gizmo and wallpaper solvent they could find at the DIY centre.

The ceiling, which was made of ornate panels of pressed steel, needed to be cleaned, and any loose paint scraped off before it could be repainted. The window casings, too, needed scraping, cleaning, and painting. And the hardwood floors, which Xander had proclaimed would be a shame to cover back up with carpet, needed to have the innumerable layers of varnish removed—which was Spike's job since he didn't actually have to breathe, so the fumes didn't bother him. Then they could be sanded, if needed, and refinished. Then there was the large stone fireplace that needed something called 'repointing' done to it 'cos the sodding mortar was crumbling between the bloody rocks.

And this was just one room—every other room needed the same things done. And then there was the exterior of the house which needed scraping and repainting and god only knew what else. Then they could think about doing something to the overgrown garden. And to think he'd actually paid money for this place! The sodding city should've paid him to take it. Why the bloody hell had he thought buying this old, rundown monstrosity was a good idea?

Spike inhaled another lungful of mentholated smoke before a yawning sigh escaped him. Fag dangling from his lips, he let his eyes fall closed, waiting for the caffeine to kick in and the solvent to soften the old varnish. Behind his lids he could envision his duffel bag of greenbacks dwindling at an alarming rate, even though he, Buffy, and the Scooby gang were doing most of the grunt work themselves, and it was only costing Spike pizza money for their labors. But everything else was costing him a sodding arm and a leg... so far not literally, but his reserves of dosh were visibly dwindling.

Which brought him to the other flame on his overworked candle—the late poker game at Willy's. Not the amateur hour where they bet sodding kittens, but the real game that started after all the human bars closed, and went until dawn, where the stakes were high and the competition fierce... and sometimes even deadly. He'd done well the couple of times he'd gone this week, increasing his assets, but he'd need to keep that up if he wanted to avoid a trip back to Sonoma. Which he did, not least of all because he hated being away from Buffy for even a minute, let alone a couple of days, but also because he wasn't sure she really approved of that method of resource procurement. Stealing, that is. Even if it was stealing from drug dealers.

Speaking of drug dealers, he wondered if he could get hold of some powdered Velocitas Demon horn... would work a damn sight better than these bloody pills and fags to keep him awake and alert.

"Goofing off on the job?"

The voice brought a smile to Spike's lips before he even opened his eyes and turned to see Buffy picking her way around tools and construction debris, heading towards him.

"Hurry up and sodding wait is the job," he informed her, dropping his fag and grinding it out beneath his heel as his exhausted eyes drank her in. She was a vision in her Yummy Sushi pajamas with an aqua-blue pea coat over top and trainers on her feet.

Buffy wrinkled her nose as she got closer and the harsh odor of the stripper reached her. Spike noticed and met her before she made it all the way to the kitchen, turning her and guiding her back out toward the front door and fresh air.

"Bit late for schoolgirls t' be out and about," he observed. "You trying t' make me jealous, walking around town in your nightie? Or just trying to get me hot and bothered with your sexy togs?"

She laughed lightly, looking down at her 'sexy togs'. "If this gets you hot and bothered, I can't wait to see what the negligée I bought for our trip this weekend does to you," she teased, her eyes flashing in the low lights that spilled out of the house onto the porch.

Spike gave her a heated leer. "Do tell, Slayer... does it have yellow duckies on it? Always had a thing for yellow duckies."

Buffy laughed and slapped him on the chest. "No yellow duckies," she informed him. "But there might be some laciness."

His eyes sparkled with gold in the sea of dark blue. "Is there, now? Care t' model it for me when I get in?"

She chewed her lip, her smile bright, her face aglow. "Nooo..." she drawled. "You're just gonna have to wait for Friday night."

"You're a bloody tease, Slayer," he accused lightly, taking her hand and pressing it to the bulge in his crotch that always appeared when she was around, or when he talked to her on the phone ... or when he thought about her.

Buffy squeezed him through the denim and ran her hot hand up and down the length of his erection a couple of times. "You're supposed to be stripping the floor... not stripping me with your eyes," she reminded him.

"Rather strip you with m' hands and my mouth," he purred as his eyes continued to roam over her body, his teeth closed over his bottom lip as she fondled his dick. "Fuck, pet..." he moaned, letting his eyes fall closed, getting lost in the feel of her hand, in the scent of her arousal, in the warmth of her body so close to his.

He remembered then why he'd wanted this house. For her. For them. It had been the lair of a creature who'd made his Slayer feel weak and afraid. She'd dusted the Viking-esque vampire, of course. She'd taken the strength and confidence he'd stolen back, but, claiming this house where he'd dwelled, bringing it back from the brink of death, filling it with light and vanquishing the darkness, was another symbolic victory, a reminder that she was the sodding Slayer, and no one could steal her fire. He was determined to give that to her, no matter how brightly his candle burned or now many Red Bulls he had to choke down to get it done.

"I love you," she whispered, lifting onto her toes to kiss him tenderly.

Spike cupped her face in his hands and returned the kiss, a soft, gentle affair, their questing tongues tasting and teasing rather than demanding. "Love you, Buffy," he murmured back against her mouth.

"I better... um..." Buffy pulled back and cleared her throat, her body once again on the verge of overwhelming her brain and ravishing the sex-on-a-stick vampire who was standing so very close and looking so very yummy.

She'd been studiously studying her how-to-sex book every day with the aim of being ready by Friday when she and Spike would be alone together in San Francisco. Despite her teasing and outward bravado, she still wasn't sure she'd be ready by then—two days from now. In some ways she was assured by what she'd learned. The book was all about 'it's all good as long as you and your partner are having fun and not hurting anyone'. It had also gone into some helpful details about positions, kinks (what they called 'Sauces and Pickles' as opposed to the 'Main Courses'), and communication. It went over different ways to touch your partner to elicit feedback on what they liked or wanted in that moment, though she thought she'd done okay with the touching; at least Spike seemed pleased with her efforts thus far. And yet it was difficult to get past the doubts Angelus had so deftly and deeply instilled in her, hard as she tried to remind herself that he had been purposely trying to hurt her, weaken her, damage her. That was all well and good for her brain to know, but her heart was another matter.

She waved a hand at the steps and the front walk. "I should go. I just missed you... I can feel you, ya know, even in the other room and... it's hard to sleep when you're not there."

Spike pulled her into a tight hug. "Sorry, luv. Just trying t' get this place sorted. Seems like the more we sodding do, the more there is t' do."

"I know. It's okay... I'm totally with the getting it," she assured him, hugging him back hard.

They both released each other at the same time and, after another kiss and more murmured 'I love yous', she turned and started back down the porch steps.

"Be careful, luv," he called after her.

Buffy turned back toward him and grinned, producing a stake from nowhere... up her sleeve, maybe? "The careful-est. Good luck with your goofing off. It looks like you've really gotten the hang of it. A+ in the idleness department."

"Had a good teacher... a certain blonde housemate who can fritter away hours in the library pretending t' learn Latin under the lax tutelage of a too-trusting Council bird."

Buffy laughed, pirouetting on one foot like an ice skater and ending up facing the street. "It's an art form. See you in the morning," she called, waving.

Spike rumbled, "Can't wait," as he hooked his thumbs over his belt buckle and watched her sway down the front walk to the street. Two days... two days before he had her alone. 'Course, no guarantee any X-rated shenanigans would happen, but without the mutt about, butting in, or her mum's PG house rules... well, one had to hope.

As she disappeared beyond the neighboring cemetery wall and the sound of her footfalls faded, Spike looked up at the night sky. He reckoned he had about an hour before the card game would get properly warmed up in Willy's back room. He sighed, then breathed in a deep lungful of Buffy-tinted air before returning to his task. The floor stripper should have done its job, now it was his turn.

-X-

Spike winced as he combed the pomade through his hair with his fingers, slicking his curls back after his shower. He looked down at the puncture in his side and cursed under his breath. Should've known that sodding Polgara demon wouldn't take well t' losing his pile o' dosh to a lowly vampire. At least he'd seen it coming and jumped back, kept him from being a bloody shish kabob on the end of the blighter's skewer. Unfortunately, he hadn't moved fast enough or far enough to keep from getting a few inches plunged into his stomach.

"Wanker," he muttered, picking up a comb and completing the curl-taming mission. Spike knew that his short but impressive winning streak was bound to attract some new players to the poker table. Some would come just out of curiosity, but many others would come for the challenge, with the firm intent of trouncing the newcomer, one way or another. The Polgara nearly won—not at cards, but in a much more permanent and painful way. It had been close. But close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades, and possibly A-bombs, but(/ Spike wasn't mucking around with any of those.

Hair finished, Spike debated on putting a tee on and trying to hide it from Buffy, or just telling her the truth. He didn't want to worry her, or have her start showing up at Willy's in the wee hours, but he was already lying to her about the deal with Lydia, and he'd promised to never lie to her. It was grating against his conscience, but he also knew that it was important to Buffy's confidence to believe she'd actually beaten the fucking Council down and gotten her rightful due.

Spike struggled to find that elusive place between lying to his beloved for what he believed to be the right reasons and coming clean, possibly crushing her spirit, when she found out the only reason the Council had offered her a salary with benefits was because he was essentially selling his story. He ground his teeth, shaking his head, and swallowing back the nagging voice in the back of his mind that berated him for breaking his promise, reminding it that he was doing it for Buffy.

With some effort, Spike pulled his jeans on, foregoing his shirt, and stepped into the hallway just as he heard Buffy's alarm going off. He leaned against the bathroom doorjamb and waited, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes trained on her door.

The familiar muttered refrain of, "Five more minutes," coming from her room made him snort, which then made him wince again. He pushed off the door and headed to the guest room—to his room. He grabbed his dirty jeans from the floor and dug into the pockets, pulling out all the dosh he'd won... some of which was stained red with his blood, and blue with Polgara blood. There was more blue than red on it, which was why he was standing here, and the sodding skewer-armed demon was moldering in the skip in the back alley behind the demon bar.

He took the time to straighten the bills and count it now—just over a grand. Not a bad haul for a few hours of playing and one bar brawl.

"Hey, handsome, whatcha doin'?"

Spike smiled, turning to face his girl, who was leaning against his door frame in nearly the same pose as he'd struck for her. The mangy mutt stuck his head in beside her, tail fanning the dust motes into a small dirt devil behind him. "Just countin' my winnings," he explained, fanning the bills out for her to see.

"All that... in one night?" she asked, stepping into the room to get a better look as the dog backed out, heading downstairs for his morning constitutional. "Maybe I should take up gambling and forget this slaying stuff."

He snorted, then grimaced, clutching his side.

"What's...?" Buffy began, turning him toward the light and pulling his hand away. "Spike! What happened?"

"Just a little disagreement over a royal flush, is all. Bloke ended up seeing my point in the end... 'course, not before he made sure I felt his."

"Spike... oh my god! This happened at the poker game? Maybe you shouldn't—"

Spike pressed a finger to her lips. "Don't say it, luv. The manor house is taking more dosh than I expected. Get that properly done up and then I'll give up the card sharp routine."

She frowned and pulled his hand from her lips. "Maybe we shouldn't go this weekend... it's so expensive—"

This time he silenced her with his lips pressed to hers. She tried to pull back, to keep arguing, but he slid a hand behind her neck and held her in place. In just a moment she sighed against his mouth and returned the kiss. When their lips parted, Spike rested his forehead against hers. "Not canceling the weekend, pet. One thing's got nothing t' do with the other."

"They both cost money," she pointed out.

"Can get more money, luv. Not canceling the weekend. Not this year, not next year, not for the next twenty years or fifty years." He pulled back to look into her eyes. "It's your day, Buffy, and I aim to make it special. Please let me do this. Let me show you that not all men are blighters. Let me show your heart that it can... it can trust me."

"It does trust you, baby," she murmured, blinking back a sudden flood of emotion from her eyes. "But—"

"No buts," he interrupted. "You just be ready at half-five on Friday... and be sure t' pack that lace you were on about last night."

Buffy smiled, reaching out to stroke his face with her fingertips. "Will you at least let me pay for—"

"Not one copper penny. This is my gift t' you. My treat. Don't want t' emasculate me, do ya?"

The Slayer rolled her eyes and let her hand slide down from his face to his hard chest. "I don't think that's actually possible. Though if whoever stabbed you had been a few inches to the left and down a bit..."

"Don't even joke 'bout that!"

She chuckled softly and looked back down at the angry-looking wound, running her fingers around it gently. "Spike can heal this... why didn't you let him?" she asked, looking around for the Guardian, but he was long gone, out marking his backyard territory by now, no doubt.

The vampire shrugged, but internally rolled his eyes. He should've thought of that himself and not worried her. "Didn't think of it, if I'm honest. Be right as rain by t'night, pet," he promised. "Got that expired human blood from the hospital in the freezer... heal it right up, it will."

Spike pulled her hand away and kissed her knuckles. "Now then, did that snog count as the good morning kiss? Cos, I thought it was more of a 'shut your gob' snog, and therefore, I believe I'm still owed one."

Buffy smiled and leaned into him carefully, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I think you're right... for once," she declared before capturing his lips with hers.

-X-

Not even bothering to drop trou, Spike settled gingerly onto the soft mattress, placing a towel beneath his wound, just in case it started bleeding again. The house was empty apart from him and his drooling namesake, who was sprawled in the hall just outside his door. After a proper parting snog from Buffy, she'd headed off to school, and Joyce had left for the gallery. This was his chance to sleep for a couple of hours before heading out to the Edna May House. It was the only two hours out of the last twenty-four he'd had that luxury... same as the day before and the day before that.

"Need t' be up at ten... got it?"

The dog lifted his head, then huffed out a put-upon sigh, before settling back down.

"Don't be a prat... just get me up on time," he grumbled, as his exhausted eyes slid closed, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

-X-

Spike woke to a warm, wet kiss.

Unfortunately, it wasn't Buffy's warm, wet kiss.

"Let off. Bloody hell, Cujo," he objected, pushing the mutt away.

No sooner had the dog stepped back, than the vampire began to slip back into slumber.

More warm, wet kisses followed.

"Sod off, fuck's sake," he muttered.

After his face was coated with a third layer of hot spittle, the vampire finally pushed up to a seated position. "If you're gonna lick something, make yourself useful and fix that sodding hole in my belly, you worthless fleabag," he grumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes, the spit from his face, and wishing for another fifteen or twenty hours of sleep.

The Guardian sniffed the vampire's side and let out a low growl.

"Yeah, fucking Polgara," the blond agreed. "Maybe should start bringing you with me for back up," he mused as the dog began to coat the wound with his healing saliva. The vampire sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, letting his eyes fall closed as the throbbing pain subsided. Shouldn't be so sodding stubborn... should remember the useless mutt wasn't as useless as he looked.

The next thing Spike knew, he was being dragged out of the bed by his pants leg. He thudded onto the floor on his back. "Sodding hell!" he complained, sitting up. "Was getting up, wasn't I?"

The dog snorted in disagreement and glared at him.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah... said ten, didn't I?" he agreed, pushing up to his feet through his exhaustion, though the pain was gone. "Ta," he said to the dog, looking down at the smooth skin where the skewer had gone in. Really needed to remember that in the future.

He yawned and stretched, then headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash the hound's stench off his face and neck. He could see through Buffy's window that it was overcast out, dark, heavy clouds hung in the sky like lovely, fluffy sun blocks. He looked at the clock on her bedstand... quarter after ten. If he hurried, maybe he'd have time to drive to the Appliance Emporium this morning and not be too late for his standing appointment with Lydia.

-X-

"I would like to cover your relationship with Drusilla the Mad today," Lydia began once Spike had gotten settled in his seat at the table, a full bottle of Glenfiddich in front of him along with his latest request—Red Bull.

"Stop callin' her that. Name's Drusilla the Seer," he objected, pouring half of the highly-caffeinated soda into an ice-filled glass before adding just a splash of whisky.

"Tell me about that... her ability to divine the future. There have been some articles written about Drusilla in supernatural periodicals and most suggest that, while she retained the gift from her human form, it is mostly inaccessible given her mental state. Have you found that to be true?"

"Ever looked into a kaleidoscope? Turned the thing this way and that, watched all the shapes and colors shift?"

Lydia blinked at what appeared to be a change in subject, but answered, "Yes."

"Dru's mind's like that... bloody beautiful thing it is, but changeable moment to moment, and a good bit different from most people's. When she sees the future, it's filtered through those broken bits of shifting, colored glass. Gotta know how to turn it just right t' get something less... tinted."

"And you know how to... shift it?"

He shrugged, pulling out a pack of Morley's and his Zippo from his duster pocket. "At times. Sometimes it only comes into focus after the fact... a bit late to be of use."

While Spike lit the fag, the Watcher made another of her ubiquitous notes in her journal, then continued, "It is my understanding that you were paramours for some one hundred and twenty years... until quite recently, in fact."

"Yeah, sounds about right," Spike agreed, sipping his drink and smoking. He really wanted more sodding whisky in the glass—all whisky would've been his first choice—but he didn't want to fall asleep sitting up and waste the sodding interview time.

"And you were with her that entire time—from the time of your turning until you returned to Sunnydale just a few weeks ago?"

"Had some partings over the years," he admitted, tapping the ash into a glass ashtray on the table. 'Like when she'd run off with the sodding pixies for weeks and I had to hunt her down, usually in some other demon's bed. Or when she'd decide she just wanted to be with 'daddy' for bloody days.'

"Would get separated now and then, but always found each other again, didn't we?"

"But you have now parted ways for good."

Spike poured more whisky into the soda and took another drink. "Yeah. With Buffy now, aren't I?"

"Indeed. Which is something else I'd like to discuss with you. I know that there have been other vampires and Slayers working together... and even... err, in relationships. But there is very little known of exactly how this transpires. How is it that a vampire—a soulless demon—leaves his sire, and his century-long lover, and becomes enamored with his mortal enemy?"

If Spike had been less exhausted, he might've passed on this question. He still had two passes remaining. But he wasn't, and he didn't. Instead, he took a long draw on his cigarette and studied his glass. Exhaling a plume of blue-gray smoke, he watched the condensation form on the crystal and slide down, creating a puddle on the maple-wood table. He turned it in his fingers, widening the circle of moisture. After a final drag on his fag, he stubbed it out, then picked up his glass and downed the contents in a long pull.

"You ever been in love, pet?" he asked, finally looking up at her.

Lydia frowned and opened her mouth, a clear protestation on her lips, but then, closed her mouth and nodded.

The vampire tilted his head, studying her. "You tell me, then. How's it work? See someone across the room, dancing, laughing, glowing like the sodding sun and moon and stars all wrapped into one—something happens in your gut... in your chest... in your brain. What is it?"

"Are you saying it was love at first sight?" she asked instead of answering.

Spike shrugged and his eyes grew distant. "Wouldn't have said so at the time—attraction, I reckon, but, been attracted t' loads of birds. Never meant anything, did it? But Buffy... she gets under your sodding skin and just... burns. Burns away your bloody common sense, burns away your walls, burns away your lies... all the lies you tell yourself. Leaves you... cleansed, vulnerable. Then she smiles at you, and all those dark, empty places inside are just..." He cleared his throat uncomfortably then shook his head and refocused on the woman. "Not any different for vampires than it is for humans, pet... why do fools fall in love? Think they've written a song or two 'bout that..."

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. "I've told you before, the Council's position on vampires and their ability to love is unequivocal: Soulless demons cannot love. The Council teaches that vampires cannot change their merciless, deadly natures any more than a tiger can change its stripes."

"And yet..." Spike gestured at himself and shrugged.

The Council woman pursed her lips and nodded, looking back down at her notes, clearly fighting between the reality she was seeing and the doctrine that had been drummed into her since she was old enough to understand what her father did for a living, and what her own future was likely to hold.

"And I'm not the only deviant... or so you say. Been keeping my end o' the deal here. When am I gonna see the particulars on these other Slayer-vampire relations?"

Lydia cleared her throat, snapping out of her thoughts. "I believe I should receive at least some of those early next week. As you can imagine, those reports are guarded quite closely; it is taking some time for my... colleague to gain unmonitored access and make copies."

"The longer it takes, the worse m' memory gets..." Spike threatened, standing up to go to the mini bar and retrieve another Red Bull from the fridge.

Lydia rolled her eyes, having heard that threat a few times already. "We are doing our best." She watched him grab another can from the bar and saunter back over to the table. "What will you do... when Buffy... What I mean is, you are immortal; the Slayer is not."

"Don't know that, do we?"

"The Slayer is human—"

"More than human," Spike corrected as he resumed his seat, picking up the whisky bottle and opening the lid.

"Be that as it may, the longest any Slayer has lived—"

"Intend for Buffy to beat whatever that is by a good long while." He splashed some firewater into the dark soda and re-capped the bottle.

Lydia huffed out an impatient breath. "At some point, Buffy will die—it is inevitable—what do you intend to do then? Return to your previous life? Go back to Drusilla? Or take up with another Slayer... continue fighting on the side of the Powers?"

"Know you lot think one Slayer is just the same as the next... interchangeable cogs in your sodding wheel, but they bloody well aren't," Spike growled at her. "I'm not in love with 'the Slayer'... I'm in love with Buffy sodding Summers, who happens to be the Vampire Slayer."

"So, you're saying, her being the Slayer had no impact on your... attraction?"

"Didn't say that. Just saying, she's special... different. More than just the Slayer."

"I see. But that doesn't answer my initial question. When Buffy dies, what will become of William the Bloody? What will his legacy be?"

Spike pursed his lips before taking a long swallow of the drink. How the sodding hell had they gotten on this subject? Fuck, he was tired. "Told Rupert I'd never kill again... wouldn't sully her memory like that," he admitted after a few long moments.

"Fascinating," Lydia murmured, making more notes, despite the tape recorder capturing everything. "Would you consider working with the Council? With another Slayer? Assist with training or—"

"Don't see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"Just like the prats at Wanker Central, you are... one girl dies, another takes her place... doesn't matter who the fuck they are... or were, they're just your tool. Your weapon t' wield. Break it, and just grab another, and another... unlimited supply of 'em. And when they get too sodding old—old enough to start thinking for themselves, seeing shades o' grey—then ya put 'em through that trial... a trail that's got the playing field tilted so bloody much in favor o' the vamp, it's a wonder any Slayer survives it."

"I didn't make the rules," she defended.

"Doesn't mean you can't break 'em. Doesn't mean you can't sodding care! Or speak up against this bloody Cruciamentum bollocks. Or treat Slayers like sodding people, not your bloody possessions! Does anyone ever mourn the girl? Or even remember her fucking name?"

Lydia tugged at her high collar and shifted her gaze down. "Her Watcher, I suppose. Though they are not supposed to become emotionally bonded with their ward, it does happen, as you've seen with Mr. Giles and Buffy."

Spike snorted derisively. "Ya know, it's sodding pathetic that a soulless vampire cares more about keeping the Slayer alive and finding out just how much 'more than human' she is, than any of you lot in your bloody ivory tower."

Her face fell, appearing genuinely upset. "That's an unfair judgement—"

"Oh, did the big bad vampire hurt your feelings? Didn't know you had any!" he exploded, shooting to his feet. He downed the last of his drink and slammed the glass back onto the table, making Lydia flinch.

"Where are you going? We still have another hour scheduled," she called after him when he started for the door.

"I'm done."

"Done? What do you mean, done?" she demanded, standing up and following him. "The contract calls for—"

He spun on her in a whirl of black leather and angry golden eyes. "I know what the sodding contract says! Stop quoting that bollocks to me. I'm done t'day—be back tomorrow. Find a new topic."

Lydia jumped again when the door slammed behind him. She stood staring at it for several moments, before turning and going back to the table. She turned off the tape recorder and dropped into her chair, her proud posture slumping. She pulled out an envelope from the back pocket of her notebook, slipped the letter out and unfolded it. The Council of Watchers seal adorned the top of the letterhead and her boss's signature, Quentin Octavius Travers, was at the bottom. In between, it read...

-x-

My Dear Miss Chalmers,

It has come to my attention that you have entered into an arrangement with William the Bloody. As I understand it, the vampire will provide personal and historical details of its exploits, and its current involvement with the Slayer, Buffy Anne Summers, as well as detailed background information regarding the Order of Aurelius, in exchange for certain benefits to be provided to the aforementioned Slayer.

I commend you on your initiative, stealth, and skill at gaining the trust of one of the most notorious vampires of our time. I am certain that with the intelligence you gather, we will be successful in separating this parasite from our Slayer, and demonstrating to her the folly of trusting and partnering with these loathsome creatures. I am hopeful that we can turn the vampire's own words into weapons against it and effectively reeducate Miss Summers without further bloodshed or breaking the covenant we entered into with her.

I am certain that this mission will result in a more focused and dedicated Slayer, one who is fully committed to our cause and values. An added benefit, of course, would be to rid the world of one William the Bloody at Miss Summers' hand. This outcome would be the ultimate victory of good over evil, and would reflect exceptionally well on you, personally and professionally. We would understand, of course, if the mutual destruction of William the Bloody and Buffy Anne Summers could not be prevented. This would also be an acceptable conclusion to the matter at hand.

I look forward to updates on your progress and to receiving the final report of your findings so that we may strategize the most effective manner of reclaiming our Slayer from the clutches of this darkness that has enveloped her. If, in the meantime, you find any opportunity to drive wedges between Miss Summers and William the Bloody, I am confident that you will act on them without hesitation. This unholy alliance cannot be tolerated or allowed to persist.

Sincerely,

Quentin Octavius Travers

Managing Director, Council of Watchers

Post Scriptum: Your father sends his regards.

-x-

A tear dripped from Lydia's chin onto the faux parchment, joining all the now-dried tears that had preceded it. Clearly, that last line was a not-so-subtle clue. Her father... her father betrayed her to Travers. Her own father! And now they wanted her to... to use all of Spike's words to drive a wedge between him and Buffy. To save Buffy from the evil vampire. To bring the wayward Slayer back into the fold, to drown her in the Council Kool-Aid, as Spike might say.

'...would reflect exceptionally well on you, personally and professionally.'

That was the carrot. The stick was unmentioned, but equally obvious—failure would reflect poorly on her, personally and professionally. She'd be relegated to the dusty archives in the basement, never to be seen or heard from again.

This had not been her intention when she'd started down this road. She'd simply wanted to gather facts, learn more about vampires in general, and William the Bloody in particular. Not to use against him; not to wield like a weapon, but to educate Watchers and potential Slayers, to help them be more effective in the never-ending battle against the forces of darkness. Spike was a wealth of knowledge; he'd killed two Slayers, met and fought a cadre of others according to his account—his experience and observations could be exceedingly useful in developing training guides and updating the Slayer Handbook. Of course, she'd expected this would gain her favor with the Council, increase her chances of advancement, but she hadn't realized the cost.

"I just wanted the truth," she muttered, swiping at her damp cheeks. "Just... truth."

But Spike, it seemed, knew her colleagues, including her father, better than she did. They weren't interested in the truth. They wanted their weapon back... not a grey-shaded weapon, but a black and white weapon, sharp and deadly. And replaceable. Always replaceable.

And she was trapped in the middle. Ignore the directive and suffer the consequences, bring shame and dishonor to not only herself, but her family name. Follow it, provide a full and insightful report of William the Bloody—his life, his sins, his weaknesses—do all she could to separate him from the Slayer, and gain respect and advancement—the things she'd been working her entire life for. What legitimate option did that leave her?

"DAMN IT!" In a fit of frustrated rage, she picked up Spike's empty glass and flung it with all her strength at the far wall. It shattered, raining down shards of whisky-tinged crystal onto the gleaming wood floor.

"God fucking damn it at all to hell!"

Chapter End Notes:

I promise they WILL make it to San Francisco soonish. Hang in there! It will be worth the wait!