Chapter 1:
Rupert's world was upside down.
Later, when he replayed his last conversation with Buffy while lying in bed after his nightmare he realized just how changed a man he was. They sat opposite each other, waiting for different airplanes in some nondescript California airport. Her hazel eyes were studying the floor and he wished just once they'd lift and meet his own. After all, he told himself, this wasn't goodbye but simply a chance for both of them to spread their wings and deal with their own projects.
"I'll see you, right?" Her voice was quieter than it should have been in a crowded airport and yet he found he could hear her clearly. He was hanging on her every word. Her question was that of a child's wondering, asking when it already knew the answer just to hear the words out loud. He almost laughed in the moment, happy she still retained some innocence from all this horrific mess.
"You'll only be in Venice, Buffy…a short distance away from England. Should you need me I'll be right there."
She looked at him at last, hopefully, and he resisted the urge to hug her. He already cared for her too much, loved her too deeply. It was more than a Watcher should do, caring for the Slayer as a father would. She came to care for him that way, too, despite the many times they'd fought only to come back together again. Some things were simply too strong to fight.
"What if I can't do this? What if the world wasn't meant to have this many Slayers? I'm not sure I'm strong enough."
Ah, there it was…the main confession and why she was acting so puzzling. Even after everything she'd been through she still needed reassurance that she was strong enough to lead. He could understand the need and the fear; he had some of the same reactions about trying to form a new Council. They both knew what they had to do, of course, and he had no doubts about her success.
"In all the years I've known you you've never failed to rise to the occasion. I have every confidence you are strong enough if you'll let yourself be."
They called her plane and she stood. He wrapped her in a hug, holding onto her for a while. And then came the goodbyes to Dawn and the rest of them and once the last body disappeared onto the plane he felt miserably bereft for their absence. Those were his children, the surrogate family he'd found and created on his own. With a heavy sigh he moved to his own gate and waited out the lesson in torture that was the next hour until his flight. From there it wasn't hard to establish himself again in London.
He hadn't been a model Watcher; he wasn't foolish enough to think that. But it was now his aim to create a new breed of Watcher, a new gathering of men and women dedicated to care for and guide those precious women destined to fight back against the forces of darkness. He would do it if such a task could be performed by a mere man. Not all of the Watchers had perished, of course, in Caleb's blast. Some were on assignment and were at other locations. A great many of them, however, had died. This included his father. His mother followed her husband in mere days. Both had gravestones underneath the large oak at their country cottage in Bath.
He'd made too many mistakes in this life.
He now had access to the Council funds. Many of the rarest texts in the world were lost in the blast and some of that information would never be recovered unless, through some miracle, magic could locate the volumes needed and bring them from the past into the present. He didn't hold out much hope for that but made a note to ask Willow when he could. First things first, he needed to find a base of operations and find out who survived and who didn't. That required records and copious amounts of study and research. Thankfully, he was born to a life of both and didn't mind the hard work.
He showered and left his flat in the middle of the city. He'd have retreated to Bath but it was less practical to be there when what remained of the Council was in London. He had inquiries to make today and funds to check on. Long ago he was respected in the Council and was given access to funding in the emergency provisions of the Council holdings. Travers...dead. If there ever was a prat that deserved to be dressed down it was that pompous ass but this? Blown into oblivion wasn't something he had in mind as a fitting end for anyone. Except for the Mayor, obviously, but he was a demon and therefore not subject to the constraints of his mind about decent mortal conduct.
Britain National was a large gray block building in Central London flagged by proper guards and renowned for its upstanding dealings and near infallible security. He could never remember a report of theft from the building and suspected that magic was involved somewhat in that. There was no way to be certain, of course, but when things like this happened in a crime infested time period one tended to look for supernatural explanations instead of the mundane. He supposed it didn't matter as he approached. He was here for one purpose and either way he paused a moment to consider the building before pushing open the tinted glass doors.
The inside of the building was more magnificent than he could have imagined. It was tall in the lobby, two stories worth of room at least with a fresco painted on the ceiling to rival Michelangelo's Sistine creation. He was momentarily lost by the beauty of it, staring up at the heavens in the daylight. He gaped. He ogled. He stared like a starving man to his first meal in days. He realized he must look like a ponce and quickly cleared his throat, surveying the room beyond what the ceiling had to offer. He wasn't sure what to expect or how to identify himself with the existing account and wondered where to begin. Conveniently, a sign in sheet was propped on a podium declaring that anyone with a question should sign in and wait for service.
He sat and then heard his name and came across the waiting area toward a nervous looking gentleman with an obvious toupee, a slight overbite, and a nameplate announcing his name was Nigel Atkinson. He shook Nigel's hand before he took a seat in a cushioned chair in front of a small darkly stained desk. The other man looked well meaning and, well, like every depiction of a British nerd in any satire ever. Giles used to wonder how Englishmen came to be depicted so ridiculously in American cinema. Looking at people like this he began to understand. The bank employee smiled and tapped a few keystrokes into the computer.
"So, how can I help you today, Mr. Giles?"
Rupert cleared his throat again and tried to sound like he had some remote idea of what he was doing. "I'm here to check on the account for the Watcher's Council registered in the last, I believe, to a man called Quentin Travers. Mr. Travers is now deceased and I believe it falls to me to take over where he's left off. I just needed to know what there is to work with."
Nigel seemed somewhat taken aback. "Do you have an account number?"
Rupert responded with a look that plainly asked if he looked like someone that had a bloody account number. That seemed to clear a few things up for the other man and he tapped a few more keystrokes into the computer in front of him. His eyes widened, once, before narrowing and then he typed away furiously at his keyboard looking confused. Not too long after this battle began between Nigel and the keyboard another man in a tie came rushing over to the desk and placed a hand on Nigel's shoulder. He smiled a more genuine smile than Rupert had seen since he entered the building and his coworker stopped and looked up, startled to have been interrupted.
"Mr. Gaines!" he addressed and the man with the smile nodded.
"It's alright, Nigel. I have it from here. This is sort of a special case."
He shook Giles' hand and led him away from the desk and into a private office up a small flight of stairs in the corner of the room. He gestured generously to the plush chairs in front of his desk. It was a fancy thing, carved with an ornate paneling and gilded here and there with gold leaf that contrasted sharply with the dark stain of the wood. Mr. Gaines indicated the silver tray stocked with a clear decanter with a diamond relief pattern on the outside of it. An amber liquid was encased inside with crystal glasses on either side.
"Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Giles? The Salut Scotch is excellent and aged twenty years."
The Watcher shook his head and all at once the man before him, Bart Gaines, became all business sitting down and offering a few keystrokes of his own. "You see, Mr. Giles, this is a very special case to Britain National Bank. The Watcher's Council has kept funds with the establishment ever since its inception. You'll understand when I tell you we can't simply hand over the information of the account and its funds to just anyone on their word alone."
He'd expected that much and nodded, understanding completely. "Well, I'm sure you heard of the bombing that took place close by several months ago by now. I'm sure it was put off as a gas leak or some such ghastly nonsense but men like you and I both know that the publicized story isn't often the true version of things."
"Quite so." the other responded. "Well said."
"What's needful, then? I brought along several pieces of identification..."
He was cut off before he could finish his sentence by a raised hand. "If it were that simple, Mr. Giles, we would not be the institution we're famed for being. Your identification will be here momentarily. Please, do try to relax until then. This is painless, or, relatively so."
"What are you talking about?" the other man demanded, beginning to get nervous. Then the door of the office opened and an efficient looking woman entered in a smart skirt suit and a smirk on her lips. She closed the door behind her and pulled the shades. Rupert began to get very nervous. Something about this didn't look good. The woman seemed to ignore him completely as she made her way to what he assumed was the bank manager's side.
"I'm needed, sir?" she asked softly and Mr. Gaines smiled.
"Felicia, my dear, this man claims he's authorized on the Watcher's account. I need him verified for that."
Felicia shrugged and studied Rupert's face a moment. "He certainly looks like one of them. The headquarters building exploded two months ago and took with it all major signatories on the account. If Mr. Giles passes verification he should be granted access according to the provisions of the emergency conduct."
The Watcher felt pleased. At least someone understood that he belonged here but what was all this talk about verification? How did one prove one was a Watcher to those not in the profession? That's when the blond came closer and without warning placed her hand on his forehead. Immediately pain exploded behind the Watcher's eyes and he pitched forward, groaning in protest. The hand didn't' depart but the longer whatever was happening went on he found the pain lessened. His mind felt clouded and his body felt like it was slugging through a dense marsh of mud without getting much of anywhere. When the hand let go he fell back, exhaling a breath he had no idea he'd been holding. The blond Felicia shrugged and moved back to Gaines' side.
"He's one of them alright. A hero Slayer and still alive. Though, to be fair, she's died twice."
Giles blinked. She was a blunt creature, wasn't she? It occurred to the man that his mind had just been violated but soon enough the bank manager was tapping more keys and looking at the information on the screen. He was satisfied by the results of the verification process, at any rate. When he looked up again he seemed just a little less confident than he had before.
"Well, Mr. Giles, we can add you as a main signatory on the accounts."
"Pardon me, accounts?"
"Oh!" Mr. Gaines paused. "Weren't you aware the main account was supplemented by others?"
"No."
"Well, yes. The main account is supplemented by monthly draws from at least three other holdings. One is in the name of an antiquities firm, another in the name of a consulting agency and the last is a dummy corporation."
"Oh! I suppose you'll have records I can take a look at."
"Of course, Mr. Giles. Of course. You'll also be given access to the safe deposit box downstairs. I believe there were mostly records in there as well."
Rupert nodded. "Very good, thank you." he paused. "So…exactly how much do I have to work with to rebuild the Council?"
The other man consulted his screen before giving an answer. "If you liquidated the accounts right now you'd have somewhere in the ballpark of two billion."
"I beg your pardon? Two billion?"
"The antiquities corporate account alone has over a billion."
"Good Lord!" Had he ever worried about funding before? This was more than he could ever dream of. "How much is in the main account right now?"
"For walking around money you have about a quarter billion in the main reserve."
"Good Lord."
He sat dumbly for a little while, staring at the bank manager as if the whole conversation were taking place in his head. Overcome, he finally answered weakly. "You mentioned records?"
"Ah, yes, the safe deposit box! In a moment, Mr. Giles. We'll have to complete the paperwork to make you the main executor of the account. There is one other person on the account already in a strict accounting capacity." He consulted his information with a few clicks and a key stroke. "Ah! Yes! Here it is! A Miss Liliana Barrows."
Rupert paled. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
The other looked startled but Felicia piped up in her own no nonsense voice. "Liliana Barrows. She came in a week ago to see if anyone had come in to claim the account. I suppose she was waiting for the next main account holder to come forward. Speaking of, must call her."
"Oh, no! It's quite alright. If she left a number I can ring her. I don't mind. It might be easier to speak to her about this first so I can answer any questions she may have."
He hoped he was playing it cooler than he felt. His hand almost shook at the mention of her. It was so long ago, buried in his past. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but to find her now…alive…by a simple coincidence. Felicia didn't appear fooled by his performance. She slipped her hands to her hips and studied him. The man gulped under such scrutiny.
"This is all very personal for you, isn't it?" she demanded. "I've seen your past, Mr. Giles, and perhaps she doesn't want to hear from you."
"Doesn't…" such a thought had never occurred to him before. At least, not within the last five minutes. With no Council to keep them apart he'd indulged in a moment of stunning glorious hope before she crushed it like a bug beneath her heel. Once the balloon was deflated thoughts of self doubt crept in and settled into his mind and he began to wonder if it was true. Whether she wouldn't want to hear from him. Just the same a slip of paper floated down in front of his eyes to land in his lap. Her phone number was written in neat script.
"Have at it." Felicia encouraged. "See for yourself."
He cringed. "Thank you." he returned politely. He was a gentlemen no matter the circumstances involved. He slipped the paper back into his pocket he turned his attention back to the bank manager. "She can stay on the account. What paperwork do I need to fill out?"
Mr. Gaines nodded and slid across the table a scroll of parchment marked in the old way. Rupert stared at it, uncomprehending. "What's this?"
"The agreement."
"Surely you're joking. This isn't an archaic institution. There are other forms to be had, I'm sure."
"Not for this account, Mr. Giles. For these holdings your signature must be on a binding contract in blood."
Giles wasn't the squeamish sort but all the same he was wary of signing anything in blood. Corporations like Wolfram and Hart leapt to mind and he'd be damned, perhaps quite literally, if he signed anything with his own blood without reading it first. He scanned the document and saw nothing to jump out at him as a sense of danger. Travers signed it, after all, and Watchers before him. He took hold of the letter opener on the desk and pushed it into his thumb. Blood welled up and he pressed the print to the bottom of the page. Mr. Gaines seemed to approve. Felicia straightened her glasses.
"Come with me, Mr. Giles."
She lead him out of the office and the Watcher felt like he should have taken the manager up on his offer of a drink. Too late now as he was taken past steel gates into the back of the bank and down a hall. Felicia showed him to an empty room with a small table, some chairs, and a promise to return with the deposit box. Rupert spent a few useless minutes puzzling over what he'd learned while waiting for the manager's assistant to return. When she did it was with a metal box longer and larger than he expected. This was supported by two security guards. They set the box on the table and left leaving only the blond behind. She looked at him fixing her skirt.
"Is there anything else I can do to be of some use to you, Mr. Giles?"
"As a matter of fact might I have a writing tablet and a pen? Who knows what sort of information I'll come across?"
She nodded. "When you're finished in here with the box simply alert the guard outside of the door. Here's a pass key. If you ever want access to this vault again simply show it to a guard. They'll help you."
He took the electronic looking card and nodded. A short while later he was immersed in his business scrawling furiously across the tablet. His hand throbbed when he was finished and he'd gone through an entire pen's worth of ink and two full legal tablets of paper. He opened the door and signaled the guard who nodded and put away the box before showing the man out of the building. He was surprised to find it was dark and the bank was deserted. The room he was in had no clock or windows.
"Did you stay just for me?" he asked softly. The guard gave a curt nod. The Watcher felt sheepish carrying his new information in his hands. "I apologize. I had no idea so much time had passed."
The man beside him didn't give an answer but simply unlocked the front doors and let him out onto the street. By the time the tired man got home he was surprised to find it was close to ten o'clock. He stumbled to bed after a cup of tea and lay in the darkness a while thinking. He was beyond tired but found his mind too restless to let him relax. He thought about his parents and what it meant for them to be out of his life and thought of Liliana, tossing around in his head the idea of ringing her. The urge to run to the country cottage became a much stronger compulsion.
Cottage here simply meant "in the country" for the house couldn't be classified a mere cottage by the look and size of it. It was more like a stately manor hidden away in the middle of no where with stables and pastures and acres of woodlands. He used to cherish summers in the country as a boy and then later when ensconced in studies at Cambridge and the Watcher's Academy. His first thought had been to run there when the world changed, retreating to a time and place when he could remember being content and safe. He couldn't do that. He was needed here. Besides, the grounds now contained the remains of both of his parents and he wasn't sure how to face the finality of that just yet.
Eventually he fell asleep and thought about it no more.