Chapter Eleven

 

----====Wesley====----

Spike returned from the kitchen with his second mug of blood for the day, and I was pleased to note that. Clearly whatever Giles had said to him in the bathroom had resulted in a more healthy eating behaviour. I had to stop an audible sigh however, as he lit up yet another cigarette, for I saw how much his hands were trembling. I stood and discreetly opened a window instead.

We concentrated on our work for a while. On a whimsy, I initiated a 'find' on the PDA for temp. files. It revealed several document fragments of partial interest. There was a list of names with no accompanying data. One of the names was that of David Regier, my old demono-physiology tutor from the Council. Seeing his name, I suddenly realised from whence my sudden popularity may have arisen.

"I used to post on the Demon-Theory-L newsgroup," I told the others. " I remember that I detailed my initial theories and intentions regarding my paper on the group. I suspect that is how the DH's knew of its existence."

"This is the article on the CD that Spike recovered from the hotel assailant?" Giles asked.

"Yes, I had left it there. My interest in the research waned after... " I laughed bitterly, remembering why I had suddenly lost the urge to excel in obscure academia. "After a night at the ballet."

That won me strange looks from both of them, but Giles stuck valiantly to the subject at hand. "Would you care to elucidate a little on your area of research?"

I sighed and closed my eyes, accessing memories of the discarded project.

"As I'm sure you know, Rupert, many demonic species, especially the non-humanoids, do not utilise an gene based system for the storage of hereditary instructions. I was attempting to develop a technique to recognise and decipher the physiological coding of non-genomic organic material. I hypothesised, and went on to prove, that the majority of non-humanoid species maintain a semi-mystical system of collective 'ghost' records in which is stored their hereditary data. These records exist within a limited sub-dimension very similar in nature to that of the humanoid 'collective unconscious' first theorised by C J Jung..." I stopped, realising that I had started to lecture.

I opened my eyes; both my colleagues were smirking at me.

"You've really missed your calling, mate," said the blond one.

"That really was impressively academic, Wes old chap," offered the other.

I would have been more pleased by my fellow Watcher's approbation, had he not been trying to stifle a chuckle. "I don't see why that should be so worthy of comment or hilarity," I grumbled stiffly. "Demonology *is* my specialist subject, you know."

"Oh yes," said Giles, "I remember the very long list of qualifications you presented me with when you first arrived in Sunnydale."

And that was me firmly pushed back into my place. I was sure that had not been Giles' intention, but remembering my staggering incompetence as a Watcher was never an aid to self-esteem. I looked back down at the PDA screen, not wishing to meet either pair of eyes that I could feel gazing upon me.

"So," Giles got diligently back on track again. "The Demonic Humanoids want you, Wesley, because of your theories regarding the mystical biology of non-humanoid demons. Something doesn't quite add up there. Also, trying to abduct you with violence would surely not be the best way of ensuring your intellectual co-operation."

Without looking up, I added, "And not one, I believe, that Wolfram and Hart would approve of."

Lilah had not seemed happy about the attempts by the DH's to recruit me, and would have been unhappier still, I imagined, to know of the violent assault and attempted kidnapping since. I was her own pet project and not to be interfered with. Upon contemplation, I had realised that we had escaped the Wolfram and Hart building far too easily. I knew the defences they had available there. I had to assume Lilah was somehow complicit in the ease of our flight.

I wondered about the stated connection between the Wolfram and Hart Senior Partners and the Demonic Humanoids, and pondered Lilah's unfortunate position, trapped between the two. With a jolt of consternation, I realised that I was genuinely worried for her safety.

Dear lord.

Shaken, I stared fixedly at my screen.

Spike offered, "Probably not much chat between the minions and the suits, then. That’s why we’ve had the idiot sniffers in hot pursuit across two continents -- the big boys might not have told them we were types to bribe, rather than catch."

"That sort of miscommunication does seem likely." I agreed, distractedly. "I'm the man with knowledge they apparently need, and you’d be a prize for capture for Wolfram and Hart if they were aware of your status. After all, there's nothing to choose between souled vampires really, you’re all the same to pro..." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Spike’s fingers curled into claws and so stopped myself talking. But it was too late.

"Right, mate," he spat, and took one of those strangely deep breaths of his. "Almost forgot, that‘s why you took me to Wolfram and Hart in the first place. Because I’m such a bloody trophy, interchangeable with the Poof for all one’s prophecy and merchandising needs."

"Spike, I..." I started, then stopped. I had no idea what to say, as I didn't understand what was wrong.

He growled, "Don’t even try. You’re not bloody sorry. You did it on purpose, to show me off to your bint. I was your prize, yeah?"

"Don’t call her that, please. But yes, I believe I told you something of the sort at the time," I said. "You agreed to go, you know."

"No worries, that makes it all better. Can’t go a day without the sodding delight of being used, me." Spike bowed his head and finished, more softly, "Deserve it. I know."

Giles made a move to speak, but I pre-empted him. I pushed my work materials away and stood up. Spike kept his eyes on the floor; he looked as if he expected me to hit him, and would allow it. That horrified me. I still didn't fully comprehend his issues, but I would not let this be the start of something regrettable.

I walked over and said in formal tones, "I apologise to you, William. I regret that my actions did not take into account your feelings."

Spike looked at me; then he stood too, extending his hand, which I took. He said, in a well-bred and equally formal tone, "Thank you. It’s forgotten." We shook.

And then we froze, utterly lost as to how to break the moment. Giles rescued us.

"Well done, you two. But -- Wes, should we get your glasses checked? Spike and Angel look nothing alike. *Are* nothing alike."

"Bless you, Rupes," Spike said, sitting back down and grabbing his cigarette like a crutch. "I owe you a couple of bottles of Scotch for that remark."

"Pillock. You’ve owed me a couple of bottles of Scotch since 1999."

"Yeah, but souled up now. You might actually get them." He smirked shakily at Giles.

I returned to my seat, and became aware of Senior Watcher eyes boring into me. Reluctantly, I forced myself to look up. "Good man," he told me quietly, and gave me one of those Approving Father smiles of his. That simultaneously pleased me a lot, and made me uneasy -- I have too many father related issues, and anyway Rupert Giles is far from old enough to take that role.

I returned as much of a smile as I could manage and looked back down. The more I thought about it, the worse I felt about Spike, and how I had attempted to use him to score points in my vindictive sexual affair with Lilah. I promised myself I would make it up to him somehow.

And to Rupert, whose life we had invaded so shamelessly.

"So, gonna tell us about this big prophecy then, Wes?" Spike suddenly asked.

"Er, certainly, if you're sure you want to hear."

"Might as well, go for it."

"All right." I took a breath. "Wolfram and Hart possess prophetic literature in which they seem to place certainty. The souled vampire will be a key figure in the coming End of Days. What is apparently not certain, is on whose side the souled vampire will fight. The firm has put a great deal of effort into attempting to make Angel 'go dark'. Now that you also match the oracular photo-fit, you will need to be strong to survive their inevitable attempts to turn you back towards evil before the apocalypse comes."

The vampire looked grim, and Giles' expression wasn't much brighter, so I decided to try to cheer them both up. "There is also the possibility of Shanshu, of course."

"Of what?" asked Giles.

"An ambiguous concept found within the Scrolls of Aberjian, which may mean that after serving the Powers That Be sufficiently, the vampire with a soul will be made human."

Spike looked at me with disbelief. "And I'd want that why? I mean, bloody hell! So, say I do the will of the almighty, arrogant bastards for years, through hell and high water, and the best they can think of for a reward is to turn me into a weak and helpless mortal again? Thanks, but no bleeding thanks! That'd just be a sodding death sentence."

Curious. "I must admit I've never thought of that way previously. You like being a vampire then, even though you now have a soul?"

"Hate what I've done, but wouldn't want to go back to being useless."

"Oh dear," I said, somewhat uselessly. "Well Shanshu to one side, you could still be Wolfram and Hart's souled vampire."

Spike shook his head. "Wes, I'm not the stuff of big destinies. No bloody point in it. Angel, he's fate's darling, I know that. They want to play tug o'war with his bloody soul - fine by me. He's the bloke you need for all the Book of Revelations stuff. Me? I'm nobody, just a sad git who fell for the wrong woman." He sighed heavily, and ran his face through his hands.

The wrong woman -- I wanted to ask of course, but it would have been tactless. I just smiled gently at the vampire, and we all got back to work. To be honest, I was happy to drop the subject of prophecies. The Watcher in me knew that they couldn't be ignored, but the man labelled 'betrayer' by his best friend would have been happy to never see another oracular scroll again.

We worked through the rest of the names; it was alarming to see how many Watchers, both former and current, were included. I noticed Giles making a note of many of them.

We began to speculate on whether the DH’s were immigrants, coming through portals near the address hot-spots we’d identified, or mutations, or even transformations of some kind. When I started to list aloud the specific races possible, and then debate on the likelihood or not of each one, Spike lit another cigarette, probably in protest. Giles offered an occasional suggestion, most of which I was forced to respectfully reject.

Then I remembered the Prantha demon, a lesser shape-shifter from the dimension of the same name. "I can’t remember the secondary characteristics as clearly as I might," I admitted, half to myself. "I wish I had access to some of the compendiums, just to refresh my memory."

"Perhaps we should make a trip to the Travers Special Collection?" Giles suggested.

"Travers," Spike and I spat as one. I gave the vampire a surprised look, uncertain how he could know the man.

"Quite right," said Giles, "Quentin Travers is a bastard of the highest order. But his family name has pride of place on the private collection of Watcher arcana and scientific papers in the Bodleian -- not the good stuff, Spike, but the basics. I suggest that we investigate this tomorrow."

I couldn't say I was enthusiastic about going anywhere near *more* official Watcher property. Giles added, "I’ve got the necessary identification for access. And we’ll have time tomorrow morning, before we leave for Devon."

"Devon?" Again Spike and I spoke as one. Spike continued, "We off to see the witches then, Rupes?"

"Hmm yes, it seems they are having some DH problems of their own. I'm hoping we can help each other."

We all agreed that this seemed like a good idea.

After another hour or so, Giles declared that we deserved a bit of a break. I was keen to continue until the work was done, but I was transfixed by an alpha-Watcher glare and told in no uncertain terms to shut the PDA down *now*.

So, of course, I did.

We fixed a light supper, and afterwards the alpha-Watcher said, "It’s a beautiful evening, and none of my sweeps have turned up any sign of a DH. Seems safe enough; what do you two think about a trip down the pub?"

Spike raised his eyebrow. "There are pubs in Marston?"

"Yes, but I was thinking more of a walk into Oxford. Git."

Spike smiled, and I said, "I wouldn’t object. Do you have a destination in mind?"

"What about the Turf?" Giles suggested with some enthusiasm. It was a favourite drinking hole of certain types of Oxford student; even I had been there a couple of times during my University days.

Spike said, "Haven’t drunk there in over a century – wouldn’t say no to patronising it again." Surprised, Giles and I stared at him; he tilted his head. "Mates, I went to Oxford, just like you."

"What college?"

"Ah, that would be telling. You buy me enough pints, maybe you’ll learn."

We went to our separate rooms to get ready, when I came back down again there no one was about. I went out into the back garden and wandered through the overgrown, but very pleasant, greenery. Late summer flowers filled the evening air with a delightful, if probably highly allergenic, perfume. I discovered a rather lovely paved area surrounding a miniature pond, bounded at three sides by tall trellis smothered in climbing shrubs.

While admiring this secret nook, I heard Giles' voice. He appeared to be engaged in a telephone conversation.

"... I’m so sorry, I hadn’t planned it that way. Demons, and Spike and Wesley, and -- you know."

I tried to back away, but discovered I had my jacket caught on a rambling rosebush in bad need of a pruning.

"Well. As you said. More roses and wine and compliments, basically."

There was a soft, almost vulnerable, openness to Giles' voice, which I was very embarrassed to be hearing, as this was most certainly none of my business. I ripped my sleeve away from the thorns and hurried off.

Emerging from the maze like garden, I sat down on the back step, and a few moments later, Spike joined me -- inevitably lighting up a cigarette. When Giles appeared in the nearby honeysuckle-covered archway, his phone call finished, I said, "We’re ready. Are you coming?"

He nodded. "Let’s go this way. We can cut across to the footpath."

After we locked and warded the house, we set off. The long grasses rustled in the evening breeze, and in the descending dusk the sounds of insects strengthened. Even the normally hyperactive Spike grew calm, listening to the night. I could hear and smell the River Cherwell as we approached it.

When we reached the bridge that would take us toward South Parks Road, a bicycle whizzed by us. Its bell rang out in the cool air. "Good evening!" the female rider called. She rode past us up the road and...

"Did anyone else notice a woman just, er, bloody well disappear?" Spike asked cautiously.

"Well, we’ve already established that my spectacles need changing," I said, peering into the twilight, looking for a presence that wasn’t there.

The three of us glanced at each other. It was slightly disturbing, but in the falling dark we could have been mistaken.

We shrugged, and crossed the bridge together.

 

home / next