Giles considered the situation – which was hollow-eyed, unshaven, and very wet Wesley Wyndam-Pryce standing on their doorstep with a gun, blathering about what they might have done to his bloody uncommunicative father. Right.

Stepping as unobtrusively as he could in front of Anya, he said, "Wesley, why don’t you put that down, and then we’ll have a chat about whatever’s troubling you."

His darling of course couldn’t be suppressed by a mere body-block. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she leaned around him to see. "Put what down?"

When Wes’s gaze went to her, Giles led with his elbow. A quick blow to the chin sent Wes staggering, enough so Giles could wrest the weapon out of his hand. "Oh. A gun," she said. After a pause: "A gun?"

Wes just stood there, struggling for balance, hand to his jaw. "Did you always fight like that?" he mumbled.

"Yes, he did. Rupert had a misspent youth and strangely complicated adulthood, which comes in very handy when guests brandish guns at him," she said. "What the hell do you think you’re doing anyway, mister? And honey, are you all right?"

Not really, he thought but did not say; the deepest of the scratches from their evening at Nalph’s felt as if it had opened again. He sodding well hoped he didn’t start bleeding on this dress-shirt, or he’d never hear the end of it. He said, "I’m fine. Wes, let me echo Anya’s question. What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Wes put out a hand against the doorframe to steady himself; poor bastard looked like he was going to vomit up the contents of his stomach at any moment. Yet his voice was soft, implacable: "What did you do to my father?"

Giles took out the ammunition clip and pocketed it. "We left him several phone messages in an attempt to return his call. I had no idea that such a thing necessitated a visit with firearms." Handing the unloaded gun back, he said, "Now come in and explain to us what’s wrong."

"Rupert, you’re inviting a gun-wielding crazy person into our house?" Anya said. Piercingly.

After brushing a kiss on her mouth, he whispered, "Gun’s empty. And he’s not a vampire, Anya. Just an ex-Watcher under a little stress."

"Honey, you really think that’s better?" When he frowned at her, she shrugged and turned to check on the candles she’d lit. They still flickered bravely, even in the rainswept breeze coming through the still open door.

"I’ve asked you –" Wes began, only to shut up when Giles grabbed him by the collar, dragged him inside, and closed the door behind him.

Anya said, "Watch the drips on the floor, mister," even as she stripped Wes of his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. "By the way, do I even know you?"

"You’ve met, as I recall," Giles said. "This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, darling; he was Buffy’s official Watcher when, er, during the last year the Scoobies were in high school. Roger Wyndam-Pryce – at the Traditionalists Club?– is his father, about whom there is apparently some mystery."

"Oh. Huh." The tone was not encouraging, but she mustered a smile, if not as bright as her normal efforts. "I’m Anya Jenkins, Rupert’s partner."

"I knew that. Father’s notes..." Wesley swayed on his feet.

"Come on," Giles and Anya said in unison, catching his arms.

It only took a moment to get Wesley into the lounge. The lamplight from the bay window table washed over him as he fell onto the couch, and for a second he screwed up his eyes against the shock of brightness. He looked oddly young despite stubble and the marks of desperation and illness; Giles was reminded of the stuffy, rule-quoting young arse who’d shown up in Sunnydale to take his job.

However, that prat never would have pushed himself to sitting and said quietly, "Thank you both. But are you telling me that you don’t know what’s happened?"

"We can hardly put it more plainly," Anya said. "What? What what what?" She pulled Giles down to sit with her in the overstuffed armchair. Not really made for two, of course, but she was hanging onto his tie with a death grip, and he didn’t want to upset her or find himself strangled.

Wesley leaned forward, focussing on them. Whatever he saw eased the tension in his shoulders, allowed him to say, "Two nights ago my father was found unconscious. He’s in a coma, and the doctors say that he’s fading. He likely won’t..." He didn’t need to finish.

"Found unconscious?" Giles said.

"Yes, at his desk at home. My mother... Anyway, it’s unclear what happened, whether it was heart attack or stroke. Preliminary tests aren’t conclusive." Wes rested his hands on the coffee table, staring at them as if they weren’t his. "But perhaps it wasn’t a natural attack at all. You see, your business card was in front of him. And your number was the last he dialled, according to the phone’s memory."

"Oh sure, blame the murderous business card," Anya began, then paused. Her hold on Giles tightened. In a lowered voice she said to him, "You know, honey, in those mysteries I’ve been reading, that sort of thing often throws suspicion –"

"Yes, darling. He’s obviously read the same books." After he pressed her hand, he said, "Wesley, I’m sorry, this is terrible news for you. I assume that you just flew in from Los Angeles?"

"Yes, this morning. I haven’t – I just saw the study where he’d collapsed, and found the card, and– oh, God." He slumped forward, his fingers going to his temples. "I have a terrible headache."

"When did you last eat?" Anya said pragmatically.

"Eat?" He didn’t look up. "I don’t know... yesterday, maybe. I couldn’t touch anything on the plane. But I’ve had the headache for a while, ever since – I’m sorry, that has no relevance, does it?"

Without letting go of Giles, she stood up. "Before we can counsel you on this problem – as you might have gathered from the card, we’re investigators now – food is called for. I’ll heat up some soup."

"I’ll make a pot of tea," Giles said. "Just sit there and rest, Wesley. And don’t point the gun at anything."

The odd thing was that the poor bastard obeyed them. He must be exhausted as well as sick.

As soon as they made it into the kitchen, Anya erupted, although more quietly than normal. "Let me just repeat: what on earth is wrong with you, Rupert? Is the troubled, albeit handsome, maniac some kind of long-lost friend, so that you just let him walk into our home with a gun, no matter how unloaded it is currently?" She flung open the fridge door and looked inside. "And is it appropriate to offer an armed guest leftover soup?"

"I think the chicken-and-mushroom thing is perfectly fine, yes. And ‘friend’ might be stretching it a bit far." He put the kettle on. "But Wesley’s a good man – or he was; I’ve barely spoken to him since he went to Los Angeles to work with Angel. You know, this Roger business is bloody disturbing. As is the gun, of course."

"One of Angel’s crew. Huh." She slammed the soup container into the microwave and punched at buttons. "We’re thinking that Roger Wyndam-Pryce is going to die, then. And it might not be just because he was aged?"

"I fear so." The kettle was going; he poured the water into the pot, scrutinized the leaves as they swirled into dark. "Are you going to want a cup too, darling?"

"I’m going to want dinner soon – I’m starving. But if we deal with suspicious almost-deaths first, it does require tea." She beamed at him, even as the microwave went off. "Hey, look how I’ve adjusted! I’m practically an Englishwoman already."

"You’re amazing," he said, with a kiss. Then, against her mouth: "I just – er, ‘handsome’? You think Wesley’s handsome?"

"What?"

"You said– "

"Oh. Oh, good God, honey, you’re an idiot." Her tongue slipped inside – carefully, so as not to disturb his healing lip – to play for a second, before she pulled away. "But I love you nevertheless. I’ll take this; you come in when the tea’s done."

As she trotted off with the soup, he stared at the brewing tea. Dark brown, billowing up from the depths... a demon’s voice, saying, "London is changing in ways both surface and deep. Take heed as you go"...a dead man’s voice on their answerphone. Dark brown, billowing up.

Tea was ready. As he reached for the cups, he felt another sharp pull, an aching separation. He glanced at his stomach. Oh for fuck’s sake, he was bleeding – a thin broken line, blue cotton darkening from below.

He’d blotted the evidence away, best he could, when he went back into the lounge with the tea. Anya had restrained herself from actually hand-feeding Wesley, but she had pulled the chair near and was monitoring his slow movements of spoon from bowl to mouth. He had managed to get most of it down, at least.

"Tea as well, Wes. Maybe this will help," Giles said, handing him the drink.

"Thank you, Giles." He seemed more himself; colour was coming back in his face. As he accepted the mug, he hesitated. "I don’t know what to say. The gun – it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"No harm done." Giles handed Anya her tea, then took a sip of his own. "Do you want to hear the message your father left us two days ago? We haven’t erased it."

Wesley’s hand shook on the cup, but he said calmly enough, "Yes, please."

Giles went to the answerphone. Arranging himself so he could see Wesley’s reaction, he put on the tape. Roger’s voice, as vivid as if he were scowling down the room with them, barked out the greeting, the repeated injunction to call because it was "important." Then the machine noted date and time of call.

Wesley’s face had gone flat, without expression. But he took another drink of tea before saying, "Ah. Mother found him fifteen minutes later." With eyes like deep glacial ice, he shot looks at both Giles and Anya. "And where were you at that time?"

"Negotiating with a demon-merchant for information, thanks," Anya said. "In other words, we have alibis, if you’re willing to take the word of a demon."

Giles could see pain transforming the set lines of Wesley’s face; he wasn’t sure if it was only jetlag and attendant distress, either. As he recalled, there always had been talk in the Council about the strained relationship between Wyndam-Pryce senior and junior. Might be tricky to deal with a son who wasn’t just grieving.

Wes put down his cup. Despite the hand back at his temple, he tried to smile. "Sorry. Really, the phone call tells me all I needed to know. He was asking you for help, it seemed, not... the other. Sorry again."

Anya’s hand forestalled any attempt to rise. "Hey now. Did you not hear me earlier? We’re investigators. If this isn’t just an attack of old age, and the call suggests that you’re right about that, we might be able to help you."

"Anya, Wes has worked with Angel at their agency," Giles said. "He shouldn’t need our assistance."

Wes said slowly, "Well. The agency isn’t really there any more. And my new employment at Wolfram and Hart–"

"What?" Giles and Anya said in unison. She continued, "You work for Hell’s law firm?"

"Just the L.A. branch." There was a drift of driest laughter in his voice, but Giles didn’t think he was amused. "Angel took it over, in order to effect change from within. I think, I can’t...." He covered his eyes with his hand. "Sorry, my head. Anyway, I think I could use a little help on this."

Anya looked at Giles, then nodded in a meaningful way. In her client voice: "We’d be happy to help you! And because you’re a former Watcher and a past associate of Rupert’s, we’ll even reduce our already reasonable rates."

"Now really, we could, er, make an exception and do this pro bono," Giles said, ignoring her frown.

Wesley laughed, this time in bitter earnest, and smiled at them both. "Money is the least of my troubles. I’d be happy to employ you, but this could be nothing. I mean – "

"You mean your father’s old, and his otherwise suspicious coma and imminent decline doesn’t have to be foul play," Anya said. "But we need to look, don’t we? Won’t that make you feel better?"

Before Giles could comment, the phone rang. Muttering an apology, he picked up the receiver and took it the few steps into the entry. "Hello."

"Giles! Giles, it’s me, Dawn. Um, I couldn’t understand your last e-mail? And since you gave Buffy the calling card, I just thought –"

"Dawn, it’s fine." He looked back, saw that Anya had already started to grill Wes, and then went further into the hall. "And I’m sorry, I should have given you a card as well. Anyway, my question was directed to you specifically. If, er, I were to fax you a sigil-and-word combination tomorrow, would you be able to – not if it’s at all troublesome, mind – would you look it up on the Watcher database of scanned texts? I think something similar’s in Fletcher, but I’m not sure."

"Of course I could!" Dawn said brightly. "But why can’t you ask Robson or one of the other Watchers?"

"Well, er, it’s a bit tricky." He lowered his voice. "For one thing, the sigil isn’t clear at all – Anya wasn’t able to draw it very well, and you know that’s not one of my skills. And, um, this would be an unauthorised search. I don’t really want the Council to know, not yet."

Her squeak of pleasure filled the receiver. "Secrets! Oh, of course!" After a happy pause, she added, "But are you sure you want to ask me? Why not Willow, who’s always been the go-to research girl?"

"Um. Well, I’ve been concerned about her, what with the Kennedy mess, and I’ve already asked–"

"Oh, yeah. Oh and it’s worse, Giles. Since the breakup Willow’s worn the same pair of pajamas all day for two whole days, and there’s been way too much baking, and... say, why don’t you learn how to do AIM and instant-message her? That might cheer her up."

"‘Instant-message’? You want me to learn some messaging-thing?"

Apparently he had said that too loudly, because before he knew it, Anya was there, frowning. "Did Dawn just ask you to learn a new computer ability?"

"Yes. I– er, Dawn, talk to you later, Anya will finish," he said hurriedly, as she yanked the phone from his hand.

She snapped into the receiver, "Are you insane, Dawn? We’ve spoken about this. You do not propose any new technological skill to him until you’ve cleared it with me first, because I don’t want to nurse him through the heart attack after he tries to master it!" Fluttering her hand at him in a ‘get the hell out’ motion, she continued, "Now. Did Rupert mention –"

Giles ducked back into the living room. Wes looked much better now, sitting up straight and smirking like the arrant tosser he was. "Scooby trouble still, Giles?"

"No, not at all." His gaze went to the item in pride of place on the coffee table. "Is that a digital camera?"

Wes looked down, the smirk dissolving back into pain. "Ah. Yes, I took a picture of my father’s desk, the items that were left. I don’t know why. The crime scene, I suppose, although we haven’t called the police, and now I suspect it’s too late. But there it is."

"Yes, it probably is too late. But the photo was good thinking." He picked up the camera and adjusted his glasses for a better look at the tiny display. Couldn’t see much, really – the business card, some scrawls on a couple of half-covered sheets of paper, a reflection off something not clearly in frame. "Wesley, would it be too much to ask if Anya and I could examine your father’s desk? With you there to supervise, of course, in case you’re still concerned."

Wes’s smile looked more like a wince. "Your partner’s already made the suggestion. And I’d appreciate it." He cleared his throat. "Interesting, though. You’re not a Watcher any more, you have a partner, you’re apparently some sort of detective–? Not like the Rupert Giles I knew."

"Lots of changes all around," Giles said. Fishing in his jacket pocket, he pulled out the ammunition clip. It was heavy and cold in his hand. After an experimental toss or two, he handed it back to Wes. "Perhaps you and I’ll be able to work together more effectively now. After all the, er, changes for both of us."

"I’d like that very much," Wes said.

Giles took another sip of his tea. Dark brown, billowing up from the depths, he thought again, although he didn’t know why.

***

The rain was coming down hard. The windshield wipers were having to work to shift the vats of water coming from the heavens, and Anya could tell that Rupert was having a little trouble with the lights and the traffic and the slick streets.

Still – "Honey, do you want the last bite?"

"Yes, darling, thank you." Keeping his gaze on the road, he leaned over so she could feed him the last bit of roast-beef-and-cheese. They had thrown together a couple of sandwiches to eat on their way to Kensington, where the Wyndam-Pryce house was located. Investigation was a higher priority than a proper dinner, she had decided, but she couldn’t let them starve.

After she thumbed a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth and licked it off her finger, she said, "So Wesley’s father is dying."

"It seems so." He spared her a glance full of love and concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yep. You bet." But she crossed her arms against a sudden shiver.

Death bothered her, she had to admit, and what with gun-waving visitors and coma-ridden clients, it seemed awfully close at the moment. From her first change from demon until now, she’d never gotten used to the idea; it didn’t make sense to her. But now she tried to compensate, to understand and control it – reading the obituary pages in the Telegraph that laid out people’s existences in such a tidy way; the mysteries which she found soothing, especially the manner in which the characters’ lives worked out in a correctly balanced and judicial fashion (except for the murdered victims, of course). Death was supposed to be just, she thought, like a snip of a thread in exactly the right place, but it almost never was.

Almost to herself, she said, "I don’t like it."

"What?"

"People dying. It troubles me." When his hand came to cover hers, she linked fingers with him, pressing into his warmth. "Does that make me hypocritical, after all the terrible things I’ve done? Or odd?"

So softly that she could barely hear him over the engine and the thwap-thwap of the wipers, he said, "It makes you human, dearest."

She looked at him and smiled. He always knew the right thing to say – not that he always said it, of course, what with his temper and his occasional male stupidity. But regardless of the rain and his need to concentrate, she unhooked her seat belt so she could scoot over and put her head on his shoulder. They stayed like that, silent, until he parked the car behind Wesley’s hired one, outside the Wyndam-Pryce family home.

The house smelled like death, she thought, as Wesley opened the door and let them in. Or maybe it was as if time and hearts had stopped there long ago. Although obviously there was a supply of oxygen, since they all were able to breathe, it seemed airless. Dark despite lights everywhere, damp despite a fire burning in the big room off the front hall (even in July), oppressive despite the baskets of flowers visible on the tables everywhere. Also, she felt it could do with an updated paint job, maybe a light scumble glaze on the walls.

Looking around like he’d never seen his home before, Wes ran his hand through his hair. Despite his best efforts he was shaking again; they might have needed to bring more soup. "I’d take you both to meet Mother, but – well, let me see if she’s in her room or at hospital with Father. Just wait here, please."

As Wes went up the stairs, Rupert glanced around the hall and adjacent rooms. "Christ, this place hasn’t changed in fifteen years," he said. "And it could do with some changes."

"You’ve been here before?"

"Only once – a general Watchers party, back when Wyndam-Pryce thought he could take the Council away from Quentin Travers." He laughed a little. "I stood in a corner, that corner as it happens, drank two glasses of very good Scotch very quickly, and then got the bloody hell out of here. Had a previously arranged appointment with a demon informant, of course, but I would have gone anyway. I was never any good at those sort of things, er, mingling and politicking and what not."

She put her arm around his waist. "So that’s why you’re not a member of the Traditionalists Club?"

"Oh for fuck’s sake, Anya, do I seem like I’d fit in at a place like that?"

She surveyed him closely. He still had on one of his beautiful office suits, albeit a little rumpled now, with his tie hanging askew for some reason; he still looked mostly like the man she used to think was the stuffiest, most irritating Englishman ever put on this earth, and she judged by centuries of vengeance visits. But when he smiled at her, she curled her hand around the back of his neck and said with absolute conviction, "No. No, honey, you wouldn’t fit there at all."

His smile deepened to a grin, and he moved closer to her with definite intent. However, before the Wyndam-Pryce entryway could see what probably would be the first sexually charged groping in its entire dark, damp and oppressive history, Wesley came back down the stairs. He treaded softly, as if he didn’t want to wake anyone. Didn’t want to wake the dead, Anya thought with a start. "I’m sorry. Mother doesn’t feel very well, she’s – never mind. She’s glad that you’re taking a look. So let’s investigate, shall we?"

He led the way down the hall past two more enormous rooms –the house was deeper than it was wide – and then to a oak-barred door. "Father’s study," he said, throwing open the door.

It was even more airless here than the rest of the house. A lit lamp in the corner showed the dimness within: two dark, panelled walls hung with medals, weapons, and several centuries’ worth of portraits; one wall lined with bookshelves; the last wall hung with far too heavy drapery. In the centre of the room stood a huge, untidy desk. Anya noted with some discomfort that its desk chair was turned on its side, as if the weight of an unconscious body had toppled it.

Rupert put his hand on the light-switch by the door. "May I turn this on, Wesley?"

Wes nodded. When the overhead fixture flashed yellow, though, he shaded his eyes. "Sorry. The light – as I said, I’ve a terrible headache."

"When did it start?" she asked. She had a couple of remedies at home, she should have thought of that earlier –

He looked at her, trying to smile; she’d bet he would have a lovely one if one ever made it all the way to life. "I can’t really remember, Anya. More like a series of them than just one, actually. I started getting them shortly after I began work at Wolfram and Hart." A grimace of pain, then he said, "Ah, but we should look at the desk."

Rupert was already there, standing between desk and chair. Taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, he said, "Shutting the barn door, I’m afraid. But I’ll abide by the time-honoured detective practice." Then, using the folded cloth, he turned on the desk lamp. Another flash of light – weird that the room still seemed dark. It still needed air.

She went closer. Yep, there in the centre of the blotter was the Giles and Jenkins card; it really did look nicely professional. One corner was turned down, though, stained a dark green. Beside it lay a few sheets of paper, the top one stamped with something uncomfortably familiar. "Rupert, do you see–?"

"Yes, indeed." He took out a little notebook, then hesitated. "Wesley, would you mind reproducing that sigil-and-word combination for me? I’ve been told that I’m crap at drawing."

"Honey, I didn’t say crap, precisely –"

"It was your exact word, Anya." But he smiled at her as he handed the pad and pencil to Wesley. Bending over the desk again and starting to arrange the materials into neat piles, he said, "Anyway, Wes, we’ve been working on another problem, perhaps your father was as well – oh. That’s strange."

"What?" Anya and Wes said at the same time.

The handkerchief was once again deployed, and he picked up a small jar filled with something crushed and green, which had been almost hidden behind a stack of envelopes. After examining it in the light, and sniffing its contents, he said, "That’s Grittnak’s sleep potion. Anya, isn’t that his mark on the glass?"

"A poison?" Wes asked, his hand pausing above the sketch he was making.

"No, a case of intellectual-property theft!" she said. "It’s really Rupert’s laceprig formula, but Grittnak, that son of a Nakgut, stole it and is trying to sell it on without proper attribution or remuneration!"

"A slight case of contested ownership, Wes, don’t worry. It’s almost impossible to take too much of this, but still, your father must have been combatting sleeplessness. Any ideas?"

"You’re assuming that I’ve spoken to my father in the past six months," Wes said shortly. "But I’ll ask Mother." With a scrape of pencil against paper, he finished his picture, then looked at it for a moment. "That word looks familiar. Isn’t it Old English for ‘loss’?"

Rupert adjusted his glasses, looked at it and then over at the paper. "You’re quite right. But Anya, that’s not what Yeangelt’s advert said, is –"

"Yeangelt? You’ve seen this sign before?" Wes stood a little straighter. The movement of his hand looked awfully close to a grab for his gun.

Rupert thought so, too, because he sent him one of his most quelling frowns. "Calm the bloody hell down, Wesley. Anya and I are working on a case – well, we don’t know what it is exactly, but the name’s important. Perhaps your father wasn’t as, er, retired as we all thought." After another squint, he said, "The flyer had the word for ‘call,’ not ‘loss.’ Odd substitution. The sigil looks the same, however."

"We’ll ask Dawn to look up both," she said. "And, Wesley, do you mind if I open a window? It’s like this place is one of the dimensions without oxygen. It’s making me very uncomfortable."

"I don’t know that anyone’s ever opened a window in here, Anya. The ghosts of my ancestors might fly out of the walls in horror," he said in what she assumed was a joking tone, before he looked down at his hands. "Oh. That’s not so amusing at the moment, is it?"

"It’s all right, Wes," Rupert said. "Still, darling, a breath of fresh air would do us all good, thank you." He’d almost cleared the desk and put it in order, she noticed. But as she went toward the wall of drapes, he said, "Hang on. What’s this? Never heard of it."

"What, honey?" she said, finding the cord to draw the curtains and pulling. And – "Oh my God."

Each of the four oversized French doors behind the curtain, portals of black on the night, were cracked down the middle. Each point of the broken glass was edged in something dark green, glimmers of wet with moisture not given by the rain.

She didn’t think the green was a harmless sleeping potion either.

"Don’t touch it," Wes and Rupert said in unison – which was ridiculous, she had been reading the books and knew the proper procedure – and hurried over to examine. With a mutter about lack of light, Rupert went over to the corner floor lamp and then carried it closer so they could see the pattern of cracks.

Each one looked like the centre stroke of the sigil.

"Was this here before, Wesley?" Rupert asked.

Anya didn’t think Wes looked at all like a man who’d seen the damage before. He said, "I have no idea; I didn’t check, which was stupid. I don’t know if Mother did, but she certainly didn’t say anything." He extended a hand, then said, "May I use your handkerchief, Giles?" After a silent exchange, he dabbed at the green. "It’s still wet. However, that could be the rain. We don’t have any way to know if this is fresh or not." He stared at the handkerchief, then crushed it in his hand. "Too late, just as we thought."

"I’m sorry, Wes. So sorry." Rupert took the handkerchief away from him, and sniffed at the stain. "That’s not the laceprig potion."

"I guessed as much," Anya said. "And honey, what did you find just before I dramatically revealed the broken windows?"

"Oh, right. Another note in Wyndam-Pryce’s – sorry – Wesley’s father’s handwriting. It said ‘The Terminal.’ Underlined several times. Looks like another name we can pursue." He crossed to her, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. As she snuggled into his embrace, he said, "Well, then. Er, we do have several leads to work on, but it’s getting late and I don’t know how much more we can do here. Tomorrow morning suit you, Wesley? Would you like to meet us at our office in Bloomsbury, or shall we–?"

But Wes wasn’t listening. He stared at the windows, one hand pressed almost absently to his temple. The reflection off the black made him look even paler than before, new lines of pain cut around his mouth and eyes.

He looked a little broken too, Anya thought. And the rain was really coming down now. A person could drown in that much rain.

***

Giles scanned the passage again, snorted, then laid the open book on his chest and closed his eyes. He was bloody sick of this Golden Age detective banter, but Anya insisted that he read the stupid thing.

As he sank deeper into the pillows and edged away from her fluttering feet – she must be at an exciting part in her own book, she always kicked at plot-points – he thought morosely about how nice it was that the fictional Tommy and Tuppence could feel clever. He, on the other hand, felt as if he were choking in clues that led nowhere.

They’d have to check with Nalph tomorrow about the ‘Terminal’, he thought, idly rubbing just above one of his healing stomach wounds. Damn things itched like fury.

And he thought of poor Wesley. The more time they all had spent together, the more worried about him Giles had become. Mysterious headaches and following Angel into Wolfram and Hart, for fuck’s sake, that new and alarming propensity to reach for a gun, the strange relationship with his sodding father in that horrible house – and what had old Wyndam-Pryce been doing with that sigil-and-word combination, anyway?

He opened one eye to look at the bedside table. Yes, the candles were still burning. Anya had a strict rule about no work discussion once the candles were lit, and he didn’t feel like challenging it at the moment. Also, the rain was drumming on the windows above their heads, in a rhythm that made him think of soft breaths and sleep. Yes. Sleep. What an excellent idea.

He took off his glasses and set them on the table, on top of his book. Then he yawned. God he was tired.

Before he could settle back in, however, came a sweetly chimed, "Honey, don’t go to sleep yet."

"I’m not." Yet.

She turned over, stowing her open book – Death in a White Tie, charming – on his shoulder, then peering at his stomach. "Okay, you need something for that one scratch, it looks a little angry. The other ones are nicely scabbed, but since you were idiot enough to wrestle the gun away from Wesley, opening the injury again and ruining yet another shirt...."

"Right. Er, next time I’ll just let the armed person shoot us, will that make you happy?"

"Stop trying to annoy me, Rupert." She hit him rather hard on his free shoulder, then clambered over him and out of the bed. "Now, stay there and be quiet while I get your fresh bandage."

"Darling, remember that you’re not allowed to hit me. And don’t tell me what to do." Of course he had planned on staying put anyway. After stashing her book with his on the table, he turned over onto his side, closed his eyes. Images and sound flickered like the candles: rain on the windows, cracked windows with green-smeared edges, dark brown billowing up –

He jolted back into full wakefulness, repressing a groan at the new ache. There were connections to be made here, but he couldn’t seem to pull the threads together. Not enough information yet. Or maybe he just wasn’t clever enough.

Bringing him back to the moment, Anya said, "Hey now, honey. Pay attention, I’m back." She climbed back into bed, carrying her salve, a fresh towel, and another bandage. He arranged himself so that she could smooth a little more medicine on, affix the bandage, dab off the excess – and so that, once done, she could throw everything onto the floor on her side and curl up cautiously against him. One leg slipped over his thighs; one small, competent hand rested on his chest. He brought his fingers up to twine with hers.

They lay there for a minute, listening to the rain, breathing the trace of smoke from the candles. Then she said, "You know, my novel is really bothering me. The last chapter I read, I mean."

"Then don’t read it any more."

"You’re so funny. No, it’s the romantic interest for the detective; she’s a strange and disturbing person. See, the detective – have you read it, honey?"

"Possibly. It would have been a long time ago, I don’t remember it."

She settled in closer. "Okay. The detective, Inspector Alleyn, is making everything very tidy, figuring out who killed a nice and helpful old man. Whom everyone liked, which seems to be different from our own new case...." After a pause for him to brush a light kiss on her hair, she continued, "But we won’t talk about that because the candles are lit and it’s depressing. Anyway, the woman Troy is scared of loving Alleyn although she so does, because he deals in justice – capital punishment, actually. So she thinks of him as being connected to death and thinks she can’t love him."

"What bothers you specifically about this?" Although he thought he knew.

"I’m not sure. Everything. I’m just feeling a little... I don’t know." She moved her thigh up, so that she rubbed against his cock. As he caught his breath, as he began to harden underneath her touch, she smothered a laugh against his shoulder. It tickled, and it pleased him so much. She said, "Also, honey, the woman is scared of sex. I mean, how stupid is that?"

"Rather stupid, I’d say." His free hand stole underneath her nightshirt. Her long line of back tempting him, he traced up from the cleft of her arse to her nape, silk puddling over his forearm as he did – the result of course being that she arched into him, her leg pressing down on him, her breath on his neck teasing him harder.

And he forgot his tiredness. Well, in the words of that old song, he could sleep when he was dead.

After a nip at her ear, he said, "You know, darling, you’ve been extremely bossy tonight. I don’t think I can let this, er, state of affairs continue."

"You’re going to withhold sex from me?" she yelped.

He stopped her hand before she could grab his length and squeeze. "Dear God, no. But you see, there you’re doing it again. You persist in thinking you’re in charge."

"Oh. Well, that’s wrong, I guess." She smiled up at him, undulating against him until his breath caught in his throat. But then her face fell. "Can I just ask about the continuing technical difficulty? New bandaging will make this tricky."

He slapped that perfect bottom hard enough that she squeaked. "Darling, I told you I’m in charge. You just be quiet and let me work."

"That’s not really one of my best skills, Rupert."

"If you don’t shut up I shall withhold sex, and then where will you be?" As he got out of bed, he ignored her pitiful little whimper. She’d just have to learn, he thought. Now where was it–

Yes, that was what he was looking for: his tie, draped on the side-chair. Moving carefully, he brought both to her side of the bed. She was sitting up now, smiling at him, her nakedness glowing in the candlelight. She’d hung her nightshirt on one of the metal posters. Efficient; that was his darling. But he said sternly, "Hands, please."

She gave them to him, so he could wrap the silk around her wrists, loop the soft material into a bond that would hold. She began to breathe faster even as the knot tightened.

"Right. Now, if you’d slide yourself to the edge of the bed, hang your legs over it, then lie back with your hands above your head."

"I’m liking this already," she whispered. "Oops. I didn’t say anything, you didn’t hear it."

"Anya. Now."

Smiling, she did what she was told. The sheet rustled underneath her as she moved, a counterpoint to the rain on the windows, to the beat in his veins. She was washed in candle- and lamplight, creamy skin against the Egyptian cotton. God, he could drown in her, he thought.

He pushed her thighs apart so she was open to him, all creams and pinks and dark hair, all shivers and grace. Then he pulled his chair close, and sat down. Hooking his arms underneath her legs, he brought her closer still. And then he blew on her, a focussed stream of warm breath, until she flushed a deeper pink.

"Honey, am I allowed to moan?" she whispered.

"Oh, I’m counting on it," he said. Then he put his mouth on her.

As she in fact did begin to moan, he ignored his own aching need and let his tongue slip out to taste, to circle. His darling had been so worried about death all night – perhaps if he did his job cleverly enough, la petite mort would cheer her up.

***

The hallway of the private hospital’s most exclusive ward was darkened for the night. As Wesley walked down toward his father’s room, he breathed in the scents of flowers, cleaning products, and death.

All the money in the world couldn’t wash that out of the air, he thought, nodding at a nurse as they passed each other.

He really should sleep. Before Giles and that sweetly odd partner of his had left, she had impressed upon him the need to take care of himself. "You can’t investigate dark mysteries when you’re not at your best!" she had said pragmatically. "Food, Wesley, and then sleep. Otherwise we won’t let you help us tomorrow."

She was right, of course. He knew he should rest. Yet the family house pressed in on him until he couldn’t breathe, until the headache he’d suffered since they’d all started working at Wolfram and Hart grew into a vise on his brain. There was a damn good reason that he hadn’t been back to Kensington for years.

So, like the fool he was, he sought out that damn good reason.

His father’s room was even darker than the hallway. The one shaded light in the corner and the electronic displays revealed the machines that kept him alive, even before the hisses and hums would have told one that his was an unnatural breath, an unnatural sleep.

The old man lay there in shadow, tied to this world by tubes and cords. Wesley found himself laughing under his breath, although without humour. Roger Wyndam-Pryce, Chief of Wetworks for the Council of Watchers, always had liked his technology: the latest weapons, the latest toys, the latest security measures.

Wes thought about the gun he’d left in his boyhood bedroom. He thought about cracks in an unguarded window, dripping with green.

Christ, his head hurt so much.

Near the bed was placed one extremely uncomfortable chair – for family, the nurse had told him earlier. Ironic, really. He sat down in the chair, stretching out his legs and settling his hands on his stomach. Then he looked at his father.

Odd that he couldn’t come up with a happy memory of his father to keep him company. Even odder that he couldn’t seem to remember much of anything these days. He’d always prided himself on his recall – it kept him at the head of his class, it kept him alive in the field, it kept him on Angel’s team even after...

After what, exactly? His memory seemed to be unravelling more with every breath, as if important threads were singed at the edges, ripping apart inch by inch. He was missing something.

Ah well. He let himself relax deeper into the chair, let his eyes drift shut. His day had been long and stressful, and tomorrow looked to be just as busy; he really should try to rest. And besides, Giles’s Anya had been most emphatic about it.

An unwilling smile quirked the edges of his mouth as he settled into the dark. And somehow he thought he heard another woman’s voice whisper above the hum of machines, "Sleep, Wesley. Sleep now, because tomorrow will be busy indeed."