"Did you manage to get everything you wanted?" Quentin asked, as he poured Roger a double measure of single malt.

"More or less. I had enough left from the withdrawal I made at LAX to cover the basic necessities, but that is hardly the point." Roger took the proffered glass and tipped back half of it in one mouthful.

"I'm sure it'll all turn out to be some glitch in the transatlantic banking system, or more precisely the American end of it... Unless Penny's redecorating again?" Quentin asked in a wry tone.

"Penny knows I like to be consulted before she makes any large purchases and, even so, that would only account for the joint account, not my personal ones."

"It'll all be cleared up with a few phone calls on Monday morning, and we can always advance you a few hundred dollars from the petty cash until then."

"That's very generous of you, Quentin, but I'm afraid that I couldn't possibly impose on you any further."

Realising that his continued presence was neither noticed by the two older watchers nor necessary, Wes twisted the door handle at his back and made a discreet exit.

 

* * * * *

 

Giles looked up expectantly when the basement door opened but couldn't prevent his look of disappointment as he identified Wesley.

The younger man looked at his wristwatch, checking that it wasn't later than he'd realised. "It's only ten to eleven. In all fairness, they've hardly had time to make their way across town, take a prisoner and drag him all the way back here, not to mention fitting in some sort of patrol."

Giles gave a heartfelt sigh. "I'm sorry, Wesley, no offence intended. It's just that I'll feel happier when Buffy gets back. I can't help thinking that she was in a rather foolhardy frame of mind when we parted ways."

Wes gave a wry smile. "None taken. At least when you give me that look it's for a reason, not just out of habit." His eyes scanned the room and he nodded a welcome to both Lydia and Tara, who appeared to be comparing notes over several heavy tomes as the Wiccan bound some dried herbs, mostly motherwort, into a tight bundle. The group had taken over a small corner office cum cubby-hole that was little more than a space big enough for a pair of chairs, a small table and a filing cabinet separated from the main basement area by a couple of sheets of drywall. "I wondered if there was anything that I might be able to do to help?"

Giles pulled his glasses from his face, busying himself with a white cotton handkerchief. "Well, ehm, the truth spell itself is rather elementary. However, we have little information as to just how strong one of these bringers might be, nor have I entirely discounted the possibility, given that this is Buffy and Spike that we're talking about, that they wouldn't bring back a Turok Han just to prove they could. I somehow think that Spike was unimpressed by those council members who continue to regard them as mythical creatures. In any case, Tara has come to our assistance with a spell to magically enhance the strength of the chains we hope to use to bind whatever they might capture. First, though, we have to hammer the mooring pins into solid concrete..."

At last, Wes understood why Giles was avoiding meeting his eyes. It must cost him a great deal of pride to admit that he was no longer the optimum candidate for such a physical task, especially in front of a recently acquired romantic interest. "I assume that Tara's spell will prevent the pins from simply being uprooted?" His gaze shifted back and forth between the young witch and the watcher.

Tara's half-smile was shy. "They'll hold." Her understated confidence was enough to still any further questions.

"Then, I suppose we should work out where we want to fix them..." Wes suggested, choosing a spot in the centre of the floor that would allow them room on all sides to draw a sacred circle once their hostage was in place. Ignoring the dust on the floor, he positioned himself spread-eagle, so that Giles could mark out where to affix the chains, allowing just a little leeway in case their captive were to be slightly shorter.

 

* * * * *
Sunday, June 16th, 2002

 

Wes wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve, leaving streaks of sweat and dark-coloured dust behind. He set aside the sledgehammer he'd recently finished using and gladly took the glass that Tara passed him, the jangle of ice cubes against its sides more than welcome. "You would think that after so many years in the U.S. I would have stopped expecting lemonade to mean Sprite or 7 Up."

"And what well brought-up Southern gal would you expect to be serving that fizzy water to someone who's just spent an hour doin' manual labour?" Tara teased, emphasising her accent playfully. "Ah'd be disowned." Then with a sudden switch back to her normal voice she added. "Oh, wait. I already was."

Giles stopped his restless pacing long enough to smile his amusement, glad to see some of the witch's wicked sense of humour finally making a return. He still felt the need to remind her affectionately, "As I recall, there was something of a simultaneous adoption process."

Tara's smile brightened and then grew wistful at the memory of Willow's part in that day's events, a Willow who had changed beyond recognition before she finally bought her redemption at the cost of her life. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than the solitude of her cot and perhaps the comfort of a purring ball of fur snuggled in against her... but before she could lay claim to her reward she had to perform the spell that would make the bindings secure.

She checked the clock that adorned the wall. It mocked her by showing the time as mere minutes after midnight. Rather than act within that half of 'the witching hour' traditionally reserved for darker magics, she resolved to wait half an hour or until Spike and Buffy arrived with their captive before she performed the enchantment.

Guarding her features, she passed out the remaining glasses of lemonade, and soon she and Lydia had returned to their discussion of the best means of performing the ward spell for the school.

 

* * * * *

 

Tara stumbled slightly as she made her way back to her chair, the spell to strengthen the chains and their mooring to the floor having left her momentarily drained. Before she could argue, Wes had a supporting arm around her waist and began to steer her toward the stairs.

"I should wait," she protested weakly. "They can't be much longer."

Giles demurred. "I'm sure that I'll be able to manage a simple truth spell on my own. You've already helped tremendously and it's obvious that it's taken a lot out of you. Wes has borne the brunt of the physical labour and it hasn't escaped my notice that Lydia has still been downing Advil at four-hourly intervals." He glanced over at the clock which now showed the time to be quarter to one. "There's no point in everyone going short on sleep just because Buffy and Spike have let themselves get... sidetracked on patrol." The watcher's expression showed his distaste at the thought of how exactly the two might have been distracted.

The tips of Wes's ears flushed slightly pink. "I doubt, given the seriousness of their mission, that any delays would be other than in the line of business," he suggested, but Giles remained unconvinced.

Lydia looked back and forth between the two men, unsure as to whose assessment was the more accurate, but ultimately it made no difference. She gave Giles a tentative smile. "I'll be in my office should you need me... or when you're finished."

There was an unmistakeable warmth in Giles' voice even though his answer was inherently uncertain. "We'll see."

 

* * * * *

 

Giles reached the bottom of the page once more and his eyes returned again to the clock on the basement wall. He ironically congratulated himself. This time he had lasted three minutes before he checked once more. He pulled his glasses from his face and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He had read through the details of the truth spell so often over the last few hours that he was certain that he would be able to cast it from memory. Of course, when Spike and Buffy finally got here he would use the spellbook regardless. There was no point in risking a mistake just to show off.

He pushed to one side his worries over Buffy's impetuous decision to take the fight to The First, doing his best to bring the memory of the heat between the couple to the forefront of his mind. He tried to convince himself that that alone was the reason that they had still not returned at... twenty seven minutes past three.

 

* * * * *

 

Dawn's hand swiped at the button on the top of her alarm clock but she wasn't quite quick enough.

A groan echoed from the bed on the other side of the room and Faith dragged a pillow over her ears, only to then come awake enough to query the noise. "Wha' time's it?" she slurred, her mouth dry.

"Sorry. It's only quarter past four. I kinda told Brand I'd watch the Ireland soccer match with him and it starts in quarter of an hour." Dawn pushed Rogue off the bed so that she could get her legs out from under the covers, slid her feet into her slippers and snagged the topmost robe from the hook on the back of the door as she left, the wolfish mutt padding after her.

She slipped into the room that was unofficially shared by Wes and Brandon. She planned to shake the other teen gently into wakefulness, but, when Rogue shot past her, springing on Brandon's bed and licking his face enthusiastically, she decided it was slightly redundant. The cot listed to one side under the dog's weight, tipping Brandon onto the floor.

Dawn covered her eyes to hide her embarrassment as Wesley sprang into immediate wakefulness. "Sorry, Wes. Saudi Arabia, Ireland in a few minutes if you're interested?" she suggested sheepishly. She slapped at her thigh a couple of times to regain the bitch's attention. "Rogue, go find daddy! Go wake up daddy!" The dog's oversized ears perked to attention and she bounded back past Dawn, sniffing briefly at the floor by the door to Spike and Buffy's room before haring off down the stairs.

"Shit!" Dawn pushed open the door to the blonde couple's room on the off chance that the puppy simply either hadn't understood her instructions or was wilfully ignoring them, but the room was empty. "Better go get her back before she wakes up the whole building." A much put upon teenaged sigh echoed up from the stairwell as she plodded downstairs. It wasn't that she had anything against soccer. She'd even admit to finding it vaguely interesting in its own right and, with Spike as busy as he had been lately, it also provided a measure of "big brother" time when he wasn't being monopolised by Buffy. What was better, though, was snuggling up in the dark next Brandon, sharing his enthusiasm in a moment that was theirs alone. Somehow, by the time she herded Rogue back upstairs she doubted tonight would be that sort of night.

 

* * * * *

 

The sound of people moving around and talking in theatrical whispers, soon followed by the buzz of the old TV set warming up and the commentators' words woke Bee up. Yet again, she could hear the sound of muffled sobs from the room's other bed. As she had done so often, she froze in place, trying not to let the Wicca know that her private sorrow had become public. Then, Rupert shifted in his sleep, his fur brushing against the tip of Bee's nose, and her subterfuge was sabotaged by a loud sneeze. In the dark, she could hear Tara franticly trying to bring her tears under control without success.

Without a word, Bee got out of her bed and pushed it across the floor until it pressed against the edge of Tara's. She climbed back into her own cocoon of sheets and blankets but her hand reached out and her fingers twined with those of the witch. Rupert rose from his previous position, as if annoyed at being shunted around. He stalked down the centre of the two beds and turned a couple of times before settling into the gap between the two women's bodies.

 

* * * * *

 

By the time Dawn had enticed Rogue away from the school's main door with a bowl of dried dog food, Wes was dressed again and already making tea and coffee. The number of mugs he had laid out put paid to any last hope she had had for any privacy.

"Who's up?"

"Faith, Oz, you, me, Brandon and I thought I'd check whether Giles was still on basement duty."

"He's still waiting up for Spike and Buffy to get back?"

"Well, he isn't in his room and as far as I'm aware he was going to stay up until they got in..."

"For-. Give me that cup of tea when it's ready," she insisted impatiently.

 

* * * * *

 

Dawn almost felt sorry for the watcher, his glasses halfway down his nose and his cheek resting against the open pages of the book he'd been reading, just the smallest hint of drool at the corner of his mouth, but, then, grown ups were her natural prey.

She put her full weight on the second to bottom step, bouncing on it slightly to emphasise its natural squeak. Giles shot bolt upright, automatically correcting his glasses and then wiping at his mouth. "Buffy?"

Dawn decided not to tell him about the black mirror-image writing on his face. He'd find out soon enough. "No, doofus, Dawn." She sat the mug of tea down before him.

"I'm sure your mother wouldn't have approved of you calling your elders doofuses... doofii, whatever."

"Probably not, but then, you have earned it. I guess it never occurred to you to call their cell phones."

Giles coloured slightly but then rushed to his own defence. "It wouldn't be exactly ideal if they were trying to sneak up on an opponent and their phones rang."

Dawn snorted as she turned back toward the stairs. "You can't be naïve enough to think that Spike hasn't figured out all the fun of vibrating ring tones."

Giles waited until the girl's footsteps had faded into the distance. "There are vibrating ring tones?"

The roar from the TV room told her that Ireland had scored an early goal, but Dawn didn't even try to make it through to watch the replay. Instead she flipped through the phone's memory until, this time, she found Buffy's number. If Spike wouldn't answer maybe she would. It wasn't that Dawn was worried... yet. She just figured that if she had already found them by the time Giles finished his tea and realised that he didn't have all the numbers for everyone's cells, then that would be kinda cool.

She wasn't worried, she told herself as she got the message that the cell phone she was trying to reach had been switched off. She wasn't worried at all, but just the same it might be an idea to get Wes to drive and Faith as back up while they checked out a few of their more likely boltholes... just to be on the safe side.

She'd give Spike another ten minutes, in case he'd been in the middle of beating some helpless fledge to a dusty pulp, or maybe he couldn't get his phone out of his pocket, what with carrying some bringer, or maybe if they were really lucky he might even have got the creepy preacher guy. A few extra minutes wouldn't hurt, but just in case she'd ring the hospital... Of course, if Spike had ended up there as anything other than a visitor, they were in deep trouble and as long as he was conscious he would have called...

"Wes? Faith? How d'you guys feel about forming up for a search party?" she called out, pulling on her jeans and jacket over the top of her nightshirt, her phone still pressed against her ear as she waited on hold for the hospital switchboard.

Though the speed with which he rose from his seat suggested he might be concerned in his own right, the watcher directed a teasing glance at Brandon as he replied. "I don't see a problem. Ireland have never scored more than one goal in a World Cup Final match in the history of the tournament, so unless they're planning a major break with tradition, it's not like I'm going to be missing anything."

"Heyyyy. No fair!" Brandon protested. After all, Saudi Arabia's recent 8-0 defeat hardly suggested they were likely to be steadfast opposition, and the wet conditions surely had to bias things in Ireland's favour.

 

* * * * *

 

"Spike?" Buffy struggled her way through the veil of sleep, trying to identify the 'wrongness' that tugged at her consciousness. She raised her voice slightly and then tried again. "Spike? The bedclothes are moving... Spike?"

Panic began to set in when she couldn't 'feel' the vampire's emotions, but then she realised that she was still fully dressed. No skin to skin contact. Neither breath nor reply escaped the vampire's lips and she rolled to face the body behind her. Pain burned through her as fabric matted with blood ripped away from her injured side, reopening the wound. Her teeth pressed into her lip and, just as she had sought to open them, her eyes involuntarily screwed shut.

"Spike?" Her hands reached out blindly in front of her. Instead of flesh and bone, she found fabric and padding. Even before she could bring the pattern into focus the colour told her where she was. Back on that sofa. Back in her mother's house.

Holding her side, she rolled once more, searching for her vampire. There, on the floor with his back against the front of the settee, his skin and hair painted brown with crusted blood, his T-shirt and jeans ripped and torn but there, where if she just let her arm drop over the side of the cushions she could touch him. There, where her fingers brushed against his arm. There and not dust.

Her eyes slipped closed, all thoughts of what had originally awoken her forgotten, and she drifted once more into a healing sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

Faith grimaced as she made her way back up the ladder from the underground section of Spike's old crypt. "There's something dead down there, but seein' as how I've never seen a vamp that was semi-liquefied before, I'm gonna stick my neck out an' say that it isn't Spike."

"Strike one, I guess." Wes pulled the crypt door open and waited for Faith to precede him.

The slayer turned to one side as soon as she could, doubling over and retching to try to clear her throat of the lingering layer of inhaled particles that seemed to coat it.

"Are you alright?" he queried.

"Sure," the woman drawled sarcastically, when she could finally get her breath. "I love the smell of putrefying corpses in the morning."

The pair made their way back to the cemetery gates where Dawn and Rogue were waiting in the relative safety of Wes's car, the teenager ready to pound on the horn if anything scarier than Clem made an appearance. They had nearly made it back there when Wes's phone rang.

The watcher hardly spoke other than to give an occasional brief acknowledgement. As soon as Dawn vacated the driver's seat he climbed in, phone still pressed to his ear, and flicked through the preset radio stations until he found a local news broadcast. With a terse, "We'll let you know if we find them," he ended the call and tossed the phone into the back seat.

Faith was just shutting the door on one side as he pulled away.

"Once again I would like to stress that this morning's explosion is nothing to be concerned about. Southern California has always had its share of seismic activity, and city engineers expect to find that the blast was the result of a slow build up of gas from a cracked pipe. The blast was mostly contained underground and although a minor access road has been closed until it can be confirmed that there has been no damage to the road's substructure, there has been no apparent property damage. I repeat that at present there is no suspicion of foul play and no links have been made to any terrorist campaign." Sunnydale's latest mayor dutifully put the requisite hellmouth spin on the latest incident despite being dragged from his bed to give a press conference.

 

* * * * *

 

When they pulled up outside 1630 Revello Drive and opened the car door, Rogue was the first one out, sprinting onto the front porch and then dashing back again as if to urge Dawn and the others to hurry up before she took off again.

"It's not like I was expecting to need it any time soon," Dawn argued as she tugged free the mountain of circulars and bills that crammed the mailbox as she passed, more from nervousness and habit than any real desire to check their correspondence.

"I would have thought, given your desire to check Spike and Buffy's known haunts, that bringing along your house key might have been a reasonable idea."

"I'm a teenager. We're not meant to do reasonable. Anyway, it wouldn't be a problem if Spike hadn't made a big deal about not leaving the spare lying around when the house was empty. I bet I can pick the lock, anyway. Spike taught me how to get out of handcuffs. It's got to be easier if you've got both hands free."

"Or you could do the same as whoever left the bloody smears on the door. Just turn the handle and walk on in..." Faith suggested, standing to one side of the open portal like a game show hostess.

For a fraction of a second both Dawn and the watcher froze in place, unsure whether their ease of entry was a hopeful sign or an intimation that the house had been violated in their absence. Rogue had no such misgivings and charged straight into the living room, yapping her delight. That broke the deadlock and the teen ran after her at speed only to stall again when she reached the doorway between the hall and the room where her sister and future brother-in-law lay. Rogue lapped at Spike's unresponsive face and then at the puddle of coagulating blood that marred the hardwood floor, its spread making it impossible to tell which of the two blondes was more responsible.

Wes came up behind, Dawn his eyes taking in the scene in an instant. He tossed his keys at the slayer. "Faith, get the crossbow from the car and then give the keys to Dawn. Dawn, I want you to lock yourself in my house and don't come out until someone marches into the house and pulls you out... now!" he added forcefully when the younger of the girls failed to move.

"Wh-. Why?" Dawn looked at the watcher as if he had grown a second head. "What are you doing? Why aren't you helping them? Shouldn't we call an ambulance?"

"I am helping them by keeping you safe. Faith, get her away from here." Wesley began to roll back his shirt sleeve until the tip of a wrist-mounted, spring-loaded stake appeared.

The slayer tugged at the teenager's arm until she reluctantly followed her, looking to her now for an explanation.

"It's the blood, kid. They're covered in it. His? Hers? Who knows? Watcher's playing it safe, just in case."

"He doesn't need a stake. Spike wouldn't hurt him even if he was starving."

Faith opened up the trunk and pulled out a crossbow and a quiver of bolts and then tucked a couple of stakes that were also there into her jeans. "The stakes aren't for Spike."

Dawn's eyes blazed as she stormed back toward her home.

 

* * * * *

 

"But he wouldn't!"

"Are you sure?" Wes's eyes barely left the two inert forms to check Dawn's face. "Everyone said when your sister died the last time it nearly killed him. There was nothing he could do about it that time, but do you really think that if he had a choice between her bleeding to death or his turning her that he'd be able to watch her die? It wouldn't even have to be deliberate. How much of the blood on his face do you think is his? Just one kiss..."

"Couldn't I stay until you or Faith check her pulse?"

"You know what Buffy's priority would be."

"Even if he did turn her, she wouldn't come out of it before dark. It's this whole thing. They always rise at night because if they didn't they'd go 'snap, crackle and burn' as soon as they crawled out the ground."

"We don't know that, Dawn. Vampires are able to sense the sun's movement. It's a natural self-preservation instinct. The fact they choose to wait for dark to dig their way out of their coffins does not preclude their being aware for some time before that... And, honestly, if anyone knows what might happen when a slayer is turned, they're not letting on. And once we take account of the claim, there's no saying how things might develop."

"Oh!" Dawn's face fell as she realised the truth behind his words but then gave Wes a tentative smile. "You'll fetch me as soon as you know she's okay, right? I mean like Faith said this is all playing safe. It's not like it's..."

"The instant. Now go! The sooner we know you're safe, the sooner we can get started."

Wes watched from the front door until the teenager made her way safely into the house across the road.

When he returned to the main room, Faith tossed him the crossbow and readied a stake. "You stand at her feet. I'll reach over from the head end and get her wrist."

Wes didn't argue but simply took his place and loaded a bolt in the crossbow. Faith bent over to take the other slayer by the wrist, and a vampiric howl rent the air.

 

* * * * *

 

"It's not your fault." Buffy's tone was soft as she tried to coax the huddled figure in front of her to raise his head. She crouched to run her fingers through curls that were normally bright as sunshine, but which were now caked with dried blood. Tiny flakes of rust fell like macabre dandruff with each pass of her hand, and the scent pervaded the very air around them as if they wallowed in a slaughter house. Her blood and his, blood of bringers and Turok Han, mingled in the air, but each had its own distinctive thread. If she concentrated, she could pull them apart like a consummate parfumier identifying the elements of a rival's latest creation. Her other hand was clasped over the wound in her side, blood oozing between her fingers.

She caught a flash of gold as his gaze briefly met hers before returning to the rubble strewn earth at his feet. "'Course it's my fault, love."

Buffy looked at the lightening sky, knowing that the makeshift structure that towered over them would do little to shield him from the sun's rays. "It wasn't your fault a year ago, and it isn't your fault now."

The vampire's head shook beneath her hand. "My fault. Shoulda done something. Should've been me. Should've kept a bloody hold of the damn axe. Too slow... Too damn stupid. Just not bloody good enough. You were right. There's nothin' good nor clean in me. Thought I could do it. Be a man for you..." Again there was a glimpse of demon yellow as Spike glanced upward. "But I'm just makin' you dirty like me. Both soaked in blood, now."

"You saved me, Spike. You. I-. You are a man... You're all the man I want." Her hand dropped from his hair to the side of his face, fingers tracing brow ridges and cheekbones and she allowed herself a small smile as the vampire couldn't help but nuzzle into her touch. "You're not just a man, though. You're my man... and my demon and that doesn't make you any less, no matter what I said when-."

The hand on Spike's cheek disappeared in an instant, bright light blinding him, the light of the newly risen sun and the bright flames as Buffy burned in its vengeful wrath. The vampire howled his grief and knew that it was his taint that had made her unclean, his failure that allowed her to be hurt, his fault that he had lost her again.

"You saved me, Spike. You. I-. You are a man... You're all the man I want." She let her hand drop from his hair, instead allowing sensitive fingertips to map the planes of his face. She used the tenderness of her touch to convey her message of love, a love that didn't discriminate between his normal human appearance and the coarser features of his demonic aspect. Her gentle hand traced the ridges over his golden eyes and then around the outer edge of his eye socket until she cupped his cheek in her palm, her fingertips resting on his beautifully prominent cheekbone. Even in his despair he pressed into her hand with all the sensuality of a giant cat, his subconscious refusing to allow him to set aside the affection between them. "You're not just a man, though. You're my man... and my demon and that doesn't make you any less, no matter what I said when I was channelling..." Buffy's voice trailed off, the cool flesh of her lover's hollowed cheek simply dissolving from beneath her fingers, fading into nothingness like some seventies sci-fi effect.

Frantically she tried to grab him before he could leave her, jerking awake to the sound of Spike's feral howl of grief and finding her hands pinned as if she had no more strength than a child.

"Buffy! Buffy... chill..."

Looking above her head, she traced upward from the arms that held her until she could identify Faith's deep brown eyes looking down into hers, the expression of sympathy still seeming incongruous to the blonde slayer.

Spike's snarling comment drew her attention before she could work out exactly what was happening. "Gonna have to shoot that thing pretty damn fast to get both of us before I rip your head clean off. I'd put it down now, watcher."

Buffy tensed again, finally becoming aware of the man who pointed a crossbow at her heart, Faith's grip turning her into an easy target.

"Wes? Why?" She looked puzzled and hurt in equal measure by Wes's hostility. It was this rather than Spike's threat, which given the vampire's mostly reclining position struck him as reminiscent of the bedroom scene in 'The Princess Bride', that made the watcher slowly lower the crossbow to the floor, trusting to his instincts when they told him she was no newly risen vampire.

"Now kick it over here," Spike ordered. "An' if it scratches the varnish then you can pay to have it sanded down an' redone."

He waited until the crossbow was safely within his reach before he turned his attention to Faith. "An' much as I like to see two women gettin' friendly, I don't think the missus is really in a hand-holdin' mood right about now."

"Take a chill pill, blondie," Faith answered as she loosened her grip since Buffy had stopped fighting against her. "All we were trying to do was check her pulse. Hardly my fault that B freaked out the minute I touched her."

"Take it from me, her pulse is just fine, kinda weak but steady as a metronome... or it was until you went and got her excited. An' that still doesn't explain why Bertie Wooster, there, was pointin' that thing at my mate."

"Testosterone much?" Buffy asked, somehow sounding fragile, impatient and teasing at the same time, Faith's response having provided her with the missing piece she needed to comprehend the situation. "Don't worry, Wes. I haven't joined the realms of the undead quite yet."

Spike's expression was one of utter incredulity as he gaped open-mouthed at the watcher. "You thought that I'd..."

"We were unable to rule out the possibility when there was so much blood around and when Buffy is seldom without a recent bite mark. I felt it appropriate to follow the course of prudence. I'd still be greatly reassured if Buffy would allow Faith to confirm what you said about her pulse. It's not that I don't trust your word," Wes said, doing his best to couch his words in a conciliatory tone. "It's simply that I know if there were to be one reason why you would lie, it would be if you perceived a threat to your mate."

Spike opened his mouth to protest, no doubt loudly and with many adjectives not found in your average Disney animation. An imploring look from Buffy was enough to temporarily still the invective before it left his mouth, and she extended her arm toward the other slayer, the effort inducing a barely visible tremor. At the sight, the vampire was quick to turn his attention to the watcher once more, his voice rough. "First aid kit's under the sink. Make yourself useful. I assume somewhere in all that watcher training they at least try to teach you how to stop your slayer bleeding to death... or are you just meant to shoot them to make sure they don't linger on their deathbed and keep you waiting for the next one to be called?"

"Spike! Wes had a perfect right to defend himself. Now, let it go," Buffy interjected, albeit weakly, smiling her thanks to Wes when he moved toward the kitchen.

"Feels okay to me. Leastways, there's something there to feel and bonus points for not being in a coma." Faith nodded towards Wes's house. "I'll go fetch Summers Junior. Maybe she can talk Fangboy into a better mood ...or gag him," she threw over her shoulder as she pulled open the front door.

 

* * * * *

 

It was quite some time later before everyone's wounds had been tended. Both blondes had taken their turn in the bathtub after Wes had proclaimed that it might be easier if he could actually see where the injuries were underneath all the blood. Faith and Dawn had helped Buffy, the teenager insisting that, real or not, she still had six years worth of memories of how to put her sister back together again. That left the watcher to tend to the vampire once the women had cleared the bathroom. Spike put up the obligatory token protest, but underneath he couldn't help but be grateful as the watcher slipped Spike's arm around his shoulder so that he could bear a portion of the vampire's weight as he helped him up the stairs.

Wes grimaced as the tepid water softened the dried blood to the extent that he could peel the vampire's clothes away revealing plum-dark bruises and ragged scars all over his body in addition to the deep wound in his stomach. "What the hell happened to you? You look like someone locked you in a cage with a pack of starving Rottweilers."

"Yeah? Don't feel all that different neither."

The watcher waited patiently as he sponged the blond's back before passing over the sponge to let Spike clean the more easily accessible areas on his own.

Eventually, Spike unwound enough to admit his uncertainty. "Haven't got a bloody clue, mate." He used his foot to hook around the chain and pull the plug, letting the sanguine water escape down the drain. Wes stepped up to the edge of the bath, passing him a towel that Spike wrapped around his hips and helping him out. "Got our bringer all trussed up but before we could get out we ran into three of them ubervamp bastards. Took one out with the little toy you gave us, then I got another but not before it gave me this..." The vampire suddenly found the vinyl flooring of intense interest. "Was wastin' time tryin' to pull m'self together when the last of them stuck Buffy in the gut with that damned axe. She went down an' after that I couldn't tell you how the hell she did it. Don't know how we got back here or where half these marks come from. Soon as she was hurt, I just checked out. Have to ask the slayer about what happened after that... but I'd leave it till Rupert's around. Don't want her to have to go through it half a dozen times."

"What matters is that you both made it out," Wes pointed out sympathetically.

Spike didn't voice his own reply to that. 'What matters is I let her down again.'

 

* * * * *

 

With Faith and Dawn fussing round her and Wes bandaging the worst of Spike's wounds, she'd been denied the comfort of his touch, and even when her eyes had met his across the room his gaze would flick away as if he couldn't bear for her to look at him. The journey back to the school was awkward. Spike insisted that Buffy take the front passenger seat while he curled under both a blanket and the rear window shelf of the hatchback. Logically, it made perfect sense but Buffy chafed at the distance it put between them. She could sense Spike distancing himself from her, and apart from tangled memories of an interrupted dream she hadn't had a chance to discuss it with him. The others in the car all reacted to the atmosphere between them, resulting in a nervous near silence except for Rogue's quiet whines. 'Stupid oversensitive vamp!'

What made it worse was that she knew that some time alone would be all she needed to reassure him and bring him back to her, but she also knew that they weren't going to get any peace until the full story of the night's events had been explained and dissected.

The front of the school building was in the shade when they got there, and Wes reversed up until his rear bumper almost touched the steps before he stopped. By unspoken consent no one offered to help either the injured slayer or her mate as they got out of the car, each masking their injuries to the best of their abilities, knowing that the potentials would take it as a major blow to morale if they realised just how badly they had been hurt. Spike still somehow managed to keep at least two people and a dog between himself and Buffy at all times, and the slayer's patience was suffering.

"Drawing room or upstairs?" Wes asked, unsure where they would want to convene.

"Upstairs?" Buffy suggested. "Less chance of uninvited guests? I can cope with Giles's latest flame... sort of, if I have to, but I really don't want to do this with your dad or Travers looking at us like a pair of chimps in a cage."

 

* * * * *

 

When the group began to settle into their positions Buffy decided that she wasn't going to let Spike lurk in a corner. Taking him by the hand she pulled him down next to her on the decrepit sofa and refused to relinquish her grip. She let their bond tell its own story, her love, pride and gratitude sweeping away the vampire's self-doubt or at least keeping it in abeyance for a time. Spike's eyes finally lifted to meet hers, allowing her to read the wonder that lingered there.

"Not that it isn't an improvement on Spike sulking, but impressionable teenage eyes here," Dawn teased immediately. "Do you have to do the freaky mind-meld stuff in public?"

"Was not sulking."

"Okay, no-o-o-ot sulking. Brooding, then?"

"Heyyy, take that back!"

"Were too!" Dawn giggled. "Brooding like a great big broody vamp... And our budget doesn't run to that much hair gel or the plastic surgery for the caveman forehead or, at least, if it does, it'd be so much cooler if you spent it on a motorcycle for me when I'm old enough."

Spike gave an amused snort, the last of his black mood dissipating. "'D barely trust you on a push bike, Bit, never mind let you loose in charge of a motorbike."

Giles gave an impatient sigh. "Yes, quite, now perhaps we can have some sort of explanation as to what actually happened last night and why the two of you look to have gone several rounds with Lennox Lewis, not to mention what that report about an explosion on this morning's news was all about."

As his gaze came to rest on Buffy she shook her head emphatically before the motion obviously had an adverse effect. "So-o-o not me. Just because a girl burns down a building or three and blows up a school, why does every explosion have to be her fault?"

"Perhaps if you start at the beginning..." the elder of her watchers prompted.

"'Kay, watcher," Spike took up the tale. "We found the back way in. Got as far as a nice little armoury complete with a nice big box of explosives before we met any resistance. Killed a bunch of bringers, trussed one up ready to bring back an' that's when them Turok Han showed up. One of them seemed to think I'd be more attractive if my innards were outards. Another one stuck the nice sharp pointy end of that axe of mine through the slayer's guts, seein' as I was considerate enough to leave it around for him. Guess I passed out then. End of story."

Giles' lips pursed, and he turned to his slayer. "Would you care to fill in the blanks?"

Buffy shrugged. "Like he said. We got the first one with the garrotte. Spike staked the second one, 'cept he had to get the vampy guy on the floor and stomp on the stake to do it and he was already hurt by then... When I went down, I mean from the shock. I got back up but... that's when it all sort of changed." Buffy cast a nervous glance in Spike's direction. "We just... I mean last night when we were getting ready for a fight it was like we could hear what the other one was thinking... even if we weren't touching, not just like knowing what we were going to do in the fight but I could hear everything, clear as if he said it... like an adrenaline thing."

She looked at Spike again, as if he might have the words she needed to explain. "When I got hurt... Spike didn't pass out. I guess he doesn't remember, but he kinda went all Forbidden Planet on me... I mean I could still feel him, and it wasn't Spike but it was. I mean it wasn't the guy who's sitting here now but maybe it was a part of him."

"Forbidden Planet?" Giles asked.

"Monsters from the id, Rupert. In the film they get out of control an' damn near kill everyone."

"You mean the demon took over?" The watcher looked from Spike back to Buffy.

"I'm not sure it's as simple as that but sorta... or the local bar owners are up to their old tricks, except not with the stoop and the cave painting and the drop in IQ."

Spike ducked his head, looking through his lashes into Buffy's eyes. "'M sorry, pet. You shouldn't have to see that, let alone have it..."

Buffy's fingers came up to rest on his lips, cutting him off. "I saw him and I felt him and he was primitive but he was fierce and beautiful and he loved me and he wanted to protect me. I never doubted for one second that I was safe with him because he was part of you." Cupping his chin with her fingertips, she leaned in and pressed a light kiss on his lips. "Without you I don't know if I'd have managed to kill the third guy, and when bad guy number four turned up you more or less tore him apart... fists and fangs... Okay, so number five kamikaze-ed in the end and took our prisoner with him, but you got us both home safe."

"I thought you'd dragged me back while I was sleeping the sleep of the knocked unconscious."

Buffy rubbed at the egg shaped bruise on the back of her head. "Actually, I think that would have been more me."

"And the explosion?" Wes asked.

"Guess vamp guy number five realised that he wasn't going to walk out of the room," Buffy answered brightly. "Spike and him were fighting, and I was trying to help, only they were rolling around so much that there wasn't much I could do in case I hit Spike, and it wasn't like I couldn't tell that Spike was winning. Then, they ended up next to the box with the explosives and Turkish Han managed to kick Spike off. Next thing I know, it's snapped the lock and before it can even get the lid open Spike's picked me up and he's running for the exit. We were nearly clear before the blast caught us, but that's when I hit my head, so that's about all she wrote."

"Even with Spike's speed, it seems hard to believe that you'd be able to outrun an explosion," Wes offered. "Especially with his injuries."

"I think maybe there was some sort of delay, but that could be the concussion talking. It was one of those slo-mo, total clarity sort of moments."

"Whatever way you look at it, they weren't just storing that stuff down there," Spike grumbled. "That box was left there for us to find and they were lookin' for curiosity to kill something a bit bigger than the cat."

 

* * * * *

 

The meeting had wound to a close before too long, more because it was obvious that both Spike and Buffy were in need of further rest than because the group had come to any sort of resolution regarding how to deal with the situation. Wes was contemplating his chances of it being quiet enough to catch up on the sleep he'd missed when his cell phone rang.

"Querido?"

Wes smiled. "I'm willing to answer to that. Now, what's wrong?"

"There has to be something wrong?"

"It's still an hour or two before Oz was meant to meet you to help you and the others move in, so let's say I have a hunch."

"Okay, I need you to come with me to LA. I need to pick someone up from the airport, and I think after what happened last night it might be wise for you to bring a gun."

"The person you're meeting shouldn't be in any danger, Marie. Not unless they were a watcher or a potential."

"She was a watcher." Several seconds passed while Wes tried to make sense of this news before Marie continued with a touch of nervousness in her voice. "I believe you call her mother."

"P-pardon?" Wes stuttered into his phone, in stark contrast to his previous relaxed tone.

He gulped deeply as Marie, once more, confirmed the identity of the person she was meeting. Suddenly, he was convinced regarding the reasons for Marie's silence on the matter up to this point. There was no way, were he to be placed in the same room as his father, that he'd be able to keep this secret.

"H-how? No, wait! We can do this on our way to L.A. Strangely, I think it might be for the best if I were to leave before my father is up and around. Give me fifteen minutes to grab a shower and a fresh coffee and I'll pick you up. That way we can leave your car in case Lily or Clem should need it while we're away." His voice softened and he added the words, "Me too," before he ended the call.

His gaze fell on Oz, who was collecting up the empty coffee mugs that had been left around in the wake of the football match and the impromptu follow up meeting. The redhead's half-smile and his minimalist nod were enough for Wes to know that Marie's family would be securely moved into the school on his return.

 

* * * * *

 

Giles finally resorted to simply ordering everyone out of the attic's living area. "Buffy, I'm sure you can read your post just as easily in your room. If you and Spike plan to supervise your S.I.T. groups as normal tomorrow, you are both going to need all the rest you can get. As to the rest of you, those of you who aren't returning to their beds can make themselves useful in the library or in the kitchen until it's a more reasonable hour. I'm sure Spike wouldn't be too upset if someone were to bring him some heated blood. But no one's going to get any sleep with the rest of you rehashing Ireland's miracle 3-0 win... And if any of you see Anya before I do, could you ask her to meet me in the library some time after eleven?"

Giles shooed the waifs and strays on their ways before he searched out a change of clothes and took advantage of everyone's absence to remove the two blood-stained leather coats that were draped over the sofa where Buffy and Spike had been sitting. Taking his prizes, he made his way to Lydia's office.

The blonde awoke as the door to her office opened and she reached out to switch on a lamp that rested on an end table beside her makeshift bed. Her welcoming smile soothed his nerves.

"Giles, were you aware that you have a large portion of the instructions for a truth spell in mirror writing on your left cheek?"

 

* * * * *

 

Spike looked at the company logo on the first of the envelopes that were addressed to him and skipped over it to open the second. He hesitated to pass on the information it contained to Buffy, not now, maybe in a day or two when she'd... when they were both...

"What is it?" Buffy asked, mentally thanking Giles for his insistence that they go to their room. The more intimate surroundings allowed her to cuddle in close. Her flesh brushed against Spike's and she felt his sadness and reluctance.

Knowing he couldn't procrastinate any longer, he passed over the elegant hand-written sheet that announced that the suits and dresses he had ordered were ready for their first fittings.

A large smile flickered on Buffy's face before the incongruity of the vampire's reaction once more took hold.

"What's wrong? I mean, this is good. It's good, right?"

"It's good, honey." Spike pulled her into a hug. "It's just we never talked about what you wanted to do... after..."

"After Willow."

"Yeah, after Red." Neither spoke further, and Spike's grip tightened until there wasn't a millimetre between them. Later they could think about weddings and dead bridesmaids. For now, they simply held each other.

 

* * * * *

 

Xander awoke slowly. He couldn't help having this feeling that something was deeply wrong.

'Anya here? Big check,' he thought, knowing that no one else could manage quite the same chainsaw effect without waking themselves up.

'Little Xander awake and ready to play? Check.

Sunday morning. No need for anyone to rush off? Check.'

The arm he had wrapped around his wife's waist tightened and she stirred in her sleep. Her in-out snoring became a series of snorts, then, a snuffle and, then, stilled completely. Her behind nudged provocatively against him, and still Xander tried to pinpoint what the proverbial fly buzzing around inside his brain might be.

'Spike and Buffy twenty-four hour sexathon sound effects? Wait a minute...

Way past time for patrol? Yep!

Way too early for Spike to be moving his undead ass-. Woah, bad images! Way too early for Spike to be out of bed. Not much better.'

Xander couldn't work out which affected him more. The picture of Spike's naked push-ups, all the worse for being transposed from his crypt to the room next door and for the image of Buffy arching up under him, was distressing enough. The freaksome idea that he found the lack of any panting, moaning or screaming penetrating through the walls to be more than a little worrying didn't help. The fact that Anya might want to revisit her vengeance roots, if she realised that he was lying naked in bed with her and worrying about the fact he couldn't hear the couple next door having sex... That reached all the way up to terrifying.

'Little Xander? Suddenly not so playful...'

He leaned over and kissed Anya gently on the cheek. "How about I bring you breakfast in bed?"

Anya let out a sleepy "Mmmmmm," of appreciation. "With waffles?" she asked.

"Not sure I can manage waffles in the watcher kitchen. If not, maybe pancakes..."

Anya let out another contented moan and snuggled back into her pillow. Xander felt around on the floor until he located his pyjamas and congratulated himself on avoiding potential disaster and making Anya smile all at the same time. Maybe he was getting the hang of this marriage gig after all.

 

* * * * *

 

Wes draped his towel over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, placed his shaving kit on the table and accepted the mug of black coffee that Oz poured for him.

Tara passed Bee a braised chicken breast from the fridge and then removed a gallon of milk and placed it on the table. She gifted him with a gentle upward curve of her lips for him alone. "If you wait a few minutes there'll be pancakes."

As if by magic, Xander appeared. "Did someone mention pancakes?"

"Sorry," Wes answered in between gulps of coffee. "No time." He upended the cup, draining the last of it.

"Want me to put those in your room?" Oz asked, setting about the task of emptying yesterday's brew from the massive tea urn that the watchers had brought with them, ready to refill it once more.

Wes checked in his jeans pockets for his car keys. Finding them there, he gave a nod of assent, voiced his thanks and headed out.

Xander shook his head as the watcher departed. "There's something deeply suspicious about a guy that can't make time for pancakes... And speaking of deeply suspicious, how come we haven't heard from Spike and his palace of perversion this morning?"

 

* * * * *

 

Marie stepped forward to meet Wes as his car pulled up, leaving Rosa with her grandmother on the front step of the apartment block. She gave him a tentative smile as he opened the car door. "Are you mad at me?"

Wes pulled her into a hug before moving back to look her up and down. "Mad? No. Amazed? Perhaps. Nervous? A little. Bemused? Definitely. And in awe and more than a little glad that you're on my side... I won't say that I don't have a few pertinent questions, but, so far, no, I'm not mad at you." He waited until Marie's smile made it to full bloom before he winked at Rosa over her mother's shoulder. The child took this as her cue to claim a hug.

Marie stepped away to let her in. "She wouldn't settle to pack her things until I promised she could see you before we left." She waited until her daughter was eventually mollified sufficiently to accept a parting hug from her and return to Lily, who wasn't about to let Wes leave without one last embrace and a whispered word of wisdom in the Englishman's ear.

"All you need to do is be yourself and your mother will be proud of you."

Wes tightened his grip on the old demon, picking up her slight form and twirling round before he sat her back down, letting her huff and pretend she was too old for such things. "I hope so," he answered, climbing back into the car.

 

* * * * *

 

Marie waited until Wes had manoeuvered them onto the freeway south and then broached the subject that seemed to hover unspoken in the air between them. "You said you had some things you wanted to ask?"

Wes's mouth formed a wry twist. "I was rather deciding whether I should start with 'How?' or 'Why?'," he admitted.

Marie's smile was almost a smirk. "Even in England's home counties there aren't that many Wyndam Pryces, first initial R, no 'h' in Wyndam, Pryce with a 'y'. I think there were perhaps three Wyndam Pryces all told and I could be wrong, but I'm guessing even if your mother and father's number hadn't been listed, I could have picked any one and got some sort of relative."

"Well... yes," Wes flustered, looking embarrassed that he hadn't realised just how easy it would be. "I suppose that leaves 'Why?'."

Marie shrugged, though Wes didn't notice with his gaze fixed on the road. "I don't like being the reason you get hurt. You said once that your mother wasn't the type to make you choose between me and your family. I put that together with how I would feel if my husband was planning on giving away the amount of money your father offered me. I guess I thought if your mother wouldn't object to me, then she wouldn't exactly be pleased with your dad's scheme to buy me off and I didn't think she'd buy into the idea of disinheriting you. I took a chance and called her."

"And judging by my father's inability to withdraw cash from any of his accounts it would appear that you were correct, though, again, I have to admit to being at a loss as to how she did that."

Marie couldn't prevent a giggle, though she stifled it beneath her hand. "She cleared them all out?" she asked.

"Yes. Now... are you going to tell me just how that came about?"

"You tell me. When I rang her originally I was thinking maybe she'd get on the phone and tell your dad to stop being an idiot. I might have mentioned that if they mainly used a joint account, then she might be able to make him reconsider his actions if she gave him a bit of a shock. The rest of it was down to your mother.

You worked for the council in the field. What would have happened to your bank accounts if you had been eaten up by the mayor? If you just disappeared one day and there was no body..."

"Actually, it's standard practice for watchers in the field that, where possible, a trusted family member be nominated to have power of attorney..." Wes's voice trailed away to a whisper as he realised the extent of the upcoming battle. "And he can't reverse the position because my mother was always based at the London office. She never signed anything like that."

"Even if she had, she said she would have arranged for her solicitors to have it reversed before she withdrew any of the money."

"My father has been retired for years. He's not going to be amused when he realises that mother has taken advantage of a legal privilege that he would have rescinded long ago, had he even remotely contemplated that she would make use of it in this way."

"Is your father ever amused by anything other than his attempts to belittle people? Your mother has seized the opening advantage. She's shown him that she won't tolerate his behaviour. Now, it's time to begin negotiations."

"With a little advice from her legal counsel?" Wes asked.

"A little, perhaps, though I don't think your mother will need much guidance."

 

* * * * *

 

"Which terminal is she arriving at, and how long do we have before she gets here?" Wes asked as they made their way toward the airport.

"Actually, there's no rush. We're meeting her for a late breakfast at the Sheraton Gateway. She flew in overnight," Marie informed him. "She said to have Reception call her room when we arrived and then go ahead and order and she would come down and meet us."

Wes sighed, his nervousness making him slightly shirty. "So my mother is happily sleeping off her jet lag in her luxury hotel room. With a little help from you, she's already proved she can hold my father to ransom. All she need do now is administer the coup de grace. It may be paranoia setting in, but I find myself beginning to feel rather superfluous. I don't even know why she bothered to cross the Atlantic. She could have done all this by phone."

"She's trying to help... and so was I, though you don't sound so sure about that."

Wes hesitated, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I suppose when it comes to my mother my feelings are somewhat ambivalent and the fact that the two of you seem to be getting on so well without ever having met... I don't know what's coming. I almost feel like an outsider. I don't know how to react and it's making me on edge."

Marie's hand came to rest on Wes's thigh, kneading softly at the tense muscles there. "Querido, the only thing your mother and I have in common is you. If accepting her help means that your father and his objections go away, then, I'll take anything she cares to offer, but it's for us; me, you and Rosa. If I find out that maybe I like her, that's just a bonus."

 

* * * * *

 

Wes had already finished his croissants and was reduced to getting refills on his coffee while he watched Marie work her way through a full English breakfast. He teased her about putting on weight, though he didn't believe it was likely to happen any time in the near future and wasn't overly worried about an extra curve or two.

Marie laughed back at him. "If you think I eat too much now, caro, you don't want to be around if I get pregnant again."

"Well, I most certainly don't intend to be anywhere else." Wes sounded mildly affronted.

"If you're that serious about the girl, then it's just as well she called me... before she becomes the mother of my grandchildren."

Wes rose from his seat and Marie put down her knife and fork to greet the elegant woman who had come up behind her son.

Penelope Wyndam Pryce's eyes twinkled as if she enjoyed discomfiting Wes, but unlike her husband there was no element of malice in her amusement. "You, I assume, must be Marie?" She extended a friendly hand, an elegant watch of solid gold showing beneath the sleeve of her exquisitely tailored trouser suit. Marie noticed, however, that her nails were unlacquered and trimmed functionally short and that there were slight calluses on her fingers that intimated she was no hot house flower. Her hair was cut into a fringeless jaw-length bob and streaked with a shade of ash blonde that made it almost irrelevant whether there might be a strand or two of grey in the mix. Her complexion was so flawless that Marie wondered if she'd been applying Oil of Olay when she was still in ankle socks. She was almost as tall as Wesley and, though she wasn't slender, she could never be described as heavyset. Instead, she seemed to radiate a robust health, her height allowing her to easily carry off a few extra pounds with ease. She could have passed for anything between mid forties and late fifties, though the presence of her son seemed to indicate the higher end of that range.

Marie took the woman's hand. "And you must be Wesley's mother. Why don't you join us?"

"Wesley's mother is a rather cumbersome title. Perhaps you should try Penny?" Before Marie could respond, she had turned her attention to Wes. She took in his open necked shirt, jeans and CAT boots. "That's a new look for you. Contacts or laser surgery?" she asked.

"C-Contacts."

"Shame, laser surgery is an absolute boon, but you look good. This young lady obviously agrees with you. Now, I know I try not to interfere between your father and yourself. Most of the time it's counterproductive, but didn't it even occur to you to let me know that he was behaving like an absolute ass?"

Marie couldn't resist. "There are times when he doesn't behave like an ass?" she asked.

Penelope's mouth twitched slightly. "No, actually. I like this one, Wesley." She tilted her head toward Marie. "...Not that I ever had the privilege of meeting any of his other girlfriends, you understand?

Now, what's to be done about Roger?"

"I would normally offer to put you up," Wes averred as he navigated his way through Sunnydale. "But at the moment everyone is staying at this school that Quentin Travers has set up. Security in numbers sort of thing."

"Don't flap, Wesley. I'm quite sure they'll find room for one more somewhere and, should you still have excess space the next time I visit, I'll take you up on your offer then."

"I'll speak to Lydia when we get there. You remember her? Lydia Chalmers? She seems to be Quentin's second in command these days. I'm sure she'll know of somewhere."

"Of course I know Lydia Chalmers. I worked with her father for years. Actually, there was a time back in the day, before they both got married, when Quentin was rather sweet on her mother."

Wes's brain did somersaults at the idea of Quentin Travers ever being 'sweet' on anyone. It was just the latest in a series of assaults on the world as he knew it.

It had taken Penelope little time to lay out her plans for confronting Wes's father, and neither Marie nor her son had felt entirely comfortable adding further to the potential scenario she had described. Wes had found himself reeling as his mother had spoken, long-held assumptions crumbling at their foundations but not quite toppling.

Thankfully, on the journey back to Sunnydale, Marie had taken it upon herself to entertain his mother. They had swapped stories, Marie telling his mother about how she had met Rosa's father and revealing, in warm tones, how she had come to find a home in the bosom of his family. She had described Rosa, Lily and Clem, her affection clear.

When she had asked about Wes's father, it had been obvious that she was puzzled as to how Penny had come to be married to him. The question was one that Wes had never asked. His parents' marriage had always seemed as immutable as the stars. They shared a house, a vocation, a child, a front they put up to the world and little else. It had been that way as long as Wesley could remember, and it had never occurred to him to that perhaps it hadn't always been so anodyne.

Penelope had told her own story, not as a way to fill in time on the journey or as an anecdote to entertain her son's new girlfriend. She spoke with levity, and, though she faced Marie, her words were chosen for her son. She explained how as a talented but naïve undergraduate, already preparing for a life within the council, she had been introduced to the heroic and dashing Roger Wyndam Pryce at a family wedding. She told how his stories of travelling the world, battling vampires and other demons, had seemed in her inexperienced eyes to cast him in the role of modern-day knight. In those days, even in the twilight of the "Swinging Sixties", there were still far stricter ideas as to what was proper. 'Good' girls barely did more than offer their date a chaste kiss on the cheek goodnight. Dating wasn't dating. It was courting. When Roger had begun to pay her particular attention, it had made her feel like the proverbial fairy tale princess.

Though she cast it in far more pragmatic terms, it hadn't taken long before her innocence had lain shattered at his feet. The wedding, a scant week after her graduation, had been every girl's dream. The honeymoon had lasted nearly a year before her pregnancy began to show. Roger's absences became longer and more frequent and, when he did return home, they no longer shared more than a bed. At first, she had convinced herself that once she had given birth things would return to normal. Gradually, she had realised that while she had married for love, Roger had never been the paladin she'd convinced herself that he was. She also realised that love had even less to do with his motivation. Roger didn't believe in romantic love. He had sought out a wife whose family connections could consolidate his position in the political arena that was the council, a wife whose dowry included a London town house and enough money to carry out renovations on the Wyndam Pryce family home, a strong, healthy, intelligent wife who would bear him strong, healthy, intelligent heirs.

He wasn't a bad man, Penelope had insisted, nor, in his own way, a bad husband. He had never made her promises of love. She had assumed that to be the reason behind his proposal, but with hindsight she realised that although he had set out to woo her, he'd never actually lied about his feelings. The quintessential English reserve that she'd once thought endearing, turned out not to be a barrier behind which he hid his true emotions but the means by which they had been quelled into near oblivion.

Toward the end of her pregnancy, she had moved into her own rooms and, when Wesley had been born, Roger had never pushed her on her decision, though she suspected that had she borne a girl he would have been less inclined to let matters remain as they were. In those days, divorce was still relatively uncommon and, without exception, messy. Even though Roger was seldom home for more than a few weeks at a time, his background presence provided respectability. Divorce would never have been granted on the simple grounds of "irreconcilable differences". She would have had to provide details of Roger's infidelities and they would have provided fodder for the society pages for months, the stories common gossip for everyone in their circle of acquaintances and all their servants. Even if they had moved away from the area, Penelope had opined, the stigma of being raised by a single mother would have blighted Wesley's childhood more surely than being raised within what had become a marriage of convenience. As it was, Roger kept his dalliances discreetly outside Britain and, as he got older, they had waned altogether.

The marriage was far from the one she had anticipated as a young bride, but Penelope admitted that for the most part she had been content with how things had turned out, seeing little need to change things even after Wesley had grown up and left home. Roger, she knew, could be boorish and arrogant, prejudiced and judgemental, but for the most part, even though there were times he overstepped the mark, it was usually because he was doing what he thought, in his antiquated mindset, was right. That was when he needed someone to come in and point out how wrong he was, she had added.

 

* * * * *

 

"Spike said you'd be okay about sharing with Wes, so we put Brand in with Oz unless Giles needs the bed and then he gets to sleep on the sofa in the living room. Ha Nath's with Clem, and Lily and Rosa are together. If he was wrong we could always switch things around some more..." Dawn didn't mention that Lily hadn't expected her to mind either.

"That's fine," Marie agreed, taking Rosa's hand as the young girl towed her off to show her their rooms.

"Come see where me and Gramma are going to sleep! There's lots of other little girls here but some of them talk funny. Mr Giles said I might be able to play with them later if you said it was okay. You don't mind, mommy, do you?" Rosa's excitement was obvious and Marie was the last one to want to disappoint her but she couldn't quell her feeling of foreboding. As she followed her daughter into the end room beside Wes's, her enthusiasm was largely feigned and her eyes sought out Lily's. The old demon gave the barest of nods and a gentle smile as if to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about.

"What about all the old furniture that was in the other rooms?" Wes asked, noting that the main living area seemed no more crowded than before.

"Basement," Oz replied with typical economy.

"Spike's been up and about?" Wes asked next.

Lily shrugged. "I heat blood. Make him eat. Sleep no do good if body not have what it needs to make better."

Wes gave a wry smile at the thought of the recalcitrant vampire being mothered and bullied in equal parts by his friend's mother.

"And Buffy?"

"Tara and Bee make chicken soup. When it ready, we feed skinny girl, too." Lily's tone was firm and Wes suspected even slayer stubbornness wasn't going to be allowed to deflect her from her self-appointed task. Wesley could see an upcoming battle of wills. Of course, even that might not compete with the one going on downstairs.

 

* * * * *

 

Penelope never even got as far as hanging up the last of her clothes in the windowless room that Lydia had allocated her for the duration of her stay. Room was actually a fairly generous term for it, as anyone other than a real estate agent would probably call it a walk-in closet. Nevertheless, it was big enough to accomodate a narrow cot once one had been located, came ready equipped with rows of coathooks where Penelope could hang her clothes and, unlike the other possible options, she wasn't required to share it with anyone else.

"Penelope?" Quentin's voice drew out each of the four syllables of her name as if he was savouring it. "We weren't expecting you. You should have called to let us know you were planning to visit."

Penelope placed the hanger in her hand over one of the coathooks, fixed a smile on her face, and turned to meet her reception committee. She gave a flick of her right wrist, almost a shoo-ing gesture. "Now, surely I don't need to make an appointment with the head of The Council of Watchers because I have family matters to discuss with my husband. After all, the two areas are separate and really shouldn't overlap. Should they, Roger?"

Quentin cleared his throat. "I merely thought, as a friend you understand, that Roger should be made aware of the situation so that he might offer some... helpful advice to Wesley in his position as head of the family."

Penelope raised an eyebrow. "So, if I understand you correctly, the council has no official position regarding my son's girlfriend and, as you were merely acting as a friend rather than in any gainful capacity at the council, it would be unethical for the council to pay Roger's air fares... and yet, I seem to recall Roger, in his rather vague description of his reasons for coming here, calling it a business trip."

"Well... obviously, with my experience, I'm acting as a consultant in the council's time of crisis."

"Nonsense, Roger. Your experience is years out of date. Your only reason for being here is because Quentin hopes that you can put pressure on Wesley. Wesley is important because he has the trust of the slayers, as does Rupert Giles, but Quentin has already played all the cards he can use against Mr Giles and the best he has come out with is an uneasy truce. He thinks Wesley is the weakest link. If he can control Wesley, through you if necessary, then by association he gains back some measure of power over the slayers.

His logic is as flawed now as it was when he sent Wesley into his first totally untenable position as their watcher. The council has betrayed both of these girls and, while they may make alliances with it, they will never trust any of its members who blindly follow its teachings. Only those with the flexibility to adjust to whatever position they find themselves in and the strength of character to stand up for what they believe to be right will be accepted by them. So, even if you had succeeded in bullying or bribing him into line, the chances are that he would no longer occupy a position of trust."

"Nonsense, Penelope. I'm here because I don't wish to see our son further disgrace the family name by running around with some Mexican puta with an illegitimate demon spawn tugging at her petticoats."

"That is why you came. It's not why Quentin asked you... not that he approves, but, to him, making Wesley give up Marie is just a test to see how far the boy can be pushed. What neither of you seem to have noticed is that Wesley's time in the States has turned him into a man."

"And what sort of man is he that he would hide behind his mother?"

Up until that point, Penelope had been reasonable. Someone watching might almost have thought that she was simply playing devil's advocate, rather than expressing her own point of view, but, with Roger's barb, her eyes turned icy. "Quentin, dear, I'm afraid you didn't seem to pick up on it when I used the subtle approach, but now I really must insist that you give us some privacy. My husband and I have family matters to discuss."

 

* * * * *

 

Marie didn't get a chance to speak to Wes alone until she convinced Rosa to take an afternoon nap. She drew the watcher into their room and closed the door tight behind them. "Are you okay?" she asked. "I know that you said that you were alright with things, but you've been kind of quiet."

Wes sighed and sat down on one of the cots, pulling Marie into his lap. His hand stroked the dark waves of her hair as if its silken touch comforted him. "It's complicated."

Marie gave a nod of understanding and brushed her lips against his cheek. "You don't have to-."

"I want to. I just... Mother's never been so...

When I was a child I used to dread father coming home. Whenever something went wrong, he seemed to be there. If I forgot to wipe my feet when I came in from the stables and got mud on the floors, if I spilled my drink on the book I was reading, if I broke an ornament, if I tripped and fell, if I let someone else beat me in an exam... he would be there, telling me how disappointed he was. He could go on for hours, making me stand in front of his desk while he droned on and on, telling me how worthless I was. Mother never intervened. She never tried to stop him.

Oh, she'd wait till he went out or till he went back to work and she'd always have some special treat, some ice cream or a trip to the beach, as if she thought that would make it better. She used to say that if she interrupted him that he only got worse, that he felt as if he had more to prove, but I always thought that she just didn't want to argue with him, that I wasn't important enough to argue for." Wes paused and Marie pressed another kiss against his temple, her gentle fingertips stroking his opposite cheek.

"By the time I was eight, I was already at boarding school during term time but at home I was still wetting the bed whenever father was there. Mother normally worked from home as much as she could during the school holidays. She would let me sit with her and explain her translations as she worked on them. I learned to read Coptic at much the same time as I learned to read English, but when father was there she'd go into the office more often. That was when he started with the cupboard. Every morning after mother had left he'd come up and check my bed and, if the bed wasn't dry, he'd lock me in the cupboard under the stairs... until I learned how to control my bladder, he would say. Two hours at a time then three, then four."

Wes shrugged. "I couldn't tell her. I couldn't admit how petrified I was when he shut me in there in the dark. I didn't even want to admit why he'd put me there. I couldn't bear it if I did tell her and she just stood there and let him do it again and again. I think that scared me most of all. I wanted to believe that if she knew, then she'd somehow make it stop. If I had really believed it, I suppose I would have told her, but deep down I must have thought if I did, then I'd have to give up the illusion that she cared enough to stop him.

Eventually, the bed wetting stopped, but the punishments went on and the fear never went away. I ended up afraid of everything for a very long time. Everything I did was to try to live up to the standards that my father set, even though I knew that I'd never be able to satisfy him and so I was doomed to fail, over and over again." He sighed deeply again.

"And for a long time I resented my mother nearly as much as my father. Even though I could never bring myself to tell her what was happening, even though he never hit me or did anything that would have left any physical signs, I just couldn't help feeling that if she knew me better, if she loved me more, if they hadn't sent me away, she would have been able to tell. She would have known without me having to say anything and I felt like she'd let me down.

Today, it's almost been like going through the looking glass... Hearing what she plans to do. Hearing her talk about meeting father... as if they were real people, not my parents. Everything's the same, but it's all warped and shifted and I'm wondering, if that scared little boy had just said something, would it all have been different?"

"You could ask her," Marie suggested softly.

Wes shook his head. "No, not now. I'm not him any more. That's behind me. It has been for some time now, but if I needed proof of that before, then I got it when I stood up to my father the other night."

"When you punched him in the mouth, you mean?"

"Yes, when you gave me the strength to punch him in the mouth... and every time since when I've not let him bully me or boss me around. The fear, the nervousness, they're still there but he doesn't own me any more, and every time I stand up to him it gets the tiniest bit easier. He'll never own me again.

If I were to talk to mother about it all, that would mean going back there, reliving that part of my past, pulling the scabs off old wounds. It's not something I want to do. It's not something I feel the need to do. There's nothing to be gained. My father and I will never see eye to eye. My mother and I will never be close, but I think the best chance we have of any sort of relationship is if we forget who I thought she was and who I used to be and we concentrate on the people we are today."

"You're okay with that?"

"Yeah, I like where I am now. I'm happy with who I am now. I have a job I'm good at. I have a beautiful girlfriend with an adorable daughter, and they both seem to like me just as I am."

"Is that enough?" Marie asked, worried that Wes was merely papering over the cracks in case he looked weak in front of her, even though she knew a weak man wouldn't have been able to tell her the things he had.

"You can have Lily check me out once I've had a chance to get my balance after they leave. She can search for any lingering trauma, but there are some things that when you manage to move on it's best just to forget."

There were no words for Marie to say, nothing that could speak more eloquently of her feelings than her chaste kisses and sweet caresses. Each touch conveyed a message of comfort and love. The tension gradually left Wes's body, and the pair shifted until they lay curled around each other on the cot. A delicate hand stroked and carded through Wes's hair until his breath was shallow and even, and he slept a dreamless sleep.

Roger barely waited until Quentin was out of earshot and Penelope had closed them both in the confined space of her tiny windowless room, before he turned on his wife and berated her. "How can you justify such a display of poor manners when Quentin has been the perfect host?"

"In much the same way as you justify belittling our only son in front of his de facto employer when he isn't even in the room to defend himself. And Quentin is no more the perfect host than he's Mr Universe. He's a manipulative old goat, who just happens to be one of your cronies." Penelope refused to be cowed, even though in the tight quarters she had to crane her neck to look her husband in the eye and his sheer bulk made it near impossible to maintain her own personal space. "Really, Roger, we both know that I don't respond well to your bullying, so why don't you take a seat, curb your self-righteous bluster and listen to your options?"

Roger continued to glower down at her. "My options?" he asked. "What exactly is that meant to mean?"

"It means if you don't sit down, shut up and hear me out that you might as well cut up every piece of plastic you have in that wallet of yours and use them for confetti."

Roger's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "You? You took all the money out of our account?"

Penelope gave the stunned watcher a gentle push in the centre of his chest and he finally dropped to sit on the edge of the tiny bed. No longer having to look up, Penny leaned casually against the room door. "Our account, your accounts... all of them. You crossed a line, Roger, and now you have to deal with the consequences."

"Now, look here," Roger blustered. "You had no right to touch that money-."

"But, darling, of course I did. Don't you remember? You signed all the papers... Power of attorney... and I hate to sound childish, but you started this. I believe you planned to liquidate two hundred thousand dollars from our investment portfolio without consulting me-."

"Now, Penny, it wasn't like that..." Roger tried to interrupt.

"Didn't you hear the part about staying quiet and listening?" Penny's piercing blue eyes glittered like ice chips. "I obviously let you get away with far too much over the years, but you seem to forget that if it wasn't for the money from my family, that country manor you're so proud of would either be running to wrack and ruin or you'd be living in the gate-house instead of the gardener, and the family pile would be so many yuppie apartments.

If you choose to continue interfering in Wesley's life, then I'll make sure that's exactly what happens."

"I was just trying to convince him to do what's best."

"Rot. Have you even spoken to the girl? Made any sort of effort to get to know her? Of course not. Well, let me tell you, the girl is intelligent, friendly, loyal to those she cares about... and, yes, that applies to her late husband's family as well as to our son-."

"Husband? Is that what he told you? She was no more married to him than she is to Wesley."

"Don't be such a bigot. If you had taken a few hours to speak to the pair of them in a civilised manner, rather than swigging brandy with Quentin and hatching ridiculous plots to disinherit our son in favour of that twit you call a nephew, then you would know that her relationship with Rosa's father was more committed than many that come with the bit of paper that you seem to find so important. He gave her a wedding ring. They made the same promises to each other as any married couple. It's not their fault Church and State weren't prepared to acknowledge it. As far as I'm concerned, to all intents and purposes, they were married, and much the same as I won't stand for you insulting Wesley behind his back, I don't want to hear you making any more remarks about Marie."

Roger snorted. "Even if you do say she was married to this demon, then she can hardly have taken much persuading to fall into Wesley's bed so soon after he returned to town."

It was Penny's turn to snort. "You haven't even looked at him properly, have you? If he wanted, Wesley could have a different woman in his bed every night with very little persuasion at all. Instead, he's building a relationship with someone who cares about him and someone he cares about, and as for that word you used to describe her earlier, wouldn't that be the term to describe someone who took the money you offered her? I happen to think that both of them have excellent taste and before you say anything else, in this instance you will listen to my opinion.

You betrayed my trust when you offered Marie money that wasn't yours to give, and you insulted both him and me when you tried to blackmail our son with something that is already his by right and when you threatened to overlook him in favour of that moron.

This is what is going to happen. You are going to be on the first flight out of LA tomorrow morning. You are going to keep your nose out of Wesley's career and his love life from now on and, perhaps, when you're safely back in England, I'll release enough funds into the joint account to keep you in the style to which you're accustomed until I get back home, after I spend some time getting to know Marie and her family."

"That's preposterous! You can't get away with that!"

"But I can. You see, right now, I have control of all the readily convertible assets we own between us. True, if you don't see reason, then, in order to safeguard Wesley's inheritance, I might need to institute divorce proceedings and eventually you might get some of the liquid assets, but possession is nine tenths of the law and it could take a very long time to sort it all out. A long time where you won't have any income to live on. I'm willing to gamble that you won't let it come to that because, if you do, then, considering all the renovations to the house were funded by the money my parents left me, there's a good chance that either I'd get ownership by paying you some portion of its value, or you'd end up having to sell it to settle up. Whatever happens, you would end up with significantly less than half of what we own collectively. Now, at that point, it would be entirely up to you if you wanted to leave whatever you might get to Geoffrey, but everything that's awarded to me, and, believe me, that will be most of it, will go to Wesley, directly to Wesley, if I should happen to die before you."

Roger gave a grunt of disgust. "I should have known he'd go running to his mother. He always was a mummy's boy."

"Actually, it was Marie who called me. Like I said, she's a bright girl. I believe that Wesley simply planned to tell you to keep any money that came with strings attached. I've brought him up to speed, however, so don't expect him to sign anything that might be used against him. By the way, since you appear to think we no longer need the town house, it would be efficient tax-wise if we were to deed it to Wesley when I get back to England. Then, I suppose, he can either sell it and use the money to buy something over here, or put it in the hands of a letting agent and get some income from it."

"I can't believe that after nearly forty years of marriage you suddenly start talking about divorce."

"I can't believe the way you've treated our own flesh and blood. When you used to rant on, I always told Wes 'Sticks and stones', that it was just the way you were and that he shouldn't take what you said to heart, but this isn't just one of your lectures that he can let wash over him. This amounts to calculatedly and maliciously trying to destroy your own son's happiness, and quite apart from divorce being the best way to formalise my control over certain assets, I don't think I would want to remain married to someone who did such a thing. Now, why don't you go off and find Quentin so you can finish with the denial, get through the anger and work your way round toward acceptance via whatever all those other stages are?"

Roger's eyes narrowed and he looked appraisingly at Penelope, almost as if she were a stranger. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

Penelope rolled her eyes. "You never used to be this slow on the uptake. Do you really think that I would bluff about something like this?"

Roger rose to his feet and strode over to where Penelope stood, forcing her to look up at him once more. "Don't think this is the last you're going to hear about this. I'll have Quentin get his lawyers to check this out."

Penny sidestepped away from Roger and opened the room door. Roger immediately stepped into the doorway. "I suspect by the time you get downstairs you'll have reconsidered on that... unless, of course, you want the entire council to know how you were outsmarted by your wife." She slowly but deliberately closed the door, Roger shifting just in time to avoid it hitting him on the ass on his way out.