As Giles had predicted, a few wary looks greeted Spike upon his return from his field adventure. At the moment, though, Spike didn't care, still feeling a bit numb from what he'd found. Wariness, however, was soon replaced with naked lust as word spread regarding what was in the boxes he'd brought back with him and that six more crates of the same were due to arrive that afternoon.
The initial unpacking was done in the Field Services conference room with only Spike, Giles and their assistants present to take notes. As the morning wore on, they were joined by other members of the department as well as others who happened to wander by, most noticeably from Research and Archives. The room was filled with low mutters of awe as volumes rumored to be long lost and others thought to be mere myths were brought to light. Spike tried to focus on the work at hand, giving Linda pertinent information on each volume for a preliminary inventory, but it was proving increasingly difficult as the various muttered comments dribbled into his ears.
"...I could have used this in school..."
"...The church banned it in 1483; I thought they'd burned all the copies..."
"...The Annals of Vigeous? Now there's a find..."
"...The woodcuts in this one are supposed to be amazing. We're talking high-class porn, here..."
By the time Travers arrived just before lunch, Spike's nerves were nearly to the breaking point. To make matters worse, he had a herd of retired watchers in tow, most of whom had had a slayer in the field during their career. That was the final straw, realizing he'd managed to bring back Gräbner's collection the day of monthly retiree luncheon...a day he usually arranged to spend out of the office.
Something must have shown on his face because Giles suddenly took charge. "I think we've had enough browsing," he announced, "and I'm certain all of you have work to do. Archives will notify you through proper channels when everything has been cataloged."
That took care of the current staff easily enough, leaving only Travers and the retirees to deal with. They were as eager as anyone to see what had been found and didn't seem to feel the need to keep their voices low. Spike tried to stay focused on the task at hand, deliberately not looking at who'd decided to show for this month's geriatric gathering. Some of the same people could always be counted on to be present and naturally those were the ones Spike didn't want anything to do with at the moment.
Giles was busy do the director thing, making nice and explaining what was going on. Unfortunately, the retirees had questions, many of which Giles couldn't actually answer. Spike could hear him struggling, but eventually he had to give in. "William, could you join us?"
For just a moment, he considered saying no. Unfortunately, while a temper tantrum might provide momentary feelings of relief and self-justification, Spike knew the repercussions wouldn't be worth it. "Take lunch," he told Linda. "We'll get back to this later."
She nodded and slipped from the room as he fixed a neutral expression on his face and stepped over. "I'm certain you remember Dr. Ashbury-Smythe," Giles was saying, "our Assistant Director for this section."
"You mean 'William the Bloody'," came an all too familiar voice." One could always count on Iverson not to miss a free meal and nurse old wounds. "So you had the vampire make a deal with others of his kind."
Spike wasn't certain if his demon was howling for Iverson's blood or if the soul had just gotten pissed off to the point it didn't feel like making the effort to keep said demon in check. Either way, the urge to put an end to Iverson's constant jibes was suddenly almost overwhelming.
To his surprise, it was Travers who stepped in. "Charles, I don't think this is the time or place. We've just received a rather unexpected and invaluable addition to our collection through Dr. Ashbury-Smythe's efforts, so perhaps we can..."
"And why didn't the vampire tell us about this collection earlier if he knew about it? Why did he wait until now? Can he answer those questions?"
"That's not a matter for..."
"Because Gräbner would have rather destroyed the collection than let it fall into the Council's hands." Spike didn't care that he'd cut Travers off. It was speak or rip something apart and speaking was the better of the options. "All this? This wasn't with the main collection; this was hidden, mainly because Gräbner didn't want to risk my doing just what you suggested. When we got to when he and his people lived, there was precious little left except fragments; we got this because in the end, the only survivor we found decided we'd treat the books with more respect than those who'd had Gräbner killed. He told me where to find them because I'd once been counted a friend."
"And do you still count them as 'friends?'"
It was one of the few times Iverson had ever spoken directly to him and contempt dripped from every word. Staring at each other as everyone else shifted nervously, it struck Spike that it'd been over thirty years since they'd both been in New York. Thirty years that the man had been carrying this hate -- and nothing Spike did would ever ease any of it. "Hard to count them as friends when they're a pile of dust," he said quietly. "But back in the day, I did."
"Perhaps you should take a break, Giles suggested. "It's been a hard few days for you."
Spike accepted the suggestion readily, heading for the door with every intention of sequestering himself in his office until the coast was clear. He felt ragged about the edges, stress and lack of sleep causing uncomfortable memories to flit about the corners of his consciousness.
"Are you suggesting that it might actually be feeling pain at the idea some of its fellow animals were put down?"
It was the hint of smug satisfaction in Iverson's voice that proved the final straw. Spike started to turn, a threatening growl rumbling in his throat...only to find Giles standing in his way. "Spike, no."
The world was starting to look different, the colors more intense, the sound of hurried heartbeats pounding in his ears and the sweet smell of fear in the air. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear the "William" voice shouting you're going to get us staked, you idiot and managed to put a break on the change before it fully took hold.
In just those few seconds, several of the retirees -- including Iverson, Spike noted with a touch of satisfaction -- had scattered to seek the far corners of the room. The others were watching him with various degrees of curiosity and old Hodgson actually looked sympathetic.
Quentin Travers, in contrast, looked seriously annoyed.
He knew he was in his human face, but Spike wondered how far the change had gotten and that if he hadn't actually crossed a line, he'd stepped right up to it. Then Iverson started shouting, "He's dangerous! He's going to kill us all..."
"Charles, for the love of God, shut up!" Travers called over his shoulder. "William, if you'll excuse us, I think there's a discussion I need to have. I'll see you in your office later."
Giles patted him on the arm, clearly meant to offer the message everything would be alright, but his face was almost as grim as Travers. Spike opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn't sure what to actually say, so shut his mouth and went.
The day outside was lovely, sunlight touching the tops of the buildings that surrounded the Council's headquarters. Sitting behind his desk, Spike took in the view he could never actually be a part of. The specially tinted glass had been a special addition when he'd become Assistant Director so he could work comfortably and enjoy the perk of a windowed office; ironically, it'd proved far more energy efficient then normal glass and the much of the rest of the building had since been retrofitted, with more on the way.
He was feeling at odds again, not really part of one world or the other. It wasn't simply Iverson's long-standing hatred; when the man had tried to have him killed in Bangkok, it hadn't provoked this reaction, so why would simple words do it? No, it was the sense of being cut off from all the phases of his life. William was long gone, dead in an alley at a vampire's hands. Spike, killer of two slayers, had died a slower death, helped along by a chip and love and finally meeting his end in a cave in Africa. He thought he'd found himself anew with a soul and the love that had driven him to seek it, but that had slipped from his grasp and the news from Sunnydale told him that no matter how many secret, stupid romantic dreams he harbored, that avenue was closed forever.
"Well, that was bloody stupid," Giles said when he walked through the door an hour after Spike had last seen him.
"I'm not arguing with that." Spike sighed. "So should I start packing now, or wait until Travers formally drops the axe? I'm afraid Anya'll be angry with me; she's going to have to find me a buyer for the flat because I certainly won't be able to keep up the payments without this salary."
"Will you stop being an ass? You're not being fired...and stop staring out the window and look at me."
"I thought Travers would have leapt at the chance to be rid of me," Spike said as he turned his chair to find Giles had settled himself on the sofa beneath the photo of the weeping angel poet grave monument that hung on the wall.
"Quentin isn't a complete fool. He doesn't care for you, but even he has to admit you've proved an asset. I think he'd prefer you were simply a member of the department than my assistant, but he find a way to survive that. Besides, Iverson was being obviously and deliberately insulting and everyone saw it. After you left, more than one person was wondering if it'd been Iverson's intention to get you into game face. If you had changed, thought..."
"How far did I go? It's not like I can actually tell when I'm in the middle of it."
"Aside from the growling? Your eyes went yellow and the bumpies were slightly visible." Giles shook his head. "It was a near thing, but the fact you pulled back to human face so quickly helped. Yes, Quentin wants to talk to you, but as long as you don't threaten to rip his head off, it shouldn't be too difficult."
They were silent for a moment, then Giles leaned forward. "Perhaps you should go home after you talk to Quentin, take a few days to rest. Mike told me a little of what you found, but..."
"They obviously tortured some of Gräbner's minions before they killed them since blood was everywhere. Whoever did this was experienced and probably enjoyed himself. Ralf would have lingered for days if I hadn't staked him."
"They...told me what had been done to him while you were busy with the books."
There was sympathy in Giles' voice, which wasn't surprising. Giles knew what it was like to suffer at the hands of someone who took great pleasure in the task...and he'd barely avoided losing a body part or two himself. "So you understand why I was so upset with Iverson's comments."
"I wouldn't wish that type of torture on anyone." Giles paused. "One or two, perhaps, but they're not with us anymore. The problem is, you saw a friend; most everyone here only considers the fact there's one less vampire in the world."
Spike nodded, tracing a pattern on his desktop with his finger. "While Harry and Mike were being so talkative, did they mention that I bought the books we brought back with a blood oath?"
"A blood...Spike, I thought you didn't believe in that sort of thing."
"I don't. Lot of superstitious mumbo-jumbo if you asked me. But Ralf asked and it wasn't just because of the books. He was dying and I think I wanted to give him some comfort before he went. So I swore I'd track down who did this and I'd kill them."
"The Council isn't going to be happy about a personal vendetta."
"The Council will be ecstatic when they realize that vendetta will help accomplish some of their goals very nicely. We want to eliminate as many members of the Order of Aurelius as possible during this fight for control they're falling into; why not make certain whoever killed Gräbner and his minions are among them?"
"An excellent question indeed," Travers said from the office door. "Though Rupert is right; as a rule, we don't hold with personal vendettas."
"What's Iverson's excuse then?" Giles asked. "Aside from the fact he's a prat."
Travers took one of the chairs that sat in front of the desk. "I don't think Charles ever got over his slayer's death. It's not unusual and I know I don't have to tell either of you how traumatic it is to see your slayer fall in battle. He became obsessed with following your career, William, always urging us to send someone out to take care of you. Even went himself, once, when we thought we had you in Prague. Yes, he was with the group whom we thought had killed Drusilla."
"Only she was wounded." Spike let his head dropped back. "I wouldn't have come to Sunnydale if she hadn't been so sick. If I hadn't come to Sunnydale, I wouldn't have met Buffy...and I wouldn't be here now. Gotta love irony."
"He is demanding that you be staked for attempting to kill him. I assured him you weren't about to do anything of the kind. I also suggested that it would be better if he didn't persist in baiting you."
"Ya think?"
Travers offered a dry and uncomfortable chuckle before his face grew serious. "There are some things I need to ask you. First, do you know where Drusilla is?"
Spike shook his head. "Haven't a clue. Nor does Angel; though he's keeping an eye open. The silence is unlike her. Of course, she could simply be off in South America shagging that damn chaos demon."
"Chaos demon?"
"Long story. Let's just say that when Dru and I had a falling out several years ago, I found her with a chaos demon."
"I see." Travers looked somewhat bemused, but Spike was certain the teams in South America were going to be put on alert. "I also have to ask if you're in contact with any other vampires."
"Besides Angel? No. Having a soul and joining the enemy pretty much cut me off from family reunions. There's been one or two instances, but nothing like regular contact...and I was pretty much cut off from the moment I started siding with the Slayer, which was a good three years before I got my soul."
"Two," Giles corrected.
"No, it was three. I got the chip that first Thanksgiving that Buffy was in college."
"You were hardly an ally at that point."
"I helped you when you got turned into a Fyarl demon."
"Yes, but only because I offered to pay you...and you wrecked my car."
"First, evil then. Second, the military was after me. What did you expect?"
"I expected evil to be a better driver."
"Gentlemen, as amusing as this all is, I think we're straying from the point. William, aside from Angel, who is retained by this department as a consultant, you are not in regular contact with any other vampire."
"I am not."
"Rupert, you have faith in William and still trust him to run the department in your absence?"
"Absolutely."
Travers sighed and pushed himself out of the chair. "Then my official investigation is finished. We'll keep the arrangements for Rupert's absence as planned and I will do my best to keep Charles Iverson away from you. If your paths do cross, please be advised that efforts to kill him will not be looked upon kindly."
When Travers had left, Spike commented, "They're waiting for me to screw up, aren't they?"
"They have been for four years; don't give them the satisfaction. Spike, I was serious about what I said earlier; take a few days and be good to yourself. The books will be waiting when you get back."
***
He'd whined for a bit longer before admitting Giles was right and that once the books were safely inside Council headquarters, it was unlikely any harm would come to them. Even so, he'd waited until he was sure the six crates had arrived safely before he let himself be sent home with firm instructions not to see the inside of the office until Monday.
Sitting on top of his grave in Kensal Green Cemetery was likely not what Giles had had in mind. It was, however, the one place in the city where Spike was fairly certain he wouldn't be disturbed except by a vampire looking for an easy mark -- and a little spot of violence wouldn't be unwelcome at the moment. Cell phone turned off, nestled securely in a graveyard that was supposed to be closed to the public at this hour, he could sit here with his back against the appallingly ugly monument his mother had erected in his memory, listen to the sounds of distant traffic and try to find some focus again.
"This really is a most inconvenient spot if someone's trying to find you."
Anya looked annoyed, which wasn't surprising since she was out in a graveyard in the middle of the night and Giles wasn't anywhere to be seen. She was dressed for it, though, with comfortable but warm clothes, practical shoes and a stake in her hand. You could take the girl out of Sunnydale... "Wasn't trying to be found," he countered. "In fact, I came out here so I wouldn't be found."
"Well, you're worrying your friends. I got a rather frantic call from Lydia, all hormonal and panicky. She's been trying to call you all evening and didn't get any answer so she became convinced you'd gone and done something stupid after everything that's happened in the last few days. Believe me, I'll be glad when she has the baby and gets back her normal, sensible self. Scoot over."
She plopped herself on the ground next to him, leaning back against the marble. "I'd forgotten how nice this place was. It's been a while since I've been out here."
"Been a while for me, too; haven't felt the need."
"But you felt the need now." She craned her neck, peering around the grave and paying special attention to the spots next to him on the side opposite from where she sat. "No bottles. That's a good sign."
"And why do you think I'd be drinking?"
Anya ticked the points off on her fingers. "You got annoyed enough at Iverson that you considered going after him when other people were around. You just lost some friends to a rather gruesome death. And Buffy is getting married to another man in precisely ten weeks."
"I didn't realize it was that close," he said quietly. "Guess I'd tried to put it out of my mind." He sighed and tilted his head back to let it rest against the marble. "Do you ever regret it, Anya? Becoming a demon, I mean."
She was quiet for a long time. "No," she said at last. "There are some things I wish I could change, but if I hadn't accepted D'Hoffryn's offer, I probably wouldn't have met Rupert. I certainly wouldn't have had a chance to get close to him. If Olaf being an unfaithful idiot, being a vengeance demon for twelve hundred years and Xander just being an idiot means I get to have this time with Rupert, it's all worth it. You?"
"Sometimes." It wasn't the easiest of admissions, and Anya was probably the only one he'd make it to. "I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't died, what type of life I'd have led. Wouldn't have married Cecily Adams; that was obvious to me even then. But I had a decent fortune and I would have found someone who was acceptable. There would have been children eventually, but my sons might have well died in the war like so many. The men don't live particularly long in my family, so I might well have died in the late teens or early twenties. My headstone would probably note I was 'beloved husband and father', maybe a minor poet. In some ways, it would have been a far easier life."
"What, you wouldn't have wanted a grand monument like this?"
Anya was grinning as she indicated the weeping angel poet that loomed above him. Spike sighed. "I don't know what Mother was thinking. It's really not her taste at all...and I don't understand why she had to put one of my verses on there. Someone must have convinced her it was 'proper feeling' and all that rot. I really felt like strangling Harry and Mike when they gave me that print."
"You put it on your office wall anyway."
"Of course I did. I know the intent...and it's a reminder that people I care about sometimes do things that I don't understand." He couldn't help smiling. "Besides, it's fun to watch some people twitch when they realize it my monument. Harry and Mike took great care to ensure the name was visible."
They both laughed then settled into a comfortable quietness. This was one thing Spike definitely didn't regret, that somewhere along the way, he and Anya had become friends. "I'm going to miss Mike when he's in Sunnydale," he admitted after a while. "It's like breaking up the band."
"Rupert says you're convinced he's the best man for the job."
"He is, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about sending him into a Hellmouth. And then there's Xander, who you know is going to insist on showing them how it's done."
"Oh, Mike's going to love that." Now it was Anya's turn to sigh. "I'm not looking forward to going back to Sunnydale."
"Didn't think you were, pet; not with all the bad memories associated with the place."
"It's not just the memories; after twelve-hundred years, I've got a lot of places that have bad memories associated with them, some far worse than anything that happened in Sunnydale. It's just...Rupert gets depressed every time he goes back to see Buffy because it's not often enough. He doesn't want her living around the corner, but it's been maybe a dozen times in the past six years and that hurts because he really does think of her as a daughter."
"Since Rupert's playing Father of the Bride, she hasn't asked you to take the Mum role, has she?"
Anya laughed, a cheerful sound that echoed over the empty graveyard. "No. She did ask me to be a bridesmaid, though. Dawn's the Maid of Honor and Willow's the other bridesmaid. I think there's someone else, Kevin's sister or something. The dresses are decent, too; what was I thinking with those awful green things I chose?"
Another laugh and then she sobered. "But once Buffy's married, once she's left for San Francisco, there really won't be an excuse for Rupert to see her unless he and I visit on vacation. She hasn't shown a great desire to come to England, though with Dawn at Oxford that might change. He hasn't talked about it, but he feels like he's losing his little girl."
She punched him lightly on the arm. "I did not come out here to talk about Buffy. I came out here because I was worried about you."
"S'okay." He slipped an arm around her shoulder, let her rest against him. "I didn't mean to get anyone upset or worried. It's just that the phone was ringing off the hook and I couldn't get any peace or quiet. Helen made Harry invite me to dinner tomorrow night; Lydia's message says she wants me to come over and see her and Kenneth; Mike wants to get a poker game together, Tommy MacLeod from Accounting asked if I wanted to go hit a few clubs...and Hodgson actually showed up on my doorstep to make certain I was alright. He's a bit dotty, but for some reason he feels terribly protective of me."
"I don't think he wants anything to happen to you until he can have his theory proved correct, no matter what you or Angel says."
This time they both laughed. "Feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah," he admitted. "What I saw in Heidelberg is going to stay with me for a long time, but I am going to find out who did it and they will pay...slowly and painfully if possible. Iverson's an ass and I'm annoyed at myself for letting him get the better of me, making me feel like I was on the outside. Maybe I am; maybe most of the Council sees me as another tool to be used and discarded like they do with slayers. But I've got friends here, more than I've had in I don't know how long and that's...well, that makes up for a lot."
"Good. Can we go home now because sitting on top of your grave isn't comfortable and is actually kind of squicky."
He shook his head. "Same old Demon Girl." Spike stood, though, offering her his hand to help her to her feet before they headed for the entrance.
They had gone about ten feet when Anya suddenly smacked him up the back of the head. "That's for being stupid this afternoon and getting us all worried and making me come out here in the middle of the night when I could have been home with Rupert. You killed the romantic evening I had planned, mister, and don't think you won't have to make it up to me..."
Spike couldn't help laughing. There were moments he regretted the choices he'd made; this wasn't one of them.