Chapter 4 – It’s in the genes.

The young man standing beside Gunn didn’t look that special; small, slightly –built; hair, mid-length, flopping into dark eyes; USC sweatshirt worn over black jeans; just a normal looking boy. Spike mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

Not a book worm then. He’d worried that he might have made a mistake in getting tickets for a college football game. Hope he knows the game. I won’t have a bull’s clue what’s going on. Don’t fancy being bored witless for hours. He tried reassuring himself, “Could be fun. At least it’ll get me out of here for a while.”

He crossed the reception area and made his way to Harmony’s desk. He’d left his duster in his office; he didn’t want to scare the boy. Gunn had told him to make sure that he was kept clear of any obvious demon types. As far as Connor was concerned, Wolfram and Hart was a reputable law firm funding his studies as part of their benefactor scheme. Lorne was strictly off limits, as were all the demon bars and shady parts of the city. Spike had replaced his usual attire with a simple, dark blue button-down shirt worn over black pants. He didn’t intend to give Angel any ammunition to further the assertion that he still wasn’t entirely trustworthy. He’d even polished his boots. As he neared the reception desk, he heard Gunn say,

“To conclude, Ms Kendall has outlined your living arrangements and explained that we’ve organised for someone to show you the sights. We’re just waiting for him to . . .” Gunn spotted Spike and managed to keep the surprise at his appearance out of his voice, “Ah, here he comes now”.

The boy turned away from Gunn and extended a hand to Spike.

“Nice to meet you Mr Sanguinaire.”

Gunn raised his eyebrows and silently mouthed,

“Mr Sanguinaire?”

Ignoring him, Spike smiled. “Call me William.”

See. Angel wants respectable. I can do respectable. Just two rungs down from Her Majesty, William is. Can’t get much more respectable than that.

Spike grasped Connor’s hand and resisted the urge to drop it immediately as his fingers tingled on contact. Shit! – What the? One of those joke shock things? He gripped Connor’s hand more firmly but felt nothing other than flesh against his palm. There was nothing there except an equally firm responding pressure.

“You a football fan?” Spike continued aloud. “I got tickets to the college game tonight.”

“More a soccer fan,” answered Connor. “My Dad’s a big USC supporter though. I’d welcome the chance to cheer his team on for him. I guess it’s my team too now.”

A soccer fan. Bonus!Spike had already dismissed the sensation of a spark of connection in the handshake, surprised afresh by an unaccustomed feeling of pleasurable anticipation. The thought of spending the evening in the company of someone who had nothing to do with what was going on at Wolfram and Hart, or the more than usually strained relations between himself and Angel, was beginning to look more and more attractive. Even if it was to be ‘mischief-free’.

“Right. Car’s outside. Let’s be off. Don’t wait up, Gunn. I’ll make sure Connor’s safely tucked up in his dorm before I come home.” Spike turned to Connor, gestured towards the exit, and asked, “So, Connor, who’s your soccer team?”

“Manchester United.”

Spike felt a warm, almost brotherly affection flood through his veins.

“Call me Will,” he smiled. “All my friends do.” He held the door open for Connor. “Or they would do if I had any,” he added, so quietly that no one heard him.

* * * * *

Spike was still mourning his beloved Desoto, lost to him when Buffy and the Scoobies took a road trip to escape Glory and her minions.

Pity that. Should have gone with the instinct and just nicked the Porsche. Not that it I’d still have it. It’s gone to the big scrap heap in the sky, along with everything else in Sunnydale. Still, this jallopy comes with all mod cons. Shouldn’t complain.

He eased the Viper into the early evening traffic, resisting the urge to put his foot down, to give in to the need to overcome his restlessness by indulging in some fast, adrenaline-pumping lane-cutting. He flicked his eyes over to Connor. The boy was almost as tense as he was. He sat, with poker-straight back, focusing on the road ahead, chewing his lip. Spike could feel his apprehension, could see it in the way his hands gripped his seatbelt, could smell it in the scent of his sweat.

“So, college boy, who’d you have to kill to get the scholarship?”

Connor flinched. “Kill?” His eyes darted to Spike’s face. “ – Oh, You’re joking, right? This is that weird British humour Dad keeps quoting from those Monty Python videos he’s so fond of?”

“Joking? Well, right, yeah.” Spike inwardly cursed himself. Stupid prat. What d’you say that for?

“Didn’t need to kill anyone. Didn’t even have to apply for it. Was going to take a place at Cornell but my Principal called Dad and told him that Wolfram and Hart had a fully funded place here for me. I fulfilled the criteria, apparently.”

Connor fidgeted in his seat. He’d felt uneasy when he’d arrived at the offices earlier that day and discovered that no one was really interested in his college studies. He was even more uneasy now.

“USC is Dad’s old college.”

“Mmm? What?” Spike had been concentrating on negotiating an intersection and wasn’t really listening.

Connor stared at him. “You’re not a lawyer are you?”

The question took Spike by surprise. He hadn’t prepared himself for this. Truth to tell, he hadn’t really prepared for anything other than escaping the building for a while.

“On secondment,” he blurted. “Visiting Prof. from Magdalen Oxford.” Spike plucked his old college from the depths of his memory. “Getting a taste of colonial culture.”

“Visiting professor? You’re not old enough!” exclaimed Connor.

“I’m older than I look,” replied Spike, fumbling with the controls of the CD player. – "A lot older,” he added under his breath. “Got good skin. It runs in the family - on my mother’s side. Let’s have some music shall we?”

The CD player began playing, picking up the track at the point it had reached when he’d last used the car.

# I did it m - y- y w –a –a –a –y! #

“You are old!”

Spike hastily silenced the player. “’S not mine,” he spluttered. “Last bloke that used the car. Probably the Boss, now he’s really old, positively ancient in fact. Old enough to be my grandfather.” Spike tried a change of topic. “Your parents; they live close by?”

“Uh huh,” replied Connor, staring out of the window. "One of the reasons I accepted the funding from Wolfram and Hart, to stay close to the folks."

They were nearing the stadium on campus. Spike could see spectators milling around the entrance gates, their allegiance to their team providing a splash of colour in the deepening gloom of evening; the maroons and dark gold of the home team in clear contrast with the blues and gold of the visitors.

“We could park here if you like. I don’t mind the walk,” said Connor.

“Right you are. What do I need to take in with me?”

“Just something warm to wear over your shirt. It’ll really chill down now that the sun’s set.”

“’S cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey already,” complained Spike as he reached for a coat from the rear seat. Dark blue. Rival team’s colours. “Should be interesting,” he chortled happily.

* * * * *

The stadium was alive with noise and movement and colour. The cheerleaders were going through their paces, working up the fans with their display of gymnastics-cum-dance-cum-

Downright provocative dress code, reflected Spike. "Beats the socks off anything the footie warm-up has to offer," he yelled to Connor. "I’d rather watch this than a marching band and some smelly ceremonial mascot called Billy or Nanny."

Connor stared at him, puzzled.

"Goat," Spike explained.

Connor led the way to their seats, greeting friends as they moved down the steps and along their row. Spike felt a twinge of envy as he watched the boy mingling so obviously at ease with his peers. As they took their places, the public address system began the announcements, introducing the teams and their players. "Which is ours?" he asked, though he knew only too well which colours belonged to which team.

"USC are in maroon and gold," Connor reminded him,

"Is everyone here supporting USC?" Spike looked around. He was in the middle of a sea of maroon and gold; the aisle to his left denoting the no-man’s land separating them from the blues and gold of the visiting supporters. "Fine. Then I’m gonna have to shout for the other side aren’t I?” he grinned “Seein’ as I’m wearing the colour. Who’d you say they were?"

"Notre Dame. But I don’t think that’s such a good . . ."

"Relax, kid. It’ll be fine. Just adds to the evening’s entertainment.”

Connor looked doubtful, but there was no time for further argument, as at that very moment, the referee signalled for play to begin. Spike realised he needn’t have worried about being bored. The running commentary over the tannoy was describing the play as it happened.

Spike could smell the adrenaline, hear the blood pumping through twenty-two bodies; their lungs heaving with exertion. "Who was it said that wars were won and lost on the playing fields of Eton?" he asked of no one in particular. "Whoever it was, knew what they were talking about." He felt the clash of bodies as the Notre Dame linebackers blocked USC’s offensive line, while the quarterback made his first throw to the receiver. "That was bloody marvellous," he shouted, as five bodies hit the turf. "Is it allowed?"

"It’s called blocking. It’s what the front line does," explained Connor.

The commentator’s voice rose with mounting excitement, "Second down and seven yards to go. Play action pass to Carter on the forty-two yard line. Touchdown!…"

The Stadium erupted as the home team chalked up its first points.

By the end of the first quarter, Spike was virtually hoarse, and in desperate need of a drink. "What can I get you?" he asked Connor as he made his way to the end of the row towards the man he’d spotted selling snacks from a tray.

"Diet Coke is fine"

"Anything to eat?"

"No, just a Coke, thanks."

* * * * *

The second quarter began before Spike had finished his beer. "Alcohol free," he’d assured Connor with a grimace. "Bloody awful stuff." He focussed his attention on the spectators. It was so different from the football stadiums of England. There were whole families here, kitted out in their team’s colours, sitting chatting to one another, joking, drinking soft drinks, eating popcorn or hot dogs, occasionally arguing with a neighbour over a point of play. "Happy meals on legs," he murmered to himself. Would’ve taken great pleasure partaking once-upon-a-time. Spike bit deep into his second hot dog. "Why ‘s it called a hot dog?" he asked Connor. "It’s neither hot, nor dog - I hope."

Connor wasn’t listening. He was on his feet, like many other USC supporters. "No way!" he shouted. "Where’s the yellow flag? That was illegal contact! Did you see that Will?"

"What?" Spike had been so engrossed in his own thoughts, that he’d stopped listening to the match commentary.

"The quarterback was hit after he’d released the ball."

"And that’s not allowed, I’m thinking? Unlike blocking, which is." Spike turned his attention to the pitch once more. Play had come to a halt. Players were shoving each other around the field as the USC’s quarterback slowly picked himself up off the ground, shaking his head. The referee was surrounded by a group of angry USC players yelling and gesticulating their discontent with his decision. Some of their team-mates went further; there was an eruption of violence, fists flailing, feet stamping on fallen victims felled by vicious blows raining down from numerous opponents.

"I take it that’s against the rules too?" Spike was impressed. The evening was turning out to be more fun that he could ever have anticipated. But there was one ingredient missing; audience participation. "Hey Ref. Are you blind? Where's your white stick?" he bellowed "

Spike waited for the violence to spill over onto the terraces. He didn’t wait long. Within seconds opposing supporters were arguing in those parts of the stadium where their seating was adjacent. Connor was already in full flight, exchanging insults across the aisle with a college boy sporting a blue and gold sweatshirt. Spike was wondering if he should intervene before things became physical when he detected the hot dog seller making his way rapidly up the steps, his tray discarded at the bottom of the flight, his attention fixed on Connor.

As he drew level, the man grabbed Connor by the shoulders, swung him round and hit him, hard, in the face. Connor left the ground as the impact forced him backwards and into the row behind. Spike vaulted the seats and hauled Connor to his feet. Connor’s nose was bleeding heavily and Spike had to fight the sudden urge to vamp out as he caught the familiar smell. He had no time to think; three more figures were converging on Connor, two from his left, one from his right. On regaining his feet, Connor adopted a defensive position, back-to-back with Spike. He blocked the blows from his assailants, executing a perfect snapkick that sent one head over heels, and flooring the other with an equally well-executed uppercut followed by a sidekick. Spike, meanwhile, had easily dispatched his two attackers, sending them hurtling to the bottom of the steps. Sensing an opportunity to retreat, he grabbed Connor by the hand and dragged him towards the exit. "We’ve gotta get out of here!" he yelled.

Connor didn’t waste time arguing. He didn’t know what he’d done to provoke such a vicious attack; nothing like this had ever happened to him at a game before; but he knew, instinctively, that he didn’t want to stay and find out. Together, he and Spike fled from the stadium and out into the parking lot. The car was some way off and Spike could hear the four whatever-they-were, not human anyway, gaining ground behind them. He looked around, searching for a means of escape. "And there it is!" he shouted to Connor as he raced across the street to the Harley Davidson parked alongside the stand selling pizza. "Come on!"

Connor hesitated, just for an instant, then leapt on behind him. Spike opened up the throttle and roared away, leaving the sounds of the yells of the bike’s outraged owner and the feet of their pursuers fading rapidly in the distance.

* * * * *

Spike brought the bike to a halt outside the building Connor had indicated housed his dorm. "That got a bit out of hand, didn’t it? Are all games like that? Or just college ones?"

"You did pay for the hot dogs, didn’t you?" responded Connor, ignoring his questions, "because the only explanation I can come up with is that you owed those guys money." Connor tried, unsuccessfully, to pass the incident off lightly.

"Wasn’t me they were after." Spike didn’t feel inclined to play along. "Looks like another attack on a Fresher to me."

Connor laughed. "Good thing I pestered Dad for all those martial arts lessons then. They certainly paid off tonight. Didn’t think I could hit that hard though. Never had to use the moves in anger before."

"You handled yourself pretty well for a kid," conceded Spike, unwilling to reveal just how impressed he’d been with Connor’s fighting skills. It wouldn’t do to fill the boy’s head with praise of that sort. “You gonna be OK?” he asked jerking his head towards the entrance door.

“I’ll be fine. Security’s been really tight since the attack.”

"How’s the nose?" asked Spike, grasping Connor’s chin and turning his face to the porch light.

"Feels fine," replied Connor touching it gingerly.

"Looks fine," agreed Spike frowning. Save for some minor discoloration under one eye, there was no sign that the boy had just been in a savage fight. Could have sworn it’d been broken, or at the very least badly bruised.

"Always heal quickly. Got good genes," explained Connor as he opened the door. "Get them from my Dad."