Family: Blood Calls to Blood
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Chapter
5. Respecting the ancestors
Angel had found nothing in the Special Clients’ File Lilah had mentioned in the video. Or, to be more accurate, he’d found no trace of any Special Clients’ File. Harmony had assured him that if it were to be found, her friend, Bob from the Files and Records’ Department would have discovered it. But, according to Eve, the special client did exist and Spike had killed his son. Angel wondered why Lilah would deliberately mislead him about the file. There was nothing to be gained in doing that. So, if the file existed, what else was being kept from him? He felt his command of Wolfram and Hart slipping further away, together with his friends. He headed for Wesley’s office, apprehension fuelling his feeling that things were spiralling out of control. Was it only a couple of months ago we had that picnic? Feels like a lifetime.
Wesley looked up from the pile of papers he was rifling through on his desk when Angel entered the former Watcher’s office. “What on earth did you say to Spike that made him change his mind about working with us?” Wesley asked. “I couldn’t believe it at first, Spike, being helpful. But he gave me a very full account of his drunken night in that bar. Well as much as he could remember anyway. It appears that he consumed rather a lot. He was involved in a drinking contest with the demon before the argument began.”
“Typical. He never could resist a challenge.” Angel stood gazing at the jumble on Wesley’s desk looking glum. He’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to gather the information he’d asked the team to get for him. The thought that Spike might be the only one to have provided any didn’t fill him with confidence.
“Yes, well. He’s given me enough to go on. I should be able to come up with something soon. But when I find out what sort of demon we’re dealing with, I’m going to need more input to try to make sense of just what this honour price might involve.”
Wesley looked at Angel, sensing the disappointment he’d caused by the lack of anything specific to report. “I have, however, had more success with The Brehon Laws.” He picked up a book that was balanced precariously on top of a lop-sided mountain of folders. “Ah – here it is,” he brandished a single sheet of paper marking a page. “My initial searches proved somewhat inconclusive. They’re written in the oldest dialect of the Irish language, Bairla-faina. Even those about to become Brehons at the time of their writing needed special instruction in it.”
Angel gave Wesley a blank stare and raised his eyebrows. He was in for one of those explanations that always left him more confused when they were over than he’d been before they’d begun; he just knew it.
“There are Commentaries of course,” continued Wesley.
“Of course.” There always are.
“ . . . written by learned Brehons, hundreds of years later. Unfortunately, they are no clearer.”
What a surprise. Angel stared at the single sheet of paper in Wesley’s hand. There wasn’t much on it. When did Wes abandon his pen for a printer? he wondered.
“The translators are often quite at fault in their attempts to explain the texts. Their wording shows that they were fully conscious of the difficulty. The number of technical terms and phrases they use render the translations even more complex.”
Angel didn’t think he could bear the thought of having to sit though the ins and outs of Wes’ dusty books. “But have you come up with anything at all that might help?”
“Yes, well. I turned to the more recently written Book of Acaill, which is chiefly taken up with the law of torts and injuries. Piecing together what I’ve learned about an individual’s identity being defined in terms of clan and personal wealth, I’ve been able to establish that you, as head of . . “ Wesley paused, he wasn’t too sure what Angel was head of any more. He began again, “As head of Wolfram and Hart’s L.A. branch, you are considered to be of the highest rank. Think of it in terms of a being a nobleman. The honour price is a strange mutual dependence that existed between nobles and their clients.”
Angel couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. Wesley in full research mode was just too much for him right now. “Wes, I really don’t see where you’re going with this; with the noblemen and clients.”
“This special client chose to insert the clause about the honour price for a reason,” he said, patiently. “You, as his modern-day ‘creditor nobleman’ stand to lose the most for a breach of the contract. Lower ranks would be fined a proportion of the honour price for each offence against the law, the full amount being required for the third offence. For someone in your position . . . ” Wesley hesitated.
Angel stifled his unease and waited for the punch-line.
Wesley looked up from his paper. “The law demands most from those who have received the most. For a first offence, you are required to pay the full honour price.”
Angel felt a sharp pain in his gut. The law demands most from those who have received the most. The full honour price. “What? No three-strike’s rule?”
“I’m afraid not.” Wesley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “There’s worse news, I’m afraid, Angel. Honour prices are central to the operation of Brehon laws. Clients seek out creditors with the highest status, to gain the highest honour price. Before we can work on a plan of action, we’re going to need Gunn’s help interpreting just what this payment involves and, if necessary, how to avoid it.”
And therein lay the problem. Gunn hadn’t reported back with any information. Angel had paged him several times but had had no response. He’d resorted to the ultimate Wolfram and Hart weapon; the inter-office memo.
* * * * *
Charles Gunn was a busy man. He didn’t see why interpreting one clause in Angel’s contract was so important. It was pretty straightforward, yet Angel was making heavy weather of it. Okay, the guy was not known for his incisive mind, but hell, what was it going to take to make him understand? He couldn’t put it in any simpler form than he’d already done three times in the last twenty-five minutes.
Gunn took a deep breath. “OK, let’s take it one more time.” He pointed to a paragraph in the document lying on the top of the files he’d arranged on Angel’s desk. “This part here, where it says ‘Progeny’s Blood’. Just what’s the problem?”
“What does it mean?” replied Angel wearily. He was feeling giddy. This was Gunn’s fourth attempt at interpreting the phrase and he still wasn’t making any sense.
Gunn turned to one of the files, opened it and took out a thick sheaf of closely typed papers. “According to the Interpretation Clause, Progeny’s Blood is ‘the blood of the progeny’.”
“Yes?” Angel waited.
“OK. Let’s take ‘Progeny’s blood’. Blood is defined as - ‘life essence’. Progeny is defined as -‘Your progeny’.”
Angel raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t there any more?”
“More what? On progeny? That’s ‘Your progeny’.”
“You said that already!” Angel tapped his foot impatiently.
“"Progeny means Your progeny.”
Angel tried counting to ten. And waited.
“ ‘Your would be You - Angel, Angelus, Liam of Galway, as signatory to the contract.”
“I know who I am,” stormed Angel, leaving his seat, unable to contain himself any longer.
“That’s something then,” said Gunn, calmly. “Is everything else clear now?”
Angel felt as though he was living in a nightmare in which Gunn was speaking a foreign language. The words were familiar, but he was just as far from an explanation as he had been when they’d started over thirty minutes earlier. . ‘He sank back into his chair, wiping a hand across his eyes, as if the action could make everything clearer, but it didn’t. Restlessly, he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk and propping his chin on his open palm. He considered what Gunn was trying to explain to him, sighed deeply, and said, “So, according to your interpretation, my progeny’s blood, is . . . my progeny’s blood?”
“You got it, big guy. Can I go now? Things to do, people to meet.”
Angel sighed again. There didn’t seem much point in questioning Gunn any further. He was no closer to understanding the real meaning of the phrase than he had been when Gunn had entered his office, looking irritated at having been dragged away from ‘more important things’.
“No. That’s fine. I’ll catch you later if I need anything more.”
Gunn looked relieved, picked his files off the desk and left.
Angel felt lost. Only Wesley seemed to be actively involved in searching for information that might help him. The others seemed oblivious to the seriousness of the situation; too wrapped up in departmental politics that seemed to have ‘gone critical’ according to Fred. Angel wasn’t sure if she was using science-speak about departmental staff, or referring to something specific he’d rather not know about in the lab. And she wasn’t the only one; Lorne had been out of the loop since they’d arrived at Wolfram and Hart. Up to his horns in B-list celebrities and goodness knows what else.
Angel didn’t know just how much of the previous two years had been wiped from their memories. What he did know was that he had a duty to try to put things right, to bring each of them back to the mission; to remind them just how they fitted into the family. But before he could do that, he needed to prepare himself, mentally and physically for the difficult task that lay ahead of him. Rallying the troops to the mission wouldn’t be easy but he had to try. And Spike?
* * * * * *
Arms moving in fluid motion. Hands that had bestowed only pain on him, circling, extending, flexing pectoral muscles as they moved across the broad, naked chest. Beauty and grace. Fingers sweeping the air, barely disturbing it, delicate as a bird’s wing. Power and control.
Spike watched with mixed emotions as Angel brought the final movement to an end. Angel, still oblivious to his presence, reached for the sword lying on his desk. The leaf-shaped blade bore witness to its Celtic origins, its double-edge glinting in the desk-light.
Spike cleared his throat. “What are you doing? ‘S a strange time to be practising the finer points of swordplay.” He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him as he did so.
Angel paused, centring his body once more. Then he relaxed and replied, “There’s an old Irish proverb, ‘Am fear a thug buaidh air fhein, thug e buaidh air namhaid’.”
Well that explains the no yelling about not knocking, thought Spike. “Meaning?” he said aloud.
“He who conquers himself, conquers an enemy.” Angel returned the sword to its place on the wall behind his desk and retrieved his shirt from where he’d left it draped across the back of a chair in the centre of the room. “This isn’t just any demon we’re facing here, Spike. The contract is rooted in ancient Celtic Law for a reason; the honour price is just part of it. As head of the family, I’m the one responsible. According to clan tradition, if I lose face, I’m unfit to protect anyone. What’s left for me if I lose that? Theid duine gu bàs air sgàth an nàire” (A man will die to save his honour.)
“Another Irish Proverb? You really are still just a bogtrotter at heart, aren’t you Liam? And what’s with the notion of honour among demons? You don’t fight fair with demons. You fight my way, dirty.” beamed Spike. Before Angel could comment on his knowledge of Gaelic, he continued, “What’s clan tradition got to do with anything anyway? We’re not a clan.”
Angel wasn’t going to argue the case of the Aurelius clan with Spike. “It helps me remember how things should be done. It’d do you no harm to do the same. When was the last time you showed any respect for your ancestors?”
Spike grinned. He was in a good mood; even His Grouchiness couldn’t dampen it. He’d enjoyed his time with Connor the previous evening. He’d felt connected somehow. It was his first time at a family event, the first time he’d experienced the atmosphere that came with cheering on the under-dogs and the consumption of too many hot dogs and too much alcohol-free beer. He’d been to a few football matches where he’d eaten the supporters, but not one where he’d experienced simple camaraderie with a stranger. True, the fight had been an unexpected bonus. What he’d planned as a mischief-free night had provided a little fun with no blame that could be laid at his doorstep. Spike realised the absurdity of what had happened; even before the fight, his restlessness had left him. Perhaps dying for mankind had done him some good after all.
He wasn’t letting Angel off the hook though. Respect for your ancestors? Pompous bastard! “That would have been Mother. Um . . . before Dru found me,” he said with a smile. “Don’t recall you showing any respect for yours before. Ate the lot, so I’ve been told.”
Angel glowered at him and choked back a response to his impertinence. From what he’d heard, Spike’s mother hadn’t fared too well after he’d met Drusilla, either. But this really wasn’t the time to go raking up the history of their respective human families. Besides, this wasn’t just about their human families - it went deeper than that. This was about kinship, not just about blood relations, but the family that had formed to fight alongside him, helping the helpless. He pulled his shirt around his shoulders and began fastening buttons. Helping the helpless. When did I lose sight of that?he wondered as he tucked his shirt into his pants and made his way back to his desk.
Meanwhile, Spike had ambled over to the wall where Angel’s weapons were displayed and was examining the elaborately carved scabbard into which Angel had placed the sword. “Where’d this sudden concern for respecting ancestors come from anyway?” Spike asked. “We’re vampires, we don’t operate the same as humans; I know that only too bloody well. Can’t say that I ever enjoyed being part of the little group you and Darla abused. You never accepted that I was one of you even then, did you?”
“That’s because you never learned your lessons. How many times did I come close to killing you because you refused to show proper respect?”
“Pfft! You never did though, did you?” Spike swung round and faced Angel. “Why was that Peaches? Not man enough for the job?”
“Not the issue. You were family, still are. Blood calling to blood. There were better ways.”
“Oh, you mean through Dru. You really did a good job on me there, didn’t you? Made sure I was brought to heel every time she ran back to ‘daddy’. Rule by torment. Is that how you do things still?”
“It’s different now. I’m different now. And so are you.” Angel sat down at his desk and switched his computer on.
“Doesn’t look too different from where I stand. You’re still doing things that affect everyone else to suit your own purposes. That’s what got you into this mess in the first place. Did you honestly think that doing this deal would have no consequences? You should know better. Where magic’s involved there’s always consequences.”
“I thought you’d agreed to help,” Angel snapped. “If your idea of help is lecturing me, criticising my methods, and raking up ancient history, I’ll be better off without it . . . . Why are you here, anyway?”
Keep asking myself the same thing. “Hit a nerve eh?” Spike taunted. Something in Angel’s attitude rankled. He really believed that he was head of this human family he’d damaged when he’d taken them into the belly of the Beast, and was searching for a way to bring them back together under his leadership and protection. Only one way to do that, thought Spike. But he’ll never agree to it.
“I’m trying to make things right again, the best way I know how, by taking responsibility as their leader. Something you’d know nothing about.” Angel confirmed Spike’s suspicions.
Spike had always been indifferent to rank, acting on the moment; he did what was right for him to do at the time. Nowadays he felt . . . What was it he felt? All at sea – rudderless - that was it. Once upon a time Buffy had been his guiding star; and he’d become her white knight with the bauble. But that fairy-tale was over. It had ended at the Hellmouth, where he should have ended too. “Mixed my metaphors good and proper there, didn’t I? ’S what happens when you think too much.” Spike whispered tracing the elaborately carved Celtic knots on the handle of the letter-opener on Angel’s desk.
He watched as Angel combed his hair, using the webcam as a mirror just as Harmony had done earlier in the week. Spike sighed. Can’t be doing with ‘should-haves’. He was here, now, with Angel, not Buffy. Without her, he just didn’t know why he should bother caring for anyone. But he did. Against everything that was logical, he cared about Angel’s little screwed-up band. They’d not exactly welcomed him into their midst, but they hadn’t rejected him either, not like that self-righteous bunch of hangers-on, the Scumbags. True, he hadn’t tried to kill or torture any of Angel’s lot, but they’d given him the benefit of the doubt. They’d even tolerated his demands for attention when he was all ghostly. And Angel? Well, no, he’d not exactly tolerated him; more like tried his best to get rid of, one way or another. But Angel was in most need of him sticking around.
Spike hadn’t exactly lied to Wesley when he’d denied that he was involved in a crusade, but he hadn’t told the whole truth either. He recognised that Angel was the one who was lost, the helpless one in need of the help. Spike couldn’t see anyone else able to give Angel what he needed, as no one else knew what was really going on. Why should he help Angel? Spike didn’t know the answer to that one. But he knew he was going to help him. “Whether he likes it or not,” he muttered.
Angel switched off his monitor and looked across at Spike, who was examining the photos on the desk. “Did you say something?”
“I said, what are you planning to do?” replied Spike.
“Talk to them,” replied Angel, switching off the monitor. “Make them see why we need to work together as a team; like we used to.”
“Talking? Oh that’ll work!” scoffed Spike. “I have to be there when you try to avoid the whole topic of how you bolloxed things up.”
“You’re not invited!” growled Angel. “I’m not letting you mess up the one chance I have of pulling things back together.”
“Don’t need me to mess up, Peaches. You’ve already done that; and It’s gonna take a bigger Band-Aid than anything you might have to say to patch it up.”
Angel had found nothing in the Special Clients’ File Lilah had mentioned in the video. Or, to be more accurate, he’d found no trace of any Special Clients’ File. Harmony had assured him that if it were to be found, her friend, Bob from the Files and Records’ Department would have discovered it. But, according to Eve, the special client did exist and Spike had killed his son. Angel wondered why Lilah would deliberately mislead him about the file. There was nothing to be gained in doing that. So, if the file existed, what else was being kept from him? He felt his command of Wolfram and Hart slipping further away, together with his friends. He headed for Wesley’s office, apprehension fuelling his feeling that things were spiralling out of control. Was it only a couple of months ago we had that picnic? Feels like a lifetime.
Wesley looked up from the pile of papers he was rifling through on his desk when Angel entered the former Watcher’s office. “What on earth did you say to Spike that made him change his mind about working with us?” Wesley asked. “I couldn’t believe it at first, Spike, being helpful. But he gave me a very full account of his drunken night in that bar. Well as much as he could remember anyway. It appears that he consumed rather a lot. He was involved in a drinking contest with the demon before the argument began.”
“Typical. He never could resist a challenge.” Angel stood gazing at the jumble on Wesley’s desk looking glum. He’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to gather the information he’d asked the team to get for him. The thought that Spike might be the only one to have provided any didn’t fill him with confidence.
“Yes, well. He’s given me enough to go on. I should be able to come up with something soon. But when I find out what sort of demon we’re dealing with, I’m going to need more input to try to make sense of just what this honour price might involve.”
Wesley looked at Angel, sensing the disappointment he’d caused by the lack of anything specific to report. “I have, however, had more success with The Brehon Laws.” He picked up a book that was balanced precariously on top of a lop-sided mountain of folders. “Ah – here it is,” he brandished a single sheet of paper marking a page. “My initial searches proved somewhat inconclusive. They’re written in the oldest dialect of the Irish language, Bairla-faina. Even those about to become Brehons at the time of their writing needed special instruction in it.”
Angel gave Wesley a blank stare and raised his eyebrows. He was in for one of those explanations that always left him more confused when they were over than he’d been before they’d begun; he just knew it.
“There are Commentaries of course,” continued Wesley.
“Of course.” There always are.
“ . . . written by learned Brehons, hundreds of years later. Unfortunately, they are no clearer.”
What a surprise. Angel stared at the single sheet of paper in Wesley’s hand. There wasn’t much on it. When did Wes abandon his pen for a printer? he wondered.
“The translators are often quite at fault in their attempts to explain the texts. Their wording shows that they were fully conscious of the difficulty. The number of technical terms and phrases they use render the translations even more complex.”
Angel didn’t think he could bear the thought of having to sit though the ins and outs of Wes’ dusty books. “But have you come up with anything at all that might help?”
“Yes, well. I turned to the more recently written Book of Acaill, which is chiefly taken up with the law of torts and injuries. Piecing together what I’ve learned about an individual’s identity being defined in terms of clan and personal wealth, I’ve been able to establish that you, as head of . . “ Wesley paused, he wasn’t too sure what Angel was head of any more. He began again, “As head of Wolfram and Hart’s L.A. branch, you are considered to be of the highest rank. Think of it in terms of a being a nobleman. The honour price is a strange mutual dependence that existed between nobles and their clients.”
Angel couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. Wesley in full research mode was just too much for him right now. “Wes, I really don’t see where you’re going with this; with the noblemen and clients.”
“This special client chose to insert the clause about the honour price for a reason,” he said, patiently. “You, as his modern-day ‘creditor nobleman’ stand to lose the most for a breach of the contract. Lower ranks would be fined a proportion of the honour price for each offence against the law, the full amount being required for the third offence. For someone in your position . . . ” Wesley hesitated.
Angel stifled his unease and waited for the punch-line.
Wesley looked up from his paper. “The law demands most from those who have received the most. For a first offence, you are required to pay the full honour price.”
Angel felt a sharp pain in his gut. The law demands most from those who have received the most. The full honour price. “What? No three-strike’s rule?”
“I’m afraid not.” Wesley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “There’s worse news, I’m afraid, Angel. Honour prices are central to the operation of Brehon laws. Clients seek out creditors with the highest status, to gain the highest honour price. Before we can work on a plan of action, we’re going to need Gunn’s help interpreting just what this payment involves and, if necessary, how to avoid it.”
And therein lay the problem. Gunn hadn’t reported back with any information. Angel had paged him several times but had had no response. He’d resorted to the ultimate Wolfram and Hart weapon; the inter-office memo.
* * * * *
Charles Gunn was a busy man. He didn’t see why interpreting one clause in Angel’s contract was so important. It was pretty straightforward, yet Angel was making heavy weather of it. Okay, the guy was not known for his incisive mind, but hell, what was it going to take to make him understand? He couldn’t put it in any simpler form than he’d already done three times in the last twenty-five minutes.
Gunn took a deep breath. “OK, let’s take it one more time.” He pointed to a paragraph in the document lying on the top of the files he’d arranged on Angel’s desk. “This part here, where it says ‘Progeny’s Blood’. Just what’s the problem?”
“What does it mean?” replied Angel wearily. He was feeling giddy. This was Gunn’s fourth attempt at interpreting the phrase and he still wasn’t making any sense.
Gunn turned to one of the files, opened it and took out a thick sheaf of closely typed papers. “According to the Interpretation Clause, Progeny’s Blood is ‘the blood of the progeny’.”
“Yes?” Angel waited.
“OK. Let’s take ‘Progeny’s blood’. Blood is defined as - ‘life essence’. Progeny is defined as -‘Your progeny’.”
Angel raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t there any more?”
“More what? On progeny? That’s ‘Your progeny’.”
“You said that already!” Angel tapped his foot impatiently.
“"Progeny means Your progeny.”
Angel tried counting to ten. And waited.
“ ‘Your would be You - Angel, Angelus, Liam of Galway, as signatory to the contract.”
“I know who I am,” stormed Angel, leaving his seat, unable to contain himself any longer.
“That’s something then,” said Gunn, calmly. “Is everything else clear now?”
Angel felt as though he was living in a nightmare in which Gunn was speaking a foreign language. The words were familiar, but he was just as far from an explanation as he had been when they’d started over thirty minutes earlier. . ‘He sank back into his chair, wiping a hand across his eyes, as if the action could make everything clearer, but it didn’t. Restlessly, he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk and propping his chin on his open palm. He considered what Gunn was trying to explain to him, sighed deeply, and said, “So, according to your interpretation, my progeny’s blood, is . . . my progeny’s blood?”
“You got it, big guy. Can I go now? Things to do, people to meet.”
Angel sighed again. There didn’t seem much point in questioning Gunn any further. He was no closer to understanding the real meaning of the phrase than he had been when Gunn had entered his office, looking irritated at having been dragged away from ‘more important things’.
“No. That’s fine. I’ll catch you later if I need anything more.”
Gunn looked relieved, picked his files off the desk and left.
Angel felt lost. Only Wesley seemed to be actively involved in searching for information that might help him. The others seemed oblivious to the seriousness of the situation; too wrapped up in departmental politics that seemed to have ‘gone critical’ according to Fred. Angel wasn’t sure if she was using science-speak about departmental staff, or referring to something specific he’d rather not know about in the lab. And she wasn’t the only one; Lorne had been out of the loop since they’d arrived at Wolfram and Hart. Up to his horns in B-list celebrities and goodness knows what else.
Angel didn’t know just how much of the previous two years had been wiped from their memories. What he did know was that he had a duty to try to put things right, to bring each of them back to the mission; to remind them just how they fitted into the family. But before he could do that, he needed to prepare himself, mentally and physically for the difficult task that lay ahead of him. Rallying the troops to the mission wouldn’t be easy but he had to try. And Spike?
* * * * * *
Arms moving in fluid motion. Hands that had bestowed only pain on him, circling, extending, flexing pectoral muscles as they moved across the broad, naked chest. Beauty and grace. Fingers sweeping the air, barely disturbing it, delicate as a bird’s wing. Power and control.
Spike watched with mixed emotions as Angel brought the final movement to an end. Angel, still oblivious to his presence, reached for the sword lying on his desk. The leaf-shaped blade bore witness to its Celtic origins, its double-edge glinting in the desk-light.
Spike cleared his throat. “What are you doing? ‘S a strange time to be practising the finer points of swordplay.” He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him as he did so.
Angel paused, centring his body once more. Then he relaxed and replied, “There’s an old Irish proverb, ‘Am fear a thug buaidh air fhein, thug e buaidh air namhaid’.”
Well that explains the no yelling about not knocking, thought Spike. “Meaning?” he said aloud.
“He who conquers himself, conquers an enemy.” Angel returned the sword to its place on the wall behind his desk and retrieved his shirt from where he’d left it draped across the back of a chair in the centre of the room. “This isn’t just any demon we’re facing here, Spike. The contract is rooted in ancient Celtic Law for a reason; the honour price is just part of it. As head of the family, I’m the one responsible. According to clan tradition, if I lose face, I’m unfit to protect anyone. What’s left for me if I lose that? Theid duine gu bàs air sgàth an nàire” (A man will die to save his honour.)
“Another Irish Proverb? You really are still just a bogtrotter at heart, aren’t you Liam? And what’s with the notion of honour among demons? You don’t fight fair with demons. You fight my way, dirty.” beamed Spike. Before Angel could comment on his knowledge of Gaelic, he continued, “What’s clan tradition got to do with anything anyway? We’re not a clan.”
Angel wasn’t going to argue the case of the Aurelius clan with Spike. “It helps me remember how things should be done. It’d do you no harm to do the same. When was the last time you showed any respect for your ancestors?”
Spike grinned. He was in a good mood; even His Grouchiness couldn’t dampen it. He’d enjoyed his time with Connor the previous evening. He’d felt connected somehow. It was his first time at a family event, the first time he’d experienced the atmosphere that came with cheering on the under-dogs and the consumption of too many hot dogs and too much alcohol-free beer. He’d been to a few football matches where he’d eaten the supporters, but not one where he’d experienced simple camaraderie with a stranger. True, the fight had been an unexpected bonus. What he’d planned as a mischief-free night had provided a little fun with no blame that could be laid at his doorstep. Spike realised the absurdity of what had happened; even before the fight, his restlessness had left him. Perhaps dying for mankind had done him some good after all.
He wasn’t letting Angel off the hook though. Respect for your ancestors? Pompous bastard! “That would have been Mother. Um . . . before Dru found me,” he said with a smile. “Don’t recall you showing any respect for yours before. Ate the lot, so I’ve been told.”
Angel glowered at him and choked back a response to his impertinence. From what he’d heard, Spike’s mother hadn’t fared too well after he’d met Drusilla, either. But this really wasn’t the time to go raking up the history of their respective human families. Besides, this wasn’t just about their human families - it went deeper than that. This was about kinship, not just about blood relations, but the family that had formed to fight alongside him, helping the helpless. He pulled his shirt around his shoulders and began fastening buttons. Helping the helpless. When did I lose sight of that?he wondered as he tucked his shirt into his pants and made his way back to his desk.
Meanwhile, Spike had ambled over to the wall where Angel’s weapons were displayed and was examining the elaborately carved scabbard into which Angel had placed the sword. “Where’d this sudden concern for respecting ancestors come from anyway?” Spike asked. “We’re vampires, we don’t operate the same as humans; I know that only too bloody well. Can’t say that I ever enjoyed being part of the little group you and Darla abused. You never accepted that I was one of you even then, did you?”
“That’s because you never learned your lessons. How many times did I come close to killing you because you refused to show proper respect?”
“Pfft! You never did though, did you?” Spike swung round and faced Angel. “Why was that Peaches? Not man enough for the job?”
“Not the issue. You were family, still are. Blood calling to blood. There were better ways.”
“Oh, you mean through Dru. You really did a good job on me there, didn’t you? Made sure I was brought to heel every time she ran back to ‘daddy’. Rule by torment. Is that how you do things still?”
“It’s different now. I’m different now. And so are you.” Angel sat down at his desk and switched his computer on.
“Doesn’t look too different from where I stand. You’re still doing things that affect everyone else to suit your own purposes. That’s what got you into this mess in the first place. Did you honestly think that doing this deal would have no consequences? You should know better. Where magic’s involved there’s always consequences.”
“I thought you’d agreed to help,” Angel snapped. “If your idea of help is lecturing me, criticising my methods, and raking up ancient history, I’ll be better off without it . . . . Why are you here, anyway?”
Keep asking myself the same thing. “Hit a nerve eh?” Spike taunted. Something in Angel’s attitude rankled. He really believed that he was head of this human family he’d damaged when he’d taken them into the belly of the Beast, and was searching for a way to bring them back together under his leadership and protection. Only one way to do that, thought Spike. But he’ll never agree to it.
“I’m trying to make things right again, the best way I know how, by taking responsibility as their leader. Something you’d know nothing about.” Angel confirmed Spike’s suspicions.
Spike had always been indifferent to rank, acting on the moment; he did what was right for him to do at the time. Nowadays he felt . . . What was it he felt? All at sea – rudderless - that was it. Once upon a time Buffy had been his guiding star; and he’d become her white knight with the bauble. But that fairy-tale was over. It had ended at the Hellmouth, where he should have ended too. “Mixed my metaphors good and proper there, didn’t I? ’S what happens when you think too much.” Spike whispered tracing the elaborately carved Celtic knots on the handle of the letter-opener on Angel’s desk.
He watched as Angel combed his hair, using the webcam as a mirror just as Harmony had done earlier in the week. Spike sighed. Can’t be doing with ‘should-haves’. He was here, now, with Angel, not Buffy. Without her, he just didn’t know why he should bother caring for anyone. But he did. Against everything that was logical, he cared about Angel’s little screwed-up band. They’d not exactly welcomed him into their midst, but they hadn’t rejected him either, not like that self-righteous bunch of hangers-on, the Scumbags. True, he hadn’t tried to kill or torture any of Angel’s lot, but they’d given him the benefit of the doubt. They’d even tolerated his demands for attention when he was all ghostly. And Angel? Well, no, he’d not exactly tolerated him; more like tried his best to get rid of, one way or another. But Angel was in most need of him sticking around.
Spike hadn’t exactly lied to Wesley when he’d denied that he was involved in a crusade, but he hadn’t told the whole truth either. He recognised that Angel was the one who was lost, the helpless one in need of the help. Spike couldn’t see anyone else able to give Angel what he needed, as no one else knew what was really going on. Why should he help Angel? Spike didn’t know the answer to that one. But he knew he was going to help him. “Whether he likes it or not,” he muttered.
Angel switched off his monitor and looked across at Spike, who was examining the photos on the desk. “Did you say something?”
“I said, what are you planning to do?” replied Spike.
“Talk to them,” replied Angel, switching off the monitor. “Make them see why we need to work together as a team; like we used to.”
“Talking? Oh that’ll work!” scoffed Spike. “I have to be there when you try to avoid the whole topic of how you bolloxed things up.”
“You’re not invited!” growled Angel. “I’m not letting you mess up the one chance I have of pulling things back together.”
“Don’t need me to mess up, Peaches. You’ve already done that; and It’s gonna take a bigger Band-Aid than anything you might have to say to patch it up.”