Chapter 7. Families - they really screw you up.

Spike lounged in his office chair, idly flicking through the TV channels. Angel had ended the meeting abruptly, shooing everyone except Wesley out of his office, telling them they’d meet up again in the evening for supper in his penthouse suite. Spike didn’t know why he hadn’t just left the building there and then. “Nowhere to go, mate,” he muttered to himself. “At least, not on the bike. Middle of the day’s not a good time to pick to ride off in a huff.” That wasn’t the real reason why he hadn’t left, though, Spike admitted to himself. The real reason had more to do with what had happened in Angel’s office and less to do with the timing of his departure from Wolfram and Hart. Something wasn’t right, and Spike was busy trying to work out just what it was. Something had happened during that meeting, something the others had experienced and he hadn’t.

“Nothing worth watching on the sodding telly any more,” he grumbled. He’d just skipped past NBC three times while Sheridan was being electrocuted in the psychiatric ward on ‘Passions’. Spike’s attention wasn’t on the screen, he was thinking about Angel’s and Wesley’s faces as he’d told the story of his night out with Connor. What was it Wesley had said? Something about weird happenings when he’d first mentioned Connor’s name. What sort of happenings? He hadn’t noticed any, except, perhaps, Angel ending the meeting when he did. Spike wondered why Angel had thrown them out before he’d completed his pep talk about working together as a team. Not that it would’ve worked, anyway, talking to them, reflected Spike as he surfed on past the news item showing Johnny Rotten’s obscenity-laden outburst on ‘I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here!’ And what was so important about what he wanted to say to the Head Boy that the others couldn’t share? Perhaps it had something to do with the mind-wipe? The name – Connor – could the boy be Angel’s son?

The phone on his desk rang, making him jump. “Who. . .?” he yelped wondering who one earth could be phoning him. No one knew he was there, did they? Spike flicked off the TV and swung his legs down from the desk. He lifted the phone from the hook, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it might bite him. It was Angel. “Yeah,” Spike drawled. “What do you mean am I still here?” he asked peevishly. “Oh, yeah, there was that whole ‘corner of hell’ thing. What? No I’m not packing! What’ve I got to pack? Wes said . . . what?” Spike looked at the phone again. “Oh balls to this.” He slammed the receiver down and leapt to his feet. The Big Poof’s really lost the plot. Phoning me - on the phone!

Spike swept down the corridor and into Angel’s office, waving aside Harmony’s attempts to gain his attention. “What’s so important it can’t wait, but not so important you can’t get off your pampered arse to walk down the corridor?” Spike demanded, as he slammed the door shut behind him. “And do not start with how this whole thing is my fault.”

Angel rose from his chair and crossed the room to face him. “It’s not,” he said simply. “And I’m not going to try and convince you to stay. But Wes’s convinced me that you need to be in on this.” Angel paused and looked directly into Spike’s eyes. “And . . .I . . . just wanted to thank you,” he said quietly, “for the other night – with Connor.” He dropped his gaze and waited for Spike’s response.

Spike lifted his eyebrows. “Well, bugger me. There’s a turn up for the books. Didn’t see that coming,” he said sheepishly, looking down and studying his boots. “Percy been working you over long, has he?” Spike flashed a quizzical grin at Wesley. One glance at his face told Spike all he needed to know; the man was totally drained. “More like the other way ‘round,” he corrected himself. “Right! Both of you look as if you could do with a stiff one.” He strode across the office to the drinks’ cupboard and pulled out the bottle of Powers and three glasses. He filled the glasses and handed one to each of them.

Angel and Wesley continued to eye one another nervously.

“Look,” said Spike, “I don’t know what’s gone on between you two, but you didn’t call me just so’s Angel could do the grateful grovelling. Not that I mind the grovelling,” he smirked. “Could suffer a lot more of that!”

“Don’t push it, Spike.” Angel said slowly, fixing his eyes on the contents of his whiskey tumbler.

“Calm down, Gramps. Come on. Drink up, the world’ll look a lot better through the bottom of an empty glass. Always works for me. Well – not always, but I enjoy testing out the theory.”

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The whiskey bottle was empty. Spike leaned back in his chair and contemplated the glass in his hands. “Figured he must be your son,” he said. “Didn’t that night o’ course, couldn’t put my finger on why his blood smelt so familiar. And the way he moves . . . “ Spike shot an embarrassed glance at Angel, “He has something of your style, Angel - you should see him fight.”

“I have,” murmured Angel, staring into the middle distance.

Wesley cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since Spike had entered the office. “Angel and I are agreed that Connor needs to be watched and protected.” He stopped and looked at Angel. “We’re not in agreement about what to do about Gunn or Fred or Lorne,” he added wearily.

“Wes thinks they should all be told,” said Angel. “I’m not so sure.” He turned to Spike and frowned. “What do you think?”

“Since when did you care what I think?” asked Spike. “Oh – does it come with the whole grovelling thing – part of the package?”

Angel growled a warning.

“Spike, please,” appealed Wesley. “We really haven’t the time or energy to massage your bruised ego. There’s an innocent life at stake.”

Spike looked at Wesley’s anguished face. Poor bloke. Looks like he’s just re-lived the whole thing all over again. Realisation dawned on Spike. That’s just what happened earlier. For some reason, Wesley had remembered everything and the others had just had snatches of memory that they’d lost again. “An innocent’s life,” he whispered.

Angel nodded, swirled the remaining whiskey round his glass and drained it in one gulp.

He heard me! Spike felt a wave of sympathy for both vampire and human wash over him. Get a grip, Spike. Don’t go all gooey and sentimental just because you shared a moment in a hospital room. He’s still batting for the wrong team here. This isn’t just any innocent; it’s his son. “Right,” Spike said aloud. “What do I think? Well, Peaches knows what I think. He was in the wrong, the moment he agreed to the whole mind-wipe gig.” Spike held his hand up to stop Angel interrupting. “That’s something that can’t be undone.” Spike turned his attention to Wesley and watched him closely as he asked “But how can you be sure that telling the others won’t bring about what you’re trying to avoid - Connor’s death - eh?”

Wesley considered for a moment, twirling his empty glass in his fingers, watching the light catch in the finely cut Waterford crystal. “I can’t,” he admitted. “But I don’t see how we can continue to work without their co-operation.”

“Seems to me there’s two separate problems here,” replied Spike, “and you need to decide which is more important - the boy in need of protection - or this whole deal with . . .” He threw his arms wide indicating the room in which they sat, and sighed. “I’m not about to buy into any of that, though I suppose the office might be counted against any pleas of innocence I might have; and I can’t see what you got out of it at all.” Spike gave Wesley a questioning tilt of the head.

“A new pen, it seems,” murmured Wesley.

Spike blinked, shook his head and turned to Angel. “Boy are you gonna get roasted extra bien cuit for this.”

Wesley looked from one vampire to another and wondered what he’d missed but found no clue in either of their expressions, Spike’s full of mockery, Angel’s of resignation. “Let’s get back to what you were saying about priorities and what we’re going to do about keeping Connor safe shall we?” he suggested seriously. “We need someone to keep an eye on him at all times.”

“Well that rules out Spike and me for the daylight cover, despite the cars. Can’t protect him from behind glass,” said Angel. He rose from his seat and walked over to the window. The lights were going on in the office blocks across the way. Angel looked down into the street below, guilt clutching at his heart, squeezing his throat. The streets I vowed to clear, he thought. The streets I barely notice any more. “We can do the night time shift, but I don’t want the Wolfram and Hart people involved in this. You’re going to have to take on the daytime one, Wes.” He turned to face Wesley. “Any ideas?”

“I believe I have,” replied Wesley. “I’m going to extend Spike’s idea of why William Sanguinaire is here at Wolfram and Hart, and give Professor Wyndham-Pryce a reason to be on campus at USC. I just need to check Connor’s subject choices and have the relevant paperwork prepared that instates me as a visiting guest speaker. Then all I have to do is pick up the phone and call in a favour. I can be in place by tomorrow afternoon.”

Spike watched Angel as he looked anxiously out of the window at the darkening sky. We – he said we! Working together again. “It’ll be dark soon,” he observed. “Why don’t we leave the Paper Boy here to do what ever it is he does in the privacy of his own office and go do a sweep for any evil that might be lurking on campus?”

Angel’s eyes lit up. He turned and beamed at Spike. “Fighting evil, out on the streets again? We’ll take my car.”

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“I got the car back safe and sound, didn’t I? S’not like I left it there. Quit complaining,” Spike snapped, as Angel turned off the freeway and into the University Park Campus.

“Stop trying to change the subject, Spike. All I wanted to know was why you’d forgotten to tell me you’d kept the bike.

“’Cos mine’s buried at the bottom of a bloody great hole, along with everything else in Sunnydale,” Spike explained, through gritted teeth. He’d sulked throughout the whole journey. Angel had spotted the Harley in the garage and had questioned him relentlessly about it, refusing to let him drive and switching the radio to K-Mozart. Bloody control freak.

“It wasn’t yours to begin with,” argued Angel. “You stole that one as well.”

“From a rampaging demon!” yelled Spike exasperatedly. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“That’s not the point,” Angel yelled back. “Besides, this one wasn’t from a demon.”

“Could be!” pouted Spike. His whole ‘Holier than Thou’ attitude is really starting to piss me off. What’s one bike compared with twelve cars? “How d’you know it wasn’t?”

“Just get it back to its owner, Spike.” Angel pulled the car into the parking lot outside the student dormitory building. “Look!” he said, gripping Spike’s arm and pointing behind him. “There he is!” He’d spotted Connor on the steps leading to the entrance to the building chatting to two other college boys. Both vampires concentrated their hearing on the conversation taking place, automatically screening out all intervening and background noise.

“Well, I’m gonna hit the books,” they heard Connor tell the others. “First assignment’s due in a few days.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” the dark-haired companion on his left inquired. “We could go to 14 Below. Tracy’ll be there. I heard her telling Cass she was going to check out the new band playing tonight.”

“Tempting, Mikey, tempting. What’re you trying to do - make sure my grades are lower than yours this semester?” Connor asked. “I just know you’ve finished this assignment already. There is no way you’d hustle for a night out so close to the deadline if you hadn’t.”

“Yeah – like I need a scam to get higher grades than you. Who beat you all through junior high?” Mike gave Connor a playful shove.

“That was junior high. You haven’t come anywhere near me since,” said Connor, returning the push with a light punch to Mike’s shoulder.

“When you guys are done, take a look at this.” The third member of the group had gone ahead of them into the building and re-appeared carrying a sheet of paper. He handed Connor the notice he’d taken down from the bulletin board in the hall. “Looks like the warning Professor Forsyth gave us at the end of class was serious.”

Connor began reading. “The number of attacks on students has increased over the past two days. While no attack has resulted in any fatalities, the victims have all been seriously injured. These recent attacks have taken place off-campus, and the campus security advises all First Year students to stay in their dorms in the evenings until further notice.”

“Well, there’s my excuse all neatly wrapped up,” said Connor. “’Motivation and Emotion’, here I come.”

“You find anything interesting on decoding emotions in non-verbal expressions?” asked Mike, as the three boys sprinted up the stairs and in through the door.

“So, looks like he’s having a night in with his chums,” said Spike. “All’s well. What’re we gonna do? Quick sweep of the campus, then home to supper with the others?” Spike turned to look at Angel.

Angel’s eyes were fixed on the space Connor had just vacated. He looks exactly the same as he did on the video. Happy, at ease with himself and with his friends. “Sweep?” he asked, dreamily, opening the door and stepping out under the streetlight. “Yeah – let’s do that.”

“So, if you’re his dad, does this make him my uncle, then?” Spike wondered aloud as they walked towards the back of the building and into the woods. “I had an uncle once. Wasn’t a bit like Connor. In fact, now I come to think of it, he was a lot like you – uptight, pompous, arrogant bastard who thought he knew what was best for me.”

Spike walked on, still talking, while Angel fell behind to stop and give the front of the building one last look.

“Doesn’t feel right having an uncle who’s young enough to be my great, great, great great grandson,” Spike continued. Never had the chance to be a father, let alone a great anything, he thought wistfully. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his duster and pulled it closely around his body, hugging himself, to keep out both the chill of the night and the twinge of envy he’d felt observing Angel’s adoring gaze. “Is that enough greats do you think?” he asked, stopping to let Angel catch up with him. “Never was much good at the maths.”

Angel gave him a friendly slap on the side of the head. “Shut up, Spike!”

* * * * *

The supper had not been a success. Spike could feel the tension caused by the division among Angel’s friends. Those in the know and the know-nots, he mused. The conversation had been polite enough, but the bon-homie felt forced. Gunn was still seething from Angel’s attack on his work practices. Fred was late - again, and defended her time with Knox with greater vehemence than she’d done earlier in the day. Lorne was absent altogether. He’d left a message with Harmony saying he had a migraine and was lying down in a darkened room with his medication. According to Harmony, he’d ordered a large bottle of something blue, and 70% proof, to be sent to his apartment. Lorne had told her to bill the Entertainment Department for it, on the grounds that it was a ‘necessary tool of the trade’.

Everyone picked at their food. Wesley chased noodles from one side of the plate to the other, barely putting a single forkful near his mouth. Fred sipped a few mouthfuls of chicken soup and pulled a bread roll to pieces before leaving her spoon in the soup bowl. She spent the remainder of the hour they were together folding and re-folding her napkin, making various origami shapes and avoiding everyone’s eyes. Gunn didn’t even pick up his knife and fork, devoting himself to working steadily through the second bottle of claret Angel had provided instead. Angel hadn’t ordered anything to eat, and he drank the wine with little enthusiasm, wondering how he was going to get through the evening without letting something slip.

Spike had surprised himself by being unable to finish the portion of spicy buffalo wings Harmony had ordered for him. Takes a lot to put me off my nosh. “Well this has been a barrel o’ laughs,” he quipped as he stood up to stretch his legs. “We really must do this again sometime soon. How about next century?”

“Spike!” Angel glared a warning. “You guys look tired,” he said, turning to Gunn and Fred. “Why don’t you have an early night? I’ll check in on you both tomorrow.” Angel walked them to the elevator. “Is that OK?” he asked.

Fred nodded slightly. “I am tired,” she said. “Perhaps a good night’s sleep is what I need.” She put her napkin down and looked at Gunn. “Would you like me to drive you home, Charles? You’ve had rather a lot to drink.”

“Sure, little bit of TLC won’t do me any harm,” replied Gunn, returning Wesley’s questioning gaze defiantly. “Why not?” He drained his glass and rose from his seat, pushing back his chair carelessly causing it to topple over.

Spike was standing just behind him and caught the chair before it hit the floor. “Thought you could hold your grog better than that, Chuck,” he said, putting a steadying hand on Gunn’s arm.

“I just need to pick up a few things from the office, then I’m outta here,” Gunn continued, shrugging off Spike’s arm. He took out an envelope from his jacket pocket, turned and handed it to Spike. “If you’re still interested in the job, there’s a meeting you should attend tomorrow. It won’t take long.”

Gunn stepped into the elevator after Fred and turned to face Angel. “I know what you meant this morning. And I’m not talking about the Jenoff speech. I won’t forget what you said to me in a hurry! No amount of pep-talking me back to the beginning is gonna make up for that.” He pushed the button for the ground floor. “You just don’t get it, Angel. I don’t need a Daddy any more; I’m a big boy now.”

The door to the elevator closed, leaving Angel staring at the polished metal.

Spike turned the envelope over; it was addressed to “William Sanguinaire. “That went well, all things considered,” he said, eyeing it nervously. “Do you think they noticed anything, Angel? What with us not threatening to kill one another every five minutes an’ all?”

“I think you may have managed to distract them with your stories of how you had Angel tortured and helped Buffy kill him to avert the Apocalypse,” replied Wesley caustically.

“Huh, yeah,” Spike chuckled. “Did you see how Charlie Boy’s eyes lit up when I described ... "

“Gunn’s starting to seriously bother me,” interrupted Angel. “Did you notice his eyes change colour? It was almost as if he was turning into . . . “

“The Big Cat,” finished Wesley. “Yes, I saw that too. He may well be a threat to all of us, so the sooner we can solve the problem of Connor’s safety, the sooner we can turn to the larger problem. I’m beginning to suspect the two are not as separate as Spike suggested they might be.”

“We could just find out ‘bout that tomorrow,” said Spike, holding the envelope out for Wesley to inspect the name on it.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Wesley asked? “It’s addressed to you.”

“Think I’ll let you do that. Tend to get bit iffy about envelopes addressed to me coming to this place.”

Wesley tore open the envelope and pulled out two small pieces of paper stapled together. “It’s a memo, from the legal department. Connor will be coming in to sign some financial papers concerning the scholarship tomorrow afternoon. That’s all it says.” Wesley gave Spike an enquiring glance. “Why would you be expected to attend?”

“Not a clue. But this whole set up is beginning to smell. Who else is going to be there?” Spike took the memo from Wesley’s hand and studied the second page. “No one I’ve ever heard of; just some bloke from the legal department and a Trustee. ”

Angel was worried by Wesley’s analysis of the problems they were facing. If Wesley was right, the thought that Gunn might pose a threat filled him with foreboding. Gunn was not the only one who was acting in ignorance; there was Fred and Lorne to consider. Was it just co-incidence that Lorne’s migraine came on during the morning meeting? Or that Fred’s usual compliance with his requests had turned to defiance?

“Wes,” he said finally, “we need information on this scholarship.” He turned to Spike. “Didn’t you say that Connor didn’t have to compete for this award? That it was just handed to him?”

Spike frowned and thought for a second. “What he said was that he fulfilled the criteria.”

The three men looked at one another, each reaching the same conclusions about the next course of action.

Wesley was the first to speak. “I’ll chase up every piece of information I can find about this scholarship, and the sponsor.”

“And I’ll dig out everything that’s on file about Connor,” Angel added.

“And I’ll . . .” Spike stopped. He wasn’t good on the research. It bored him and he allowed himself to be distracted by things that took his fancy. “I’ll go and see if there’s any footy on the telly tomorrow night. Then if needs be, we can keep him here after the meeting without rousing anyone’s suspicions.”

“Was that a good idea you just had?” asked Angel. “Keep this up and I might . . .”

“Let me keep the bike?” Spike asked, grinning.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, ” said Angel.