Xander's Journal

 
 
The last few days have really been kind of… odd. Very, very quiet and productive… and I guess that's the oddest thing. I'm used to everything here being sort of like controlled lunacy; people crashing through things, a million and one interruptions, from Illyria, from Spike, from Oz and over all the calm of Wes, wandering through like some oblivious mystic, his nose in a book and his hands covered with ink. 
 
It's been helpful that Illyria suggested that they move their sparring down to the basement. We cleared out everything in an hour or two and they have a nice space to use until the new "gym" section of the 4th floor is ready. And that's going pretty quickly now that I don't have to spend every morning patching up the previous evening's damages. 
 
The problem is… I now feel like I'm cut off from everyone. Oh, Wes wanders in from time to time, but I think it's more because he some of his books and things are up here than because he's checking on the progress. Spike, I only see in the evenings when I'm clearing up. Oz or Mr. Pak can usually be counted on to bring my lunch, but they don't stay long. I think the sawdust irritates Oz' sensitive nose and Uncle Shen is just busy with the market. 
 
Illyria, I don't see at all. 
 
I think that's really the hardest to take. I guess she's pretty mad at me. I just don't know how else I could have handled that whole situation. Not that I don't like her or want her around really but…. 
 
She really just surprised me with that whole thing. I mean one minute we're talking about privacy and why it's something people expect… and the next minute she's trying to take off my pants. Can I just say, 'Yike'? 
 
It was probably just curiosity. Something new to learn about like all the other 500 million things she's asked me about. But somehow, I just don't have the heart to be someone's experiment. I've done that.  
 
Is it too much for someone to want me because I'm a nice guy and we like each other? I feel like I've been branded with this big sign that says, "Good in bed… use me."  
 
And isn't it all kinds of wrong for a guy my age to think that's a bad thing? 
 
I guess it's just best that I try to stay out of her way though. At least until she cools off the rest of the way.  
 
I was doing some final repairs to the dojo, fitting in the replacement screens that Mr. Pak had wanted - fine rice paper, ready for him to decorate with paint and ink - and Illyria was there performing the tea ceremony. 
 
She kept glancing up at me all through it… and then making mistakes. That's how mad she is. She can't even keep her mind on Mr. Pak's instructions. He kept making her do it over. I offered to leave but Uncle Shen wouldn't hear of it He says that learning to ignore outside influences is part of the ritual that the ceremony embodies.. The simple repetitive motions, done to exacting standards, should focus the mind into a state of calm. 
 
So I kept working, trying not to look at her… and she kept doing it…over and over and over again…until finally, Mr. Pak told her to leave and return the next day. 
 
I was done so I went to help her clean up. Yeah… I wanted to talk to her. Tell her how sorry I was about our misunderstanding and explain where I was coming from. Not an easy subject to breach, really. 
 
"Man… Uncle Shen can be a real task master."  
 
She stood up, the tea tray in her hands, but didn't say anything, so I tried again. 
 
"Yeah. There are days when you never can do things right. Makes me do my katos over and over and over, just like you were doing that. I feel sorry for you. I -- " I didn't get any farther than that. She threw the whole tray, hitting me square in the chest and coating me with scalding hot tea. "Dammit, 'Llyria! What---" 
 
But she was gone. Out the door. 
 
I guess she's still pissed. 
 
Or something. 
 
So… I mopped up the spilled tea, swept up the mess… and left it all with a note for Uncle Shen saying, "Ooops. I'll replace this." Then went upstairs to change. 
 
I'm just confused now. Not that I ever do understand women, but usually I don't have my apologies rejected so violently. Made me feel even worse than I had before. 
 
I was trudging up the stairs when I met Wes. 
 
"I thought transcending the physical was something that took place on the inside." Wes' raised a questioning eyebrow, taking in my appearance. 
 
"Yeah... so did I. But Illyria obviously has a different view of transcendence." 
 
I think Wes would have seemed much more sympathetic were it not for the way his mouth twitched. "Ah. My commiserations." 
 
"Yeah... thanks. I'm sure my burns are only second degree... no big." I was trying to sound snarky and sarcastic... But I'm pretty sure I only made it as far as dejected. 
 
Wes winced. "Sorry." He sounded much more sincere now. "She's still annoyed, I take it?" 
 
"Yeah... and, believe it or not, I was actually trying for some kind of apology when she did this.... " I tried to scowl, to be angry, but I really did feel bad about hurting Illyria's feelings. "Wes... are you busy?" 
 
"Not especially....unless you want me to talk to Illyria, in which case yes, extremely." 
 
"After this? Pretty much no." I wouldn't even send Angel to talk to her right now and everyone knows how I feel about Angel most of the time. "I was just wondering if... maybe... you'd like to go get lunch with me? Or coffee.? Or... something?" 
 
Wes looked startled for a moment, before the usual expression of mild interest settled over his features again. "I - yes, why not. Coffee sounds rather welcome." 
 
"Yeah? Cool... " This was great. I really had been missing everyone all week. " Let's go..... no, guess I should go change first, huh?" 
 
He snorted. "I would, yes." 
 
"Cool." Yay. Caffeinated beverages with Wes! And hopefully he'll be too polite to dump anything on me when I ask him for advice. 

* 

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Wesley went back into his not-quite-an-apartment, put his documents back on the desk, and went over to the bed. 
 
It was familiar and yet wonderfully new, these days, waking Spike. Familiar because he had done this so many times, and new because… 
 
Because when the heap of trapped warmth and blankets stirred, he could indulge himself in all the tenderness that welled up in him, wrap his arms around Spike as he moved into half-complaining wakefulness and coax him into grumbling, sleepy acceptance of the screened day with kisses; smooth his hand over ruffled hair and feather his fingers over a rapidly-cooling cheekbone. 
 
Luxury, for him. Not one that anyone else would understand, a private indulgence that he would never ask anyone decipher, but still a constant wonder in his reality. 
 
"'S early…" 
 
"And you still wake like a kraken." 
 
"Still better looking…" 
 
"Yes, infinitely." Oh, God, the wonderful fact of words that didn't have to be hesitated over or screened. "I just wanted you to know I was going to get coffee." 
 
"Coffee?" Spike brightened, marginally, drawing his head back slightly from where he was doing a determined impression of a burrowing owl between Wesley's neck and shoulder. "Bringing it back?" 
 
"I will, yes." Wesley laughed, quietly. "I'm going for coffee with Xander. It seems Illyria already plied him with tea." 
 
"Oh…" Spike yawned, registered what Wesley had said, and finally moved sleep-laden arms to return the embrace, shifting back into comfort. "Consolation and caffeine, yeah?" 
 
He yawned again, and settled into Wesley as though he were part of the bedding. 
 
"Mm-hm." Wesley kissed him again, already slipping out from under him and off the mattress, knowing that Spike wasn't even really awake to voice his responses, and watching as the pile of blankets settled back into stillness. 
 
All Spike would remember when he woke fully was that Wesley had been there and said something unthreatening as to where he would be, and that was all that mattered. Wesley never left notes, or messages, never trusted anyone else to pass something along. Spike might not remember the details, if they were unimportant to life as it went along, but he remembered that Wesley had bothered to wake him and say something. 
 
And that, to life-as-it-was, mattered. Spike dreamt too often of being left, shifted his deep-seated belief of what would happen eventually into an infinite number of scenarios; and Wesley, who had his own particular fear of casually-left notes, always ensured that nothing he did now would mimic those too-vivid imaginings. 
 
Perhaps when time had passed, and everything stopped being quite so immediate, when his sleep stopped being broken into that blur of almost-comatose awareness, when he stopped having to fight exhaustion at the same time as fighting a very real belief in his bed partner that hanging on like grim death would solve all problems, he might attempt it. But not yet.  
 
Not when Spike was still trying not to apologise for bruises caused by a very different kind of passion, not when he still woke, no matter how they had fallen asleep, with one hand clamped around Wesley's wrist and the other either trying to weld to his shoulder bone or clenched in his t-shirt. 
 
Not as long as Spike still chose to pretend that he woke them both to give Wesley the now-finishing doses of his meds. Not so long as they both pretended that the moments of sheer panic never happened, once they had passed. Words were secondary to gestures, still. 
 
Wesley's half-ironic thought of himself as the Velveteen Rabbit had not been so far off. The joy he found in his reality was what mattered to him, but to Spike, all that mattered was that it was reality, and Wesley would live out his entire lifetime in hell before he failed to provide those tethers. 
 
He scrubbed as much of the ink and graphite off his hands as he could, put on a clean t-shirt, and headed off to meet Xander. 
 
* 

Xander had found what seemed like every outlet of food and drink in the near vicinity - though not Mario's, as yet, which gave Wesley a slight feeling of still being vaguely on top of things. Not that he really felt like pasta or heavy wine, but it was still pleasant to know that Xander had not as yet progressed in two months to the point that had taken Wesley nearly three years. 
 
They were at the coffee-and-sandwich bar two blocks down, Xander looking apologetic over a plate of tuna melt ciabatta and fries, Wesley luxuriating in the by-now rare treat of drinkable coffee. 
 
"You don't want to get something else?" 
 
Wesley shook his head. "I like black coffee," he said, aware that it sounded defensive, but unsure of how Xander meant that. 
 
"Yeah, but…" 
 
"Seriously." Wesley smiled. "I know Spike behaves as though I'm the original Absent-Minded Professor, but I do eat, remember?" 
 
"Once a day and under protest, yeah," Xander agreed, and picked up one of the quarters. "Look, make me feel better and fake eating it, OK?" He put it on Wesley's biscotti plate. 
 
Obligingly, Wesley bit off a corner. "Happy?" he asked, once he had swallowed. 
 
Xander snorted. "Yeah, ecstatic," he agreed, sarcasm to the fore. "Hey, Wes? You're…" He waved his hands, dripping sandwich included, and spattered them both liberally with roast pepper juice. "Well, 'Lyria's still talking to you. Is she really still mad?" 
 
Wesley shook his head. "She's…trying to adjust, Xander. And Mr Pak's not making it any easier for her. I realise you're having fun, of course…" He left it there, waiting for something further to go on. 
 
"Oh, yeah... I just love spending hours repeating the same damn exercises over and over and over again, because I can't seem to get my hands to coordinate with my eye. I live for it.... " Dry humour was not Xander's forte, but, fortunately, sarcasm was. "Aching muscles are a way of life... so actually, the learning to sleep while all folded up in one spot... might be a good thing." 
 
Wesley took another bit of his quarter-sandwich, and breathed out a laugh as he chewed. Once his mouth was clear, he asked, "Would it make you feel any better to learn that Mr Pak has an absolute genius for finding precisely what we don't want to do? There are reasons I don't train with anyone, you know. It's not only you he likes to torture..." He chuckled. "Ask Illyria about how much she enjoys tea ceremonies some day." 
 
Xander crossed his good eye at him, and Wesley was convinced that, had they been at home, he would have got a food-covered tongue stuck out in his direction as well. "I don't have to ask... I've seen... and heard and also worn." He grimaced at that.  
 
"She threw the tea at you?" Wesley's mouth twitched. Somehow, he had been assuming it was a normal dojo-induced error. "What did you say to get that?" There was a faint tinge of awe in his voice, along with the amusement. Illyria worked hard to control her temper - something the tea ceremonies were supposed to help her with - and had more patience for Xander than the rest of them even on a bad day. 
 
"Actually, I'm still not sure. I was congratulating her on having done it so well.... and, boom." Xander shook his head. "I will never understand women...." 
 
Oh, Lord. He was still so very young…Wesley shook his head. "That's a bit like saying you'll never understand gardening because one flower behaves in an inexplicable way." He grimaced. "Of course, it's entirely possible that you will never understand Illyria or other women...or indeed gardening, for that matter." His amusement returned, directed inward this time. "And who am I to talk?" 
 
Xander put down his sandwich and laughed. "Wes, I never will understand gardening. I have a brown thumb.... and women? Even harder." He bit his lip, then, looking for a moment as dejected as he had seemed in the corridor. "Especially Illyria." 
 
Wesley kept his face carefully blank. "In many ways, yes, she is completely different..." he ventured, hoping to get some clue as to what was going on. 

"I mean.... don't get me wrong. I like Illyria.... I'm just not sure if I like like her...." Xander rolled his eyes and ran a pepper-juice-splattered hand over his face, before pulling it away, glaring at it, and scrubbing rather futilely with a paper napkin. "Gawd, I sound like a 12 year old girl." 
 
Wesley felt his mouth twitch, and covered it with a gulp of coffee. "My experience of those is rather limited, but I'll take your word for it. But you're going to have to help me out a bit with adjectives here, I'm afraid. 'Like' like?" 
 
Xander just sighed. "I'm not even sure what I mean, Wes." He slumped back into his chair. "I don't know if she's actually coming on to me.... or if it's just curiosity that I'm.... misunderstanding." He looked down and picked a bit of paper off his hand, "And... I'm not sure how I feel about either one." 
 
Oh, why me. It was an unworthily childish thought, but one he couldn't help. It would just be so damn nice , sometimes, if he could pretend either stupidity or omniscience. Either would be more useful than the honesty that always overtook him. He did not want to betray what he suspected he knew about Illyria's feelings, but - "I'm sure she is curious," he said blandly. "But if it were only that, she would have found means to....express it....to all of us." 
 
"Hell, Wes.... I just don't know why she'd pick me. I mean, I know she tolerates me more than most people... but heck, I'm a pretty easy-going guy for the most part. Probably why my best friends were always girls." He dropped the bit of paper onto the table and looked up at Wes. "I figured that was why it was so easy for her to ask me stuff. But this? No way. " His face was determined. "I already let myself be dragged into one relationship with someone who was curious... granted, I really learned to love Anya... but at first? She was curious... and I was available.. and you know, sex and a teenage boy... no bad there in my mind at the time. But I'm not that boy any more." 
 
Wesley didn't know whether his instinctive wince was for Xander or Illyria. "No, indeed." His voice was carefully urbane - and perhaps, a little cold, as he tried to sort out what he wanted to say. "If it is only curiosity, of course, it will pass. I was scarcely advocating that you satisfy her demand to know in all areas." 
 
"Yeah... yeah... I get that. " Xander nodded... "Never thought you were. But.... I also feel sorry for her, ya know? Not like she chose this... this being less than she was. And I know, better than most, how much being..... ordinary... can grate." 
 
"And I really wouldn't advocate that you let her know that you feel like that." Wesley said quickly, before he relaxed, and sighed. "I don't think she's ready to withstand pity. Or sympathy." He rubbed his hand over his head, wondering how to phrase this, before giving it up with a mental shrug. "Especially not from you." 
 
"Oh, boy.…do I know that.... " Xander grimaced. "I think that's why I wound up wearing the tea....all I said was I felt sorry for her, and - bam!" 
 
Wesley's eyebrows quirked up at the insight he had been given into what exactly had taken place. "You think that's why?" There was a mixture of fake amazement and humour in his voice. "Good heavens. Xander..." his voice was suddenly serious. "I know how tempting it is to feel sorry for her. But - " He struggled for words, briefly, before giving up. He would never be able to explain how painful that would be for someone used to being above any human concern. "Well," he trailed off. "Just...try not to show it, I suppose." It was the best he could manage. 
 
Xander sounded almost desperate. "It was just that she had been doing that tea ceremony over and over and, well, no one knows better than me what a taskmaster Uncle Shen can be...." He shrugged there. "But yeah... No one wants to know that the ordinary guy feels sorry for them. Or no one of any power. I get that. I won't do it again. "  
 
He snorted a laugh, "Or I'll try not to anyway." 

Wesley had been looking down at his remaining sandwich bit, so as not to stop the flow of coherency by any too-overt scrutiny, but he looked up sharply at that. "No one wants to know that the only emotion they evoke is pity, would be a closer assessment. Why are you so bloody insistent that being 'ordinary' is in some way inferior?" 
 
"How about... because it is?" Xander shrugged. "Look, Wes.... I'm not feeling sorry for myself here... but well, witch, wizard, vampire, slayer.... all pretty much way better than the ordinary guy... and to a warrior god? Sheesh... " And here he laughed, the small relaxed laugh of someone who has faced up to what they were and accepted it. 
 
Wesley bit his lip, before setting plate and cup aside, and attempting his own explanation. "Illyria, I think, is coming to her own conclusions as to which of us has merit in her eyes. And I have always quite firmly believed that the power given to you is irrelevant compared to what is done with it." He searched for a way of explanation that wouldn't sound critical or patronising - and had it. "Both Fred and Lilah started out as the definition of 'ordinary'. But Fred survived five years of hell, and Lilah sold her soul to it for personal gain. Everything - everything - becomes a two-edged sword, once you know what's out there. And once you know..." He shrugged. "I think that fairly much puts paid to claims of ordinary, then and there. The second you make that choice, it becomes impossible." 
 
A slow smile formed on Xander's face, "So I'm not ordinary because I'm a white hat? I do what I can do for the right reasons.... even with no special powers?" His good eye twinkled, teasingly, and Wesley felt himself begin to smile in response. "Cool." 
 
Wesley forced his voice to return to its usual dryness. "Yes, well. Don't let it go to your head." He suspected that his warnings about Illyria had gone straight over Xander's head, but he really wasn't equipped to have this sort of conversation with people. 
 
 
"No chance of that around here... too many things to knock me down a peg or two.... or 12...." Xander grinned. "Uncle Shen especially. But hey.... Wax on... Wax off.... and I can stand on one foot for 10 minutes at a time without wobbling... So I guess that means that my coordination is catching up with my will power." 
 
Wesley laughed. "Ten minutes? You're doing well...next thing you know, he'll have you making tea as well." Or not, if he wants any china left, his mind added helpfully. 
 
"Oh, God... I hope not. Bad enough I learned to make it the way Giles liked....uh.... " Xander looked edgy there for a moment, "Don't tell him that... I pretended to have no clue. I was already donut boy and coffee boy... I didn't want to be tea boy too." 

Wesley blinked a bit. Well, of all the things… "I can faithfully promise you that any conversation I may have with Rupert will stay well away from your abilities to make tea," he managed at last. "Or, indeed, that this is what he may associate you with. Apocalypses, demons, and the like, on the other hand…" 
 
 
 
Xander chuckled at that. "Yeah, poor Giles... I'm sure that I, personally, am responsible for more than one or two of his grey hairs... " He looked up, "And poor Wes too. We didn't give you much of a chance, did we?" 
 
Wesley turned his attention to his now luke-warm coffee, swirling the dregs around in his cup. "I didn't exactly inspire you to do so, did I? It's hardly important, now. Although..." He sighed. "If Rupert and I had been a little less inclined to demonstrate just how superior our different methods were to one another, a great deal more might have been accomplished. Still." He smiled, dismissing the subject. "I got a very nice pair of leather trousers out of the whole experience, so I suppose I can't complain too much." 
 
"Yes, because clothing made of dead cows? Always soothe life's path... " Xander shook his head. "We all made mistakes, Wes. We all grew up and got better. And I'm willing to bet that even Faith would agree with that." 
 
Wesley laughed outright, at that. Faith, who had tied him to a chair and cut him with glass, and was now one of the people he held dearest in the world. "Yes, Faith above all of us, I suspect. And the growing up? I hate to tell you this, but it was inevitable." 
 
Xander didn't look any happier. "Yeah…but…I know it must bug you, Wes. I wouldn't blame you if you decided you didn't want the apartment-office floor and just threw me out…" 
 
Wesley felt his face crease in perplexity. "Why would I do that?" Then he sighed. "Xander...we all live there. I try not to do spells inside, you seem, thankfully, to have stopped using electric wires for trip ropes, and I now own ashtrays, so the mug thing doesn't happen so often." He shrugged. "And one day, Illyria will work out that the temperature dial on the shower works both ways. Meanwhile, we'll have to adjust." 
 
"Yeah... yeah.... sorry...." Xander looked apologetic. "Just.... we started out so rough... I guess I just feel like I should... I don't know... still be making up for it." 
 
"Mm." Wesley reached out, and put his hand, briefly, on Xander's arm. "Not that I don't empathise, but it was once pointed out to me rather forcibly that martyrdom is very unattractive. Especially for something that was in no way your sole responsibility."  
 
"Yeah... I guess…" He suddenly looked up. "Hey! They do this really cool ice-cream cake here. You want some?" 
 
Wesley blinked, then laughed. "It's called cassata, Xander," he pointed out, but he nodded. "Yes. Yes, why not." 
 
* 

"I love a parade." 
 
Spike had tried to convince Wes that they really didn't need to have the whole entourage along when they went to see this particular client, but Wes was having none of it. 
 
"This was Xander's contact Spike. How can we expect him to know how we work if we never take him along?" 
 
Okay… he could understand that bit, but then Wes had insisted on bringing Blue as well. He suspected there was much more of matchmaking and trying to settle some uneasiness between her and Harris, than any need for Illyria's skills, but you need could be sure about these things. 
 
"This must be the place." Xander suggested as he looked down at the scrap of paper he had scribbled the address on - 427 East Presidio. The neighbourhood was good and the house looked like a normal upper middle class place - trimmed lawn, neat scrubs, tidy flowerbeds.  
 
"How can you tell? It does not...seem different." Illyria spoke up from the backseat of Xander's car. She looked around her at the almost-identical front yards. "It does not even look different." 
 
Xander showed her the paper, then pointed to the number on the mailbox, 427. "The number is right and this is E. Presidio... so this is it. Has to be." 
 
She was right though, the places did all look remarkably alike; even painted in similar neutral tones - beige, cream, eggshell, off-white. It was like a collection of paint chips for the terminally bland. 
 
"Well, presumably the house is being possessed very quietly and politely...there haven't been any noise complaints logged, and in an area like this, one would assume..." Wes trailed off as they exited the car. It was looking more and more as though this Ms. Williams was someone bored out of their mind, rather than a genuine case.  
 
"Won't know unless we ring the door now, will we kiddies... ? Come on then..." Spike practically bounded up the front walk 
 
"Kiddies? From him?" Wes' mouth twitched. Illyria drew in a breath, obviously to ask something, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. "You can hit him later." 
 
"As the youngest one here... I think I'd take umbrage at that...er.. if I knew what an umbrage was.... " Xander shrugged and started up the walkway behind Spike. 
 
"What are you standing about for? Thought you wanted in on this bit?" Spike looked back over his shoulder at Wes, as he made it to the front porch. It was an excuse, really. He didn't like Wes to get too far away from him when they went out at night. Too many nasties about, even in nice quiet neighbourhoods like this one. 
 
Wes rolled his eyes to the sky, as if asking it silently what he had done to deserve this. "Asked for it", came the equally silent and mocking reply.  
 
"Right, yes," Wes muttered. "I'm overwhelmed with the enthusiasm that the prospect of knocking on a door always engenders in me...." And oh, God help him, when whoever-this-was opened the door, he was going to have to rely on everyone to seem professional. 
 
He could have cheerfully waited a lifetime. 

* 

Spike grinned as Xander joined him on the porch and reached past him to press the doorbell. The young man took the time to shoot his sleeves in his coat and straighten his tie. In spite of his joking, Xander did know how to present a businesslike front, almost as well as Wes. Spike glanced back to make sure Illyria was keeping to her human facade and that Wes had caught up.  
 
Illyria had an odd expression on her face; as if her nose itched and she thought that peering down and glaring at it would force it into submission.  
 
Spike bit back a cough of laughter as the porch light came on and the front door opened, slowly and carefully. The woman who answered it was fairly short - 5' 1" - and dressed in a style that was totally at odds with the calm, neutral style of the house. Her flowing garments were a brilliant flash of jewel tones that, somehow, seemed to mesh perfectly with her red hair.... and her voice, when she spoke, was gentle and melodic, "Good evening... may I help you?" 
 
"I believe you called our agency..." Wes glanced at Illyria, giving the slight twitch that told Spike he was praying for a miracle that would make this woman oblivious to anything around her "Regarding your house?" 
 
"We're with Dragonslayers, Inc." Xander smiled warmly and extended his hand for a shake. "I'm Alexander Harris and if you are Ms. Williams, I believe we spoke on the phone." 
 
Illyria blinked upwards from her cross-eyed examination of her nose, and beamed. "That was my name for us," she said helpfully. "I filled in the form." 
 
And there, Spike had to cover his mouth with one hand and turn away for a moment or risk bursting out in a laugh, because Wes was suddenly wearing an expression that somehow did not mean that he had indigestion, but rather, was attempting not to offer his opinion on Illyria's chosen name. 
 
The woman, Ms. Williams, took Xander's hand and shook it. "Yes... come in, please." She looked nervous, Spike thought, and her heart rate had sped up when Xander had introduced himself... but then again, she obviously had some odd goings-on going on or she wouldn't have called them in the first place.  
 
There was a bit of dancing around in the doorway as Xander tried to play the gentleman and wave Illyria ahead of him… and was answered with a blank stare, but they were soon all inside.  
 
"I'm sorry, Mr. Harris... I... I'm just trying to keep this all very quiet. I'm already considered a bit of an... oddball here, because I refuse to blend into the homogenized background..." Ms. Williams indicated her not-at-all-beige clothing.  
 
"I understand, Ms. Williams. We'll do our best to keep this private. Oh... and do call me Xander. And this is Illyria, and Wesley...... and...S...er...Will." Spike had to give Xander credit, he only stumbled a moment over introducing him. 
 
Wes smiled politely, before turning his attention back to the decor. "Interesting book collection," he murmured. 
 
Taking the cue, Spike also looked towards the numerous bookcases lining the walls. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn the woman was a Watcher, judging by some of the titles. Most of them weren't in English, and he recognized more than one written in demon tongues. 
 
"Oh, yes... Obscure texts on the supernatural were something of a hobby with my late husband. I can't even begin to read half of them, I'm afraid. " She was lying, Spike was sure, or only telling half the truth. 

Judging from his expression, Wes didn't seem to be buying that one, either. With this amount of texts, she either had an extremely unhealthy attachment to her dead husband - unlikely - or was hoping they wouldn't pursue the subject further. 
 
"So... Ms. Williams... You said on the phone that odd things were happening?" Xander obviously had decided to let Wes worry about the books, odd as they were, and concentrate on what they'd come for. "What types of things?" 
 
Spike strolled around the room, reading the names of the books at random, and noticing anything else he could... a calendar on the wall by the phone with all the moon phases highlighted... the tell-tale smell of henbane and a notebook sitting on the end table with translations from...hmmm... Possibly Japanese...  
 
Ms Williams took a seat on the couch, glancing oddly at Spike and attempting to wave everyone else to seats, "Well, first there was the wind... blowing in closed rooms." 
 
Wes turned around from his scrutiny of the texts, holding a book in his hand. "Well, it would," he said as urbanely as possible. "Mispronunciations do have....somewhat startling side effects, on occasion." He tossed the book to Spike, his muttered 'Idiot woman', only audible to vampiric hearing. 
 
Ms. Williams looked up sharply, "Mispronunciations? No... I'm quite sure I...er...." Her voice trailed off. "I don't know what you mean..." 
 
"Look, Ms Williams... we want to help, but without all the facts, our hands are pretty much tied." Xander's voice was fairly calm considering his past experiences with amateur spell-casters. 
 
Wes took a deep breath through his nose in an apparent attempt to keep his equilibrium. "Which one did you try, Ms Williams?" 
 
"Something about storms... and then...hmmm.... The Striped One?" Spike frowned down at the scribbled notes, "'Zat a demon?" 
 
"Oh, no. But he is most unpleasant." Illyria scowled. "I thought they banished him thousands - of - " she suddenly stopped, evidently remembering her human pose. "I mean, I read..."  
 
"You read?" Wes encouraged her to continue. 
 
"I read that they banished him," she repeated obediently. Then she whirled around, looking nothing like Fred, despite her human appearance, and her eyes, briefly, blazed with unearthly blue. "You brought him back?" 
 
"What is this Striped One?" Xander looked lost. "Or should I ask how bad---" 
 
"--No, of course not." Ms Williams interrupted him. "It would be quite redundant to attempt to bring the Striped One back to this plane of existence" 
 
"I think you called us in so that we could be the judge of that." Wes' smile was arctic. "Didn't you?" He peered at the book over Spike's shoulder, translating as he spoke. "Illyria, you're...ah, out of date. Last called...five hundred years ago." He muttered to himself for a bit. "Can never reach heaven...cursed to the unquenchable flames..." He choked on a mixture of horror and amusement. "Oh, that Striped One..." he said rather faintly. 

* 

Wesley continued reading, part of him wondering with a kind of muted horror how anyone with even a smattering of the language could possibly have been so dense as to think even beginning to read this aloud was a good idea. 
 
Then again, he was looking at undeniable proof that such a person existed, had done it, and in fact gone far beyond the first sentence before even a faint inkling that something was wrong had crossed her mind. 
 
"Nasty bugger, him," Spike said. Wesley would have accused him of understatement, except for the fact that he never went in for it in the first place, preferring hyperbole to anything else, so it was, apparently, a case of stating the obvious. 
 
The very, very obvious. 
 
"Yes he is." Ms Williams agreed. "And that was why I was so worried. I've seen signs... and.. I was trying to backtrack... and... " 
 
"And he backtracked your backtrack and now he's trying to manifest?" Xander jumped right to the heart of the matter - even if the phrasing led to some rather confusing imagery, somehow making him think of reversing trains. 
 
Unfortunately, it wasn't even remotely amusing, even couched in those terms. Trying to manifest - oh, if only. He'd give a great deal, in fact, for a nice little manifestation. "Xander...presumably that is what has happened, but - this isn't a manifestation. She's managed to break out a trapped God." 
 
"Han-Riu," Illyria agreed disconsolately, and Wesley looked across at her quickly, before realising that it was in the first instance probably too late to advise people not to use the god's name, and secondly, even if there had been some remaining point to it, Illyria was probably the only one among them who could get away with it. "I don't like him." 
 
It was somewhat doubtful that anyone ever had. 
 
Ms. Williams looked sharply at Wes "No... don't be ridiculous. I don't have enough power to do anything of the kind." 
 
Oh, for - Wesley bit his tongue both metaphorically and literally, and managed to stay silent.  
 
Spike, of course, had no such qualms. "Wouldn't take much, ya daft b... woman... Got plenty of his own, hasn't he?" He scowled at her, obviously trying to keep his anger under control, and probably, despite his words, succeeding better than Wesley was. 
 
Xander, having moved away from backtracking backtracks, was aiming for calm professionalism, and mostly getting it - at least in the tone of his voice. "So... this is a bad thing, I take it. A very bad thing? He cringed, and the professional air went the way of Wesley's tenuous grip on his own annoyance. "Like an apocalypsy bad thing?" 
 
Wesley sighed in agreement. "Like an apocalypsy bad thing," he repeated, acquiescing, then shook his head at himself, his eyes screwed shut. "Oh God. I just said that, didn't I?" 

Illyria was looking speculatively at the woman who had caused all this. "I do not think you benefit the human race," she said thoughtfully. "Wesley, do I kill her?" 
 
Wesley tried, and tried hard, not to think blissfully about that one. He failed. "Sadly, no," he replied, and meant it. If it had solved any of the problems the bloody woman had caused, he would probably have been advocating it. "We still need a few answers." 
 
Spike snorted at Illyria's question, looking mildly amused and about 80 percent in agreement... then again, with considerably less humour, when Ms Williams began to sputter and twitch indignantly. "'S not like witchcraft is a toy, ya know... trial and error is never a good thing." 
 
The woman looked, if anything, even more outraged. Apparently having her utterly inadequate skills called into question had reached her in a way nothing else had, including the mention of an apocalypse. Perhaps she was just incapable of understanding, Wesley thought uncharitably. 
 
"What, exactly has been happening, Ms Williams? Truthfully? Wind and what else?"  
 
Xander seemed to think she was still worth persisting with, even if that was largely down to wanting to appear vaguely sane in comparison to the rest of them. Wesley reminded himself that it had, originally, been Xander's case, and that this was hardly the time to take over and start demanding answers in the style of the Spanish Inquisition - no matter how tempting the prospect seemed. 
 
He kept his voice quiet, hoping it would be mistaken for calm, as he interjected - "Her house wasn't possessed....the area was. Christ, I've lived here too long if I'm missing reports on minor earthquakes." He rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. The earth moved for you?" At least sarcasm was a more acceptable way of showing his irritation than taking the book and literally throwing it at her would be. 
 
"I don't think that's connected," Ms Williams huffed, and dear God, this woman was too stupid to be allowed near fiction, let alone volumes of actual worth. "I worked the spell... it was not much more than a locator... and nothing happened. I assumed I'd done it wrong... or there was nothing to track." 
 
"Well, it appears you assumed wrong." Xander was starting to sound as snappish and fed up as Wesley felt. He glanced over at Wesley, but not for any sort of backing, rather to make the suggestions that Wesley had been dreading since the word 'apocalypse' had first appeared - even if it had done so in a somewhat bastardised form. "What now? Can we manage this? Do we need to call in the Slayers? Willow? What?" 
 
Wesley discovered, at that, that he could find things amusing even in the face of imminent disaster and growing irritation on several different sides. Thank God he hates Angel, otherwise he'd be adding him to the list, and of all the things we don't need… He regained control of himself, but was unable to stop the sudden, surprised laughter that overtook him. "No," he said around it. "We trace the book. Because unless our...client...here suddenly gained a very interesting family - this isn't hers. " He wheeled on the unfortunate Ms Williams. "Where did you get this?" 
 
The woman looked even more indignant, if that were possible, "I bought it." 
 
Spike stepped closer to her, giving off that deadly vibe that he pulled off so well. Of course, Wesley added mentally, he wouldn't really do anything to her... but she didn't know that. Good. She might start to think a little. "From who, eh? Not something someone normally parts with easily." 
 
She frowned again, though whether it was at Spike's insistence or the question itself was anyone's guess. "No... really... I bought it." But she didn't elucidate. 

And that, it seemed, was the final snapping point for Xander's patience. "From who?" he asked in disbelief. "Shady Stan's House of Goddamn Dangerous Books?" 
 
The laughter bubbled up in Wesley again, but this time he managed to squash it down, as a few things suddenly became clear to him. "No...." Books were his provenance, and here he was on certain ground. "From a Watcher...or a relative. Damn!" he snapped suddenly. "Spike, did you ever finish transcribing that account? The one you said was written in lampblack?" 
 
Spike frowned. "Ya mean that prosey thing by Micha Crenshaw? Yeah, as best I could... A lot of it was unreadable." 
 
Well, yes. They'd all gathered that on about the fifth time of complaint, but… 
 
"Was there something in there about this....Striped One?" Xander was frowning as well, though, it seemed, for different reasons. "And what kind of name is that for a Demon? 'Cause I gotta say... not very scary..." 
 
Wesley's temper finally bubbled over. "He's a dragon god, not a demon!" He took a deep breath, and continued, rather more calmly, "It's generally considered unwise to use his name, unless you're - " he gestured at Illyria, and hoped Xander took the point. "He's the god of earthquakes. Of famine and pestilence. Of death. His power is in his scales, and his scales are striped." His voice rose slightly, hammering the point home. "He's forty foot long if he takes form, and he brings total evil on the wind. Brings it with him." He glared at Ms. Williams. "Mispronunciation, hell. You used his name in the location spell!" 
 
Illyria, who had remained still and silent after her only contribution, obviously using her control to keep command over her own form, rather than anything else, spoke up in an oddly muted voice, at that. "His name became a curse. We used it too often, and the Dragon King banished him. Before I slept..." 
 
"How else would it work?" Ms Williams rolled her eyes, having apparently missed what Illyria said entirely, and focusing on Wesley. "You have to use the right name." 
 
"Fuck." Spike shook his head and scowled at the woman. 
 
Xander looked even more annoyed. "Didn't anyone ever tell you there's power in a true name? Hell, Wes, even I know that... and I'm not exactly Magic-guy!" 
 
Wesley had other concerns than what people did and did not know, however. "Didn't it occur to you to read to the end before you started this aloud?" 
 
"Of course I read to the end, " Ms Williams huffed. "Well... mostly... Okay, my Japanese is not as good as it might be." 
 
And - "Fuck." Spike said again, this time in disbelief at the woman's stupidity. 
 
"You weren't sure and you did the spell anyway?" Xander looked incredulous. "This is sooo not good." 
 
Wesley resisted the urge to curse at the lot of them. A little learning indeed! "We need the rest of the diaries. Micha Crenshaw must have been the one to stop the Striped One the last time. You say you bought this - where?" A small voice in his mind piped up 'Shady Stan's House of Goddamn Dangerous Books', and he stamped on it. 
 
"I have a broker.... a man... I tell him what I want... or he brings me things that he thinks I might find interesting." She looked defiantly at Wes. "I'm sure he's quite legitimate... I found him in the yellow pages." 

"Bloody Hell." Spike looked like he might explode any moment. There was nothing here he could fight at the moment... and this was just pissing him off. 
 
"Con artists have phone numbers too, you know..." Xander rolled his eyes. Apparently he was finding the woman as much of a lost cause as Wesley himself. 
 
It was like being in a thunderstorm, and he didn't think he could blame the Dragon God for this one. Xander was trying to do his job, but there was no legislating for stupidity, and the other two..."Spike." He pitched his voice as low and calm as possible. "Illyria. Go and check the area for anything that might show his powers have increased enough to take form." 
 
Spike bounced out the door, gratefully, winking his thanks back at Wes as he left. "Come on, Blue..." 
 
Illyria's look of thanks was equally heartfelt - and very, very blue. 
 
As the door closed behind them, Xander tried again, having apparently decided that he would have to provide the voice of sanity. "Look, Ms Williams... You can see how important this is. How do we find this.... broker?" 
 
The woman just looked up at him blankly. "I told you. He's in the Yellow Pages." 
 
Wesley sat down in a chair opposite her. "Let me explain this, in very small words," he said in a soft, inflectionless voice. "You just summoned up the Japanese equivalent of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, all tied up in a nice, stripy, forty-foot-long bundle. Now. Since it appears he's headed for your living room, would you like to be a little more helpful?" 
 
"Here?" It was more a kind of 'eep' noise than an actual word, and Xander shot Wesley a glance that suggested he might have found that amusing, in other circumstances. 
 
Unfortunately, these were not ones which were conducive to finding anything particularly funny, any more. 
 
"How about a name? Anything?" Xander persisted.  
 
The woman perked up a bit. "He's very nice," she said. "Very helpful, or he was, before he handed it all over to his partner, um, a Mr...Jones? His company's called Janus, but his name's..." 
 
"Ethan," Xander and Wesley groaned at the same time, before looking at each other in oddly identical surprise. 
 
She smiled at them, ignoring their reaction and focusing on the name. "Do you know him?" 
 
"Ethan Rayne... Why am I so NOT surprised." Xander looked as though he wanted to bang his head against the wall... or the floor.... or Ms Williams. 
 
"Well, at least I know what to do with him," Wesley said, feeling, oddly, somewhat relieved. Xander shot him an enquiring look, and Wesley smiled nastily. "When this is over? I think I may give Rupert a call." He turned his attention back to the unfortunate client. "I'm afraid Mr. Jones isn't very much to go on. How large is this company?" 
 
"It's just a little office really, with a small storehouse. They cater to a very select clientele... They just have good connections," she gushed out the last part as if Wesley had asked for her coffee cake recipe, and he felt rather as though he had tried the coffee cake...and got indigestion for his pains.  
 
"And could you...perhaps...put us in touch with them?" 
 
She walked over to her desk and pulled out a card, "Well... this is them... but as I said...they're very selective.... Would you like me to call ahead and put in a good word for you?" 
 
Xander reached over and took the card. "No... that's quite alright.. any friend of dear Ethan's, after all, would be someone that we'd love to meet regardless."  
 
Meet, Wesley added to himself, and keep a strict eye on…  
 
* 

When faced with an impending apocalypse, people reacted in different ways. Some wailed and moaned, calling upon a God that they ignored the rest of the time. Some ran, as if running away would save them. Some got busy, trying to see what benefit the new order would have for them. 
 
Spike had another way of dealing with such things. Much more practical for the most part. When faced with an impending apocalypse, always order the extra spicy noodles.  
 
The Noodle House was owned by one of the interminable Pak cousins; Huy, Spike seemed to recall his name was. And when he reached the lighted area at the bottom of the steps that lead upstairs he found Xander and Nguyen bent over a board full of mah-jongg tiles, as Jin, another cousin, explained the rules of the game. The explanation seemed to involve a lot of friendly laughing and shoving and ruffling of hair as Jin, the eldest, chided the two younger men for false moves.  
 
"Keep 'em in line, pet," Spike winked his encouragement at Jin as he walked passed them to climb the stairs. 
 
"Naturally," she laughed back at him, "I have been keeping Nguyen in line since he was 5, and I doubt Xander is any more trouble." 
 
"Hey!" Xander shot her a mock annoyed expression and she turned back to give him another shove. 
 
That was Xander's way of dealing with impending apocalypse - spend time with friends and the mundane tasks of life. 
 
Wes was on the phone when Spike entered their still unfinished top floor apartment, and judging from his expression he wasn't getting the answers he wanted. 
 
"Miles? No, Miles, really…. " Wes' voice revealed that he was just on the edge of frustration. 
 
"Bloody Miles Ashcroft…" Spike rolled his eyes. Wes had told him all about the man and his eccentricities - his rabbit warren of a library; filled floor to ceiling with haphazard stacks of books and scrolls and papers. Wes claimed, however, that the man had some kind of system… or a photographic memory… because he always seemed to know exactly where anything was at any given time. 
 
Right now though, it seemed as if, from what vampiric hearing could tell of the other side of the conversation, that rather than answering Wes' questions, Miles was making silly chirpy sounds to a cage full of budgies that seemed to share his research space. 
 
"MILES!!" Wes finally lost his temper. "First, in spite of your assurances to the contrary we do have proof that the Striped One has managed to get free, in defiance of the spells cast and divine intervention! Second, we need the information as soon as possible, because we'd like to send him back to his exile before he actually starts slaughtering people! And third, this is a bloody long distance call so I'd appreciate the honour of your attention!" 
 
At that point, Spike decided that discretion really was the better part of valour and carried their dinner into what there was of their kitchen. 
 
* 
 
"Really, the man is maddening, " Wes told him a few minutes later when he joined him at the folding table that they were currently using as an eating and auxiliary work space. "But fortunately, once you can get him to focus he always seems to know just what you need and where to find it. He'll be faxing us some information by morning." 
 
Spike nodded, taking a big bite of the spicy noodles, "Then tonight? We follow up on the information you bullied out of that Jones fella?" 
 
"Exactly." Wes said, poking a chopstick at the vegetables on his plate and stifling a yawn. 
 
Spike almost cringed at the sight. 
 
"Woke you up again last night, didn't I?" Spike's voice was low and hollow sounding. "Sorry, Wes." 
 
"No. No. It's quite alright." 
 
But it wasn't alright. Not to Spike. He had been doing so much better…or so he had thought. Of course, the morning death-grip on Wes had never gone completely… but it had loosened, relaxed into holding rather than grasping, but the dreams had stopped. Well, they had until their visit to the Hyperion. Somehow, seeing Angel. plus the twitchiness caused by the multitude of Slayers…not to mention the guilt he would probably always feel when he saw Buffy…had combined to stir up far too many old memories. Recent guilt, combined with past decades of blood and regrets, made a stew that his subconscious did not seem to be able to easily digest. 
 
The resulting nightmares had started giving both of them less than their optimum hours of sleep and it was reaching a point where Spike was almost tempted to sleep someplace else so he would no longer disturb Wes. Almost. Somehow he couldn't quite convince himself to eschew the comfort of Wes. The warmth, the soft words, the soothing thump of Wes' heart, still had the power to calm him - drag him back from the abyss of pain and horror he lived through again and again, on an endless repeat of mental visions. 
 
Spike looked up at the clock, "Got time, love. Why don't you have a bit of a kip and I'll wake you when it's time ta go?" 
 
"Oh, yes… impending apocalypse… I'm sure I'll just drift right off." Wes gave a disbelieving snort. "Besides, I want to have all my references ready to match against what Miles is sending." 
 
Spike rolled his eyes, "Everything we have is right there on the bloody desk, Wes. And, you won't know what else you might need until we actually get the information." 
 
"Yes, but - " 
 
"No, Wes… Bed…. " Spike took both his hands and began to tug the still-yawning man towards their make-shift bedroom. "I'll rub your….back for you. You'll drift right off. I promise." 
 
But somehow, the understanding was tacit that a backrub was the very least of what Spike was offering. 

* 

Sleep - which had, surprisingly, come - had not done much to help Wesley's state of mind. He had the scratchy, irritable feeling that came from one hour's too-deep and too-abruptly ended slumber, his own body deciding to jolt him out of it with an immediacy that left him feeling nauseated and foggy and not in a fit state to be in anyone's company at all. It was as though being at rest had given his system leave to send the overdue adrenaline crashing through him, sending his mind racing and his heart to match, without any real sense of alertness that could help him deal with it. 
 
He felt as though his skin had been burning from the inside out. 
 
In a display of good sense that came more from weeks of experience as to his moods straight after waking up, rather than any kind of intuition, Spike was staying clear of him. 
 
As he yawned his way around making coffee in the spluttering little machine that Xander had bought to replace the broken one, he was miserably aware that his sudden and unpleasant awakening had nothing to do with worrying about what came next, or dragon gods, or potential apocalypses. 
 
It had to do with Xander's immediate reaction to the results of their house call, and his resulting irritation - enough that he had already made a slightly terse phone call to send Xander and Illyria out to widen the area search. He didn't want to inflict his current mood on the younger man, and he knew that even the brief call had made him sound unfairly annoyed with something that wasn't even Xander's fault to begin with. 
 
He had also taken a certain amount of unkind satisfaction in pairing him with a still angrily-silent Illyria. 
 
He could tell himself all he liked that this was about wanting to give Xander more autonomy, or because it made no sense to have them both doing the same thing if this was Xander's case, or because he dealt with anything book-related better - but in fact it boiled down to one simple fact. He'd resented Buffy's influence over things from the time he joined Angel Investigations, and time didn't seem to have softened that resentment one little bit. He accepted her power, granted, but more as a 'last possible resort' than a 'first port of call'. He appreciated that if Xander hadn't thought like that, he wouldn't have survived, but still, to have it so casually taken for granted - in front of a client, no less - was...galling. 
 
Annoyed with himself as much for his brief display of petulance earlier as for having these thoughts at all, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Spike spoke from behind him. 
 
"Shouldn't blame the boy, you know? He's been hers for much longer than he's been yours. He's used to calling on her when something bad happens." 
 
Wesley was never sure whether he was relieved or intensely irritated that Spike could read him so well. In this instance, he suspected, he was relieved, since it saved him from having to explain his somewhat convoluted thought processes. "Mm. I appreciate that. But then -" his voice shook with rueful humour, at this - "I've thought she was the person you couldn't rely on for almost as long. And yes, yes, I know. Old habits die hard. It's no longer about her, or Faith, but I still…" He trailed off miserably. 
 
Spike gave a short chuckle, then raised one eyebrow, "Never said the boy was smart - Just said it was what he was used to." He paused, then - "Give him time, Wes." And he let the subject drop there... for Wesley to pick up if he wanted.  

* 

Wesley just nodded, letting it go. Perhaps more than for any of the others - bar Illyria, who had her own agenda most of the time - the past that had given him the strength to pull away from the accepted champions had wildly diverged from the Sunnydale heritage. For Spike and Xander, that heritage was still a ruling factor, still the driving force behind nearly all their motivation, but for him - it was more a dictation of the things he knew he couldn't go back to, a constant reminder of the patterns he had to break and avoid. 
 
It wasn't something he expected anyone else to see clearly - only Dawn, oddly, had hinted at knowing how painful that meeting in the hotel had been. Perhaps, to her, he reflected, Angel was as much a figure to be dreaded as Buffy was to him, a reminder of how bitter the choices had been for her family, of how Buffy had been made into what she was.  
 
He knew better, however, than to try and explain to Spike that it was the pain Buffy had caused Angel that he still resented more than anything. He imagined any hint of that would have the effect of the proverbial lead balloon. 
 
"So," he said, changing the subject. "Any thoughts on what would convince someone with a book collection like this one must be, to start selling it off piece by piece?" 
 
"Death?" Spike said it without hesitation. "Or fear..." 
 
"Fear?" For once, it wasn't something he could understand. He had been a physical coward in every way possible, once, but intellectual cowardice had never been among his failings. Unless the man had been threatened…but even then, surely he would have been giving the books to the author of the fear, not selling them off… 
 
Spike, he could tell, was almost laughing at him, which meant his thought processes had been clearly read. Again, damn it. Wesley sighed, and gave up. If Xander thought he behaved like a mystic, Spike obviously thought he was a bit more akin to a pane of glass in terms of transparency. "Sorry," he added. "The coffee's not working." He put the mug down on the counter. "I think my brain's been stuffed with old used socks," he added rather plaintively, and crossed the kitchen to where Spike was standing in the doorway (which was still lacking a door). "Explain?"  
 
It was nice to have someone to lean against, literally and metaphorically, wonderful to be able to have cross, confused moments where he could be a normal, sleep-dazed human being and not have to live up to a reputation as a walking encyclopaedic analyst. 
 
He could feel the amusement thrumming through Spike, but he really couldn't have cared less, so long as the wonderfully cool fingers kept rubbing at the back of his neck. 
 
"Fear is a wonderful motivator for so many things, pet. So's lust... but I don't think that will fit with this. Can't see some old codger trading off his tomes for a bit of a shag." There was a pause, into which Wesley made a sound of agreement, before nudging back with his head and making a small sound of pitiful encouragement for the neck rub to continue. He let his head tilt forwards into it, and listened. 
 
"Course, there's always greed... but I doubt he would've got their true worth... Not many people who aren't Watchers would be interested in those books." 
 
Obviously this was precisely what had been needed, rather than coffee, to get some kind of brain process beginning that wasn't cantered on personal issues, because that, at least, made something click amidst the fog of incoherent and diffuse worries. If he hadn't been so damn grateful, he would have been mildly interested as to when Spike had become a better aid to wakefulness than caffeine. "No…" he said thoughtfully. "But perhaps not greed. Perhaps knowing that was the most valuable book in their collection - and going to a suitable seller....because they needed money?" 
 
He moved away, reluctantly, and went back to his coffee. 

"Could be... but I somehow I can't think of Ethan Rayne as a "suitable" anything...." Spike chuckled. "... other than suitable git." He looked down at his nails, seeming almost surprised at their natural state - no black polish now. It was part of his whole change in manner, Wesley realised...as if nail polish had, somewhere along the line, come to equal soulless beast. Then he suddenly shook his head, "More important was how much that bint paid for it...." 
 
Sometimes, Wesley could feel synapses collide, when he worked with Spike, as if having his thoughts pushed into paths he would not normally have considered somehow improved his skill. He put the mug down again, letting his thoughts work themselves to a logical conclusion aloud. "And we sold the Inferno at auction for over ten thousand. Granted, there are more collectors interested, but - whoever owned this book either wanted to be rid of it, or needed the money so badly they were prepared to take anything. I think we need to revise our views on the kind of person this is going to be. Although please, God, no more wannabe spell-casters." 
 
"Or this "Jones" fella is feeding us a load a shite... and he had the books stolen... " Spike obviously felt he had to put forward that thought, but he didn't look as though it made him any happier than Wesley felt at the concept. 
 
He offered Spike the entire coffee-pot, only half joking, and admitted, "That's the one possibility I'm really hoping against." His mouth quirked. "How dull I've become in my old age. I want simplicity." 
 
Spike put the coffee-pot back, opting instead to steal Wesley's mug, ignoring all feeble attempts to swat him away. "Wanting simplicity is not a sign of old age, love...." he smirked, successfully fending off all attempts to regain the source of caffeine. "That flannel robe ya have? Now THAT is a sign of old age..." 
 
Wesley gave up, and contemplated the pot himself with a speculative eye, wondering if it was cool enough to just drink out of. "Oh? I didn't notice you complaining about it when Xander made the air conditioning work overtime." He grinned maliciously, forgetting about coffee in favour of teasing. "Or the woolly socks." 
 
Spike quirked an eyebrow, and handed the empty mug back. Wesley sighed, and refilled it, holding it to his chest with a glare. "Am old, aren't I?" he said, eyeing the mug to see if Wesley would let his guard down. "No contest..."  
 
Wesley should have known that laughing was a bad idea, because it would, inevitably, catch him off guard. Should have, didn't, and was forcibly reminded of the fact when he found himself devoid of both coffee mug and shirt very, very quickly. 
 
"…and experienced," Spike added, somewhere in the vicinity of his ear. 
 
And apparently, Wesley admitted to himself, there were infinitely better ways of passing the time than sleep, or trying to rid himself of it. 

* 

Looking for the actual building that housed the postal address they had was not going well, and Spike seemed to have cast himself in the role of finding every drawback going before they even got there. "Ya know we're not likely ta find anyone at this place at this time of night," He gave Wes a considering look, "Bring yer picks?" 
 
"Naturally." He was aiming for haughtiness, but it came out more like a gleeful schoolboy planning mischief. "What's a little b and e in the name of the greater good, after all?" 
 
"You've fallen in with bad company, ya know, love? White hats aren't supposed ta bend the rules, " He put a mockingly shocked look on his face. 
 
Wesley didn't miss a beat. "Yes, Oz has been a terrible influence on me." Somehow, he kept his face straight. 
 
Spike offered Wes a wry grin, "All were's have a bit of thievery in 'em. And Oz? He'd do it and justify it all, right an proper... with perfectly quoted historical reasoning.... in Korean." 
 
Wesley made a face, remembering his conversation with Oz about how there was, in fact, a time and a place for minor law infractions. It had left him feeling rather as if he had been on a mental fairground ride. "I think he already did. Either that or he quoted me all the reasons as to why charcoal is good for the digestion." He sighed. "Not that I'd wish them on anyone, but at least Cordy's visions came with an address, rather than a post box number." 
 
Spike kicked at a bit of rubbish in irritable agreement. "And now is one time that I could wish we had Red around... or that we could take Nuygen on retainer or somethin... " He shook his head. "Would make tracking all this down a bit easier... and quicker. We're a bit light in the hacking skills..." 
 
Wesley snorted at the understatement. "If 'light' means 'non-existent', then yes, yes we are. Although Illyria has some ideas about simply downloading into her memories." He shrugged. "We still have to find a way of her doing that which makes the computer usable ever again, of course..." 
 
Spike looked up at the street signs, "Should be just down this way... " He pointed to an odd conglomeration of older buildings, offices converted from warehouses, and loft apartments. 
 
"Oh, apartments. Joy. " Wesley scowled around him. " This is....not the area I was expecting." 
 
"Always expect the unexpected from a Chaos Mage, love... didn't the Watchers ever teach you that?" Spike's lip quirked as he began looking for the correct address. 
 
"Yes, along with their warnings about the Spanish Inquisition. Actually, it was more along the lines of 'don't start shagging one while you indulge yourself with frivolous research at Oxford.' God, I'd kill to have Napoleonic numbering systems here...." 
 
"Lots of Chaos mages at Oxford, are there? Hmmm... must have changed a bit since my day." He leaned against a wall, watching Wes peer at address markers.  
 
Wesley shrugged. Only, really, if you happened to be called Rupert Giles, but… "Apparently. Well, according to my father. And it's here."  
 
One thing accomplished, at least.  

* 

It was a good thing they'd found the right place. Spike's patience was growing thin and he'd been afraid that at any moment he'd start whining out, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"  
 
It wasn't exactly the type of thing, or sound, that a master vampire wanted to admit to. 
 
He stepped close to the door of the office they were now standing in front of and listened intently for a moment, "No one inside... " He paused and then clarified, "No one with a heartbeat at any rate...." 
 
"Oh, fantastic, it's the book-collecting vampire of legend..." Wes pulled out his skeleton keys, and started fiddling with the lock. 
 
Spike shrugged, "Vampires aren't all bite and fight, ya know... Lot of long hours of daylight ta kill.... And even a vamp can only shag for so long." 
 
His lip quirked, "Not that I've ever found a limit...." 
 
"Duly noted. On all counts..." There was a satisfying *snick*, and Wes took the picks out of the lock. "Well. Now that we can gain entry, perhaps we should knock?" 
 
"If you insist. Seems only polite, don't it?" Spike tapped his bare nails against the door frame, "Hullooooooo? Any one ta home?" But his voice was only just loud enough for Wes' ears. 
 
Wes started laughing quietly. "Oh dear, there seems to be no-one here. We'll simply have to go in." 
 
"Yeah... after all, they left the door unlocked and wide open... " Spike nodded his agreement, "Might be a sign of foul play...." 
 
"It's our civic duty to check that all inhabitants are secure..." 
 
Spike nodded again and slipped quickly through the doorway. He might not hear anything, but no way he was taking any chances by letting Wes go first. "Is that secure? Or secured?" 
 
"Ah, definitely secure, when we get arrested." Wes came in after Spike, his left hand under his jacket, ready to pull out his Glock if anything looked even the slightest bit threatening. 
 
"Not bloody likely. Superficial locks... no alarms... " Spike shrugged. "Doubt they keep anything worth nickin' here... " He handed Wes a flashlight and headed over to a nearby desk, intent on searching through it for anything of interest. 
 
"Yes, true, but I was thinking more of -" Wes stopped short, as the flashlight hit on the bookshelves. "Ah. We have a problem." 
 
"Rats? Dry rot?" Spike quipped before he actually turned to look where Wes indicated. "Oh... that...." 
 
The bookcase actually took up most of one wall and was full of heavy leather bound books. From what Spike could see of the titles, they rivalled the ones in Wes' own library. It seemed very odd that they had so little protection over them. No, Spike amended that thought, so little obvious protection. 
 
"Oh, that exactly." Wes started scanning the second shelf, then reached his hand out toward a volume. "I've never even seen this one." 
 
"Wes..... " Spike edged closer. "Don't! " He suddenly had a very bad feeling, "Just don't touch, yeah? Why would they leave such as that out and so easy ta take?" 
 
"Ah! A snare for the unwary?" Wes dropped his hand. "You're right." His tone was mollifying, but his expression became slightly feral. "I suddenly want to meet this person." 
 
"And ya think touching those might bring him, yeah?" Spike agreed, matter-of-factly. "Fine... but let me...."  
 
There was a sudden tense silence as if it took everything that was in Wes to nod, and keep his tone light. "Be my guest." 
 
"Me and my big mouth" Spike muttered under his breath. There were few things he dreaded more than strange mojo.... but if it came to a choice between him setting it off.... or Wes? It was no choice. 
 
He reached forward and quickly tugged a book out of the shelf, jumping back warily and looking around for any possible danger. 
 
He waited. 
 
Then waited some more. 

There was a distinct lack of supernatural happenings - unless you counted the sound of feet pounding down the stairs, and a furious demand from the doorway - "Who the hell are you?" 
 
"Well, that was a bit anticlimactic." Spike turned toward the slight figure standing in the doorway.  
 
The woman was slim and fair, her clothing neat and business-like, and, thank goodness, she did have a heartbeat. As far as Spike eyes, ears and nose could tell, she was an average human woman.  
 
Wes' hand rested loosely on his gun. "Interesting book collection you have Miss." 
 
She glared at him, shading her eyes from the flashlight and slamming the main lights on with an irritated gesture. "What, there aren't enough libraries around? And you -" she pointed at Spike. "You shouldn't be here at all." 
 
Wesley glared straight back. "Oh? In that case you might like to stop having an open invitation." 
 
Spike blinked as the lights came up full, "And I should be where he is.... so I am..." He gave a shrug, as if the woman would, somehow, understand that bit of convoluted speech.  
 
Surprisingly, the woman suddenly blushed. "Oh," she said apologetically. "You're them. Not them." 
 
Wesley stared.  
 
"I never thought I'd say this," Wes shook his head, "but I may need Xander to work as a translator." 
 
Spike just looked bemused, "And which "them" would we not be, ducks? Hate to be blamed for something I didn't do... or not given credit for something I did..." 
 
"You're not the ones who bought the book," she explained. "You're the ones I left the message for." 
 
Wesley groaned inwardly "You left a message on the answerphone? Ah, yes. We're having....electrical problems." A rather annoying electrical problem named Illyria who had managed to fuse their systems....again.... 
 
"And just what was in this message, that we apparently didn't get? " Spike looked down at the book in his hands again. It seemed familiar somehow....  
 
"I sold this book. It wasn't that important, but it was fairly valuable, and - anyway, I think someone used it. I thought if I sold it to a collector, it would be fairly safe -" she shrugged apologetically. "And your flyer was in my mailbox..." 
 
"The whel---Xander--- HAD been a busy bee."  
 
"Sold it to a woman, yeah? Kind of a looby? 'Bout this tall, red hair and dresses like a demented gypsy?" Spike held his hand a just above shoulder height. 
 
"Um, no...I sold it to a - er- Mr Jones. He has a company..." 
 
Spike frown slightly, "Thought you were part of that? Who are you then?" 
 
"Oh, I am sorry. I'm Gemma Crenshaw." 
 
Wesley sighed. "Of course you are." Then his eyes widened. "Of course you are. Spike, your Watcher..." 
 
Spike raised an eyebrow, "Crenshaw's Demonology - That Crenshaw? " His lip twitched, as he pointedly looked the woman up and down. "Making stodgy old Watchers look better all the time, aren't they?" 
 
"And you with your one-woman fan club. Alas, poor Lydia. She'll be devastated." Wes smirked and then turned back to the woman. "You were right. Your book did get used. That's how we found you." 

The diminutive figure looked up at Wes, "Oh, my... She didn't? She couldn't?" 
 
Then an exasperated huff of air, "No... of course she did... idiot woman. And all my fault, of course.... but the money... No.. no excuse. " Gemma Crenshaw sighed again. "The Council is in such a shambles though... and no help in that direction...." 
 
"There are...extenuating circumstances. It may be some time before any help can be obtained from that area." Wes sighed. "Not that they were notable for it in the first place, of course..." 
 
"Shambles is the word. But Giles will beat them into submission right enough." Spike nodded. "Just threaten ta chain 'em in the bath and they'll behave. " 
 
"It would have helped if someone had chained that blasted woman to a rock." Wes scowled his annoyance. 
 
"Quite right. God save us from amateurs...." Gemma sighed. "She got it all mucked up and up to us to fix it, I presume. Did she call you for help? Was she at least smart enough to know she didn't have the talent to fix... whatever it is that she's done?" 
 
Wes was in a bad enough mood to take some satisfaction in what he said next. "Not quite. She had the bright idea of trying to tell us she hadn't done anything - and that she had a possessed house."  
 
He smiled, not very nicely. "In a manner of speaking, she did. Your little attempt to make some money has unleashed the Striped One." 
 
The woman blanched, paler than Spike, "Oh, dear Lord." 
 
"Doubt he has much ta do with this, pet." 
 
"No, I suppose not." She looked around her helplessly. "Would you like...er...." She trailed off, looking from Spike to Wesley and obviously completely unsure of what to offer. "A drink?" she offered, eventually. 
 
"You look as though you could use one yerself, " Spike told her. "You've gone a bit pale-ish" 
 
Gemma looked at Spike, then at Wes, "Does he have the slightest idea of what all this means?" 
 
"Oh, I think so. " Wes looked sideways at Spike, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "You need to work on your reassurance techniques. Apparently blasé just isn't the done thing." 
 
Spike quirked, "More Cordelia and less Giles then?" 
 
"I can't believe the two of you are joking. If the Striped One has been released...." Gemma sat down rather quickly. "Dear Lord." 
 
"Yes, I think we got that." Wes assured her. "And Spike, if you start complaining about what that book is doing to your manicure, I will shoot you." 
 
Spike glanced, once again, down at his bare fingernails... but managed not to comment or say his next words in Cordelia's queenly tones, "Best thing is to figure out what ta do next, yeah? " 
 
"Quite possibly, yes. Although what help we'll get here is debatable..." 
 
Gemma looked up at them, miserably, "I am really rather useless as far as actually performing magic, I'm afraid..." 
 
Wes blinked. "Magic? I was thinking more of..." he looked at Spike, hoping without hope for help on this one. "Well. Something sharp, yet effective?" 
 
"Oh... oh yes! Very good." Gemma went over and took the book that Spike was holding and flipped through it rather quickly. "Of course there were always rumours... but... "  
 
She sighed, "It's probably quite impossible.... really.... " She passed Wesley the book, pointing out the proper passage. 
 
"Can't just rip it's heart out or something?" Spike raised an inquiring eyebrow and moved to look over Wesley's shoulder. 
 
"This is a joke. No, it's a nightmare, and I am going to wake up. " Wes passed the book over to Spike. "I think the answer you're looking for is - eventually. Maybe. Or not.…" 
 
* 

Ame-no-Murakumo-no-tsurugi.. Wesley was quite sure that Spike would recognise the drawing, at least - or considering the context, have a fair idea of what it was. He had long since got used to the fact that myths tended to be real, legends were usually coded fact, and nothing was impossible, but this was straightforwardly all of the above and unhelpful with it. 
 
"So the one in the shrine -" he began, and was cut off by Gemma. 
 
"Oh, obviously, that's a fake. Fascinating in the way of historical artefacts, but of course, this would only ever have been lent out to the Emperor. Susano-o would never have let anyone keep it. Even his sister." 
 
Wesley nodded, and sighed. "Understandably," he murmured. "Miss Crenshaw -" 
 
"Gemma, please." 
 
"Gemma, I'm sorry to bring this up, especially now. But these books…" This was perhaps one of the most unpleasant tasks he had ever been faced with. He had been her, once, faced with a silent Council and only his own resources to back him up, selling off everything he owned piece by piece in an effort to stay afloat. "They're not listed," he said apologetically. "And half the ones that aren't are…well. The Council have needed them in several instances. Why haven't you given access?" 
 
Spike was looking at him as though he had grown another head. Fair enough. It wasn't as though Wesley was a great advocate on his most forgiving days of letting the Council have more than a rather cursory time of day, but that, unfortunately, wasn't really the point, this time. 
 
Seeing her lips thin out, he pressed forward. "What did Micha Crenshaw say, to make you all so very adamant that no-one should know these were extant?" 
 
Gemma licked her lips nervously. "There's - there's a container" she said in a whisper. "We kept it in the house, but -" 
 
"But you brought it here. I see. And all these books -" 
 
"They all mention it. He said - he said in his will…no-one was to know…" She looked on the verge of tears. Wesley felt terrible. 
 
Spike, obviously, didn't. "Hey, you mean no-one got to know about this? And there's stuff here that could help? What are you, the token mental case every Council needs?" 
 
Predictably, Gemma did burst into tears at that. Spike cringed. "Oh, bugger…" 
 
Wesley looked over at him, shaking his head slowly. "The next time you tell me I need tact," he said dryly, "I'll just quote that little piece of wisdom verbatim, you do know that?" 
 
Spike glared at him - and Gemma - impartially, before turning his attention back to the book, ignoring Gemma's sniffles. Wesley sighed. 
 
"Gemma…" he tried to get her attention back. "Look, I'm sorry. I am. But this matters more than ever now. Do you have even the faintest idea why Micha was so adamant about this? Because right now the total sum of information I have is that the Striped One is out, you think that the Kusanagi is available, and, oh, yes, how could I forget? There's some canister you've brought here and - what have you done with it? Stuck it in a vault? - and I really need just a little more to go on than that!" 

"'s in a vault," Gemma mumbled. 
 
"This thing is the Kusanagi?" said Spike, looking frighteningly interested. 
 
Wesley counted to twenty in Fyarl. Which was extremely soothing, considering that all their words for numbers were curses. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth. "Crafted for one very good purpose." 
 
Spike grinned at him, ignoring his irritation completely. "Killing dragon gods?" He looked more as if Wesley had offered him ten thousand dollars, than an impossible task of finding something that rightfully belonged in a Japanese book of children's stories. 
 
Wesley felt his annoyance fade away, and grinned back. "Killing dragon gods," he agreed, before turning his attention back to Gemma. "I think," he said mildly, "that we'd better take a look at this canister. Don't you?" 
 
She looked at him miserably. "Yes, but -" 
 
"Oh, God, what now?" 
 
"I think you'd better bring it to me." She flushed, and looked unhappy in a whole new way. "My family was…is…a bit like yours." She bit her lip, and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry. But it's probably got wards, and you know what they can be - and if you tried to open it, even with the books, then the things that could happen to you….and you're, you're - I'm sorry, but you know what they'd sense -" She jerked her head towards Spike, who was starting to look bitterly offended, and Wesley took a quick, startled breath. He should have thought of that before… 
 
"Yes." Wesley cut her off in flat agreement, as she seemed about to expand on the problem. "Yes, I do. All right. I take it we're going to need a password?" 
 
"Hey, wait, what's she mean -" 
 
"I'll explain later!" Wesley hadn't meant his voice to sound quite so harsh, but Christ, of all the things that he had never wanted to even think about again, that had to be near the top of the list. 
 
Remind me to tell you about my childhood sometime. How's never sound to you? 
 
Spike looked as though he had made a lot of very unpleasant connections. "Yeah," he said softly. "Okay, Wes." He turned back to Gemma. "So, what're we going to need, then, to get this bit of junk?" 
 
* 

It turned out that they needed the password to the vault, a talisman to check that they had the right item, and a leather padded carrying case with a protection spell on it, that Wesley slung over his shoulder. He assumed that Spike would take charge of the talisman, but the vampire, obviously having taken Gemma's warning to heart, edged away from the little metal object a bit, looking wary. 
 
"No, this is mine," Gemma said, looking a lot calmer. "It doesn't hurt anyone." 
 
Wesley took it from her hand, and nodded. "You're sure it won't -" he jerked his head towards Spike. 
 
"Positive," said Gemma bleakly. "I'm sorry I had to -" 
 
"Not at all. It was a timely warning. I have a tendency not to think -" 
 
"No, I know. At least now you know we're not all conditioned to think Roger has a point." There was enough bitterness in her voice to convince Wesley that here was another area where his father had done a fair amount of damage, but he had neither the time or the energy to deal with it. He just nodded, and put the talisman in his pocket. 
 
"We'll bring it straight back here," he said calmly. "Will the vaults still be open?" 
 
"Twenty-four hours," Gemma agreed. "It's quite straightforward, though, you -" 
 
Spike cut across her. "Yeah, I think we've got the hang of getting something out of a building, thanks." 
 
Gemma looked a bit surprised at his rudeness. Wesley didn't even blink, already preparing to leave. "Quite," he agreed. "Thank you, Gemma." 
 
He turned at the doorway, unable to resist pointing something out. "If I were you? I'd start warding this place against people." 
 
And he walked out, not waiting for a response. 
 
Spike caught up with him at the bottom of the stairs. "So…you gonna tell me what that was about?" 
 
"I don't feel like discussing -" 
 
"Wes." He was stopped with a firm hand on his arm. "You told me to call you on things before you 'did something irretrievable'. And yeah, I know you don't want to talk. 'M not daft. The most I've ever got from you is cutting me off about your family every time - and I know that the only good thing your dad ever did was have you, and he screwed it up from the second he did. But I'm still calling you on it. Now." 
 
Wesley wanted, more than anything in the world, to shrug Spike's hand off his arm, to close down the conversation with cold, hard words, to push Spike away until he never tried anything like this again. 
 
And if it had been anyone else, he would have.  
 
But this wasn't prying. This wasn't some clumsy attempt to help. Spike, better than anyone, knew that some things couldn't be helped. He wasn't offering pity, or thinking that this was some great key to Wesley's character - he knew Wes anyhow. He just wanted to know what Gemma had been talking about. 
 
Wanted to - and deserved to. 
 
All those hours under the stairs… mocked the voice of the Ethros demon in his mind, and he pushed it away, focusing instead on Spike. 
 
He hadn't known, until now, how uncompromising love could be. But it was there, still, and he had to take a leap of faith, believe that it still would be at the end of this. 
 
He took a deep breath, and began to explain what it meant - exactly - what it meant, to be a hereditary Watcher…and the price of being brought up as one. 

* 

Xander's Journal 
 
When I started High School my life was all about girls and friends, my skateboard and trying to fit in. Then Buffy came to Sunnydale and the skateboard and trying to fit in sorta took a backseat to "trying to survive High School" in a much more basic and fundamental way. 
 
Now? I still like the girls even after all the crap that is my love life. My friends are still around, although I have gained some new ones (And damn, I number Spike among them, who'd a thunk it?). And, I'm still trying to survive. Although, at the moment, most of my survival skills are wrapped around trying not to chop my hands off with power tools, due to my change in depth perception. 
 
The work on the offices is coming right along. The new work out room is going to be strong enough to contain even the enthusiasms of Spike and Illyria. And I should have all the personal spaces completed and ready for use in shortly… barring unforeseen death and apocalypse. 
 
Yeah, because a foreseen apocalypse is so much more easy to deal with. 
 
I should have added that to my list of important constants in my life, because I don't seem to be able to avoid it. Thanks to Buffy, Willow and, I suppose, Kennedy, we just got rid of the First. Now we have to deal with "The Striped One". I don't know if that's any better (or stupider) a name for an ancient destructive evil god than Glory was, but it's the one we're dealing with at the moment. 
 
And this god prefers the guise of a huge dragon. 
 
Lets just hope that the name Illyria chose for us turns out to be prophetic, because seeing Wes go pale when he realized exactly who Ms. Williams had helped to release, was not exactly an encouraging sight. Wes is usually pretty unflappable, so I'm thinking this "Striped One" probably far outweighs any evil that Glory could have come up with. 
 
So… first steps. We need to get this… flask, or urn, or whatever the damn things is that will work as kind of a containment field for this week's Big Bad. Should be simple. We just go to this special. Watcher certified, bank and pick up the magic thingy. So simple in fact that Wes is leaving all details up to me, so he and Spike can concentrate on research. 
 
And there are a lot of arrangements to be made. Transportation (Oz) and security (Illyria and Spike) and phone calls to be made to Ms. Crenshaw and the Bank (me) to arrange for the safe pickup and retrieval of this thing. Okay, it's not rocket science but still, there are things that, while not difficult on the surface, are turning out to be annoyingly complex. Things like convincing a bunch of Watchers that, yes, we do have a vampire on our staff, and no, he is NOT tame, but he IS souled and will not attempt to attach himself, leechlike, to anyone but Wes.  
 
Sheesh. For a bunch of crusty old guys, those Watchers are pretty damn worried about keeping their crust intact. I think maybe Giles needs to visit some of his local contacts and shake them up some. It was stagnation that caused most of the troubles in the old Council and with so few Watchers left at the moment, Buffy and all the girls would need to know just who they could count on. 
 
I think I'll send them Ms Crenshaw's name. She, at least, seems to accept that things change. 

Later: 

I think I'm getting on Spike's nerves. Nothing new there, really, but we had been getting along. Hell, I think I'm getting on Wes' nerves too. I can't help it though. I want this all to turn out well.  
 
I know it's just a simple transport of a minor magical artefact, and not a very valuable one at that. I know that because I "Googled" it. All those years with Willow and Anya have paid off. Not only do I know how to look up a particular artefact, but I've learned how to calculate it's fair market value AND find the current asking price on E-Bay. 
 
I have mad skills. *snort* 
 
I also have lists… lists of things completed and things still to do. I think it's probably the lists that are annoying everyone… but at this point they are the only way I know how to keep track of all the different things I want to take care of. 
 
Transportation? Check - Oz has asked Jin 's mother if we can borrow the van from the furniture store and that looks like a go. 
 
Security? Check - Although, there wasn't much to do there. Just watch Illyria and Spike spar. At least, Illyria is speaking to me now, although mostly in monosyllables and every once in awhile I catch an odd look in her eye. It's kind of scary because I'm not sure if the looks says, "I guess you're okay and I'll eventually get over whatever it is that's pissed me off." or "You should bow before me insignificant human or I will remove your entrails through your nostril."  
 
Like I said, kind of scary. 
 
Paperwork? Check - I got the vault passwords, a letter of authorization, and a check for the processing fee from Ms Crenshaw this morning. That should be every thing we need in that direction. 
 
Equipment? Well, everyone will probably handle their own, so Check. 
 
Pacification of overly anxious Watchers? Well as much as can be done when they find out that we're bringing William the Bloody into their establishment.  
 
So yeah… pretty much as ready as we'll ever be. Should be a piece of cake. 
 
Why I'm feeling an overwhelming sense of impending doom is beyond me. I can't mention it to Wes because he'll just whap me on the head and tell me to get over myself.  
 
I probably need to.  
 
Wes' advice is usually very sound. 
 
Just let me check over my list, one more time…… 
 
* 

Usually, it wasn't Wesley who wanted to kill something - at least not that he would admit - but he was quite ready to make an exception by now. If only because it would save him from taking Xander and shaking him until his teeth rattled. 
 
He was trying to be patient, to the best of his ability. He remembered all too vividly how it had felt to be even in nominal charge of Angel Investigations - even though he had known, just as Xander probably did, that if something went wrong it wouldn't matter in the slightest who officially took responsibility, because everyone would be falling over their own feet, trying to take it upon themselves. 
 
Of course, there was less chance around here of anyone being quite that over-helpful, unless it involved using weaponry, in which case there would probably be a six-year-old squabble as to who chopped what up first, instead. 
 
He just wished Xander hadn't chosen hyper-efficiency as a means of showing he was on top of things. Especially by means of a list. Admittedly, he tended - or rather had tended, being unable to physically produce words had definitely killed that urge in him - towards over-explanation, and it had probably been equally, if not more, irritating, but God…if Xander performed that all too-visible mental checklist one more time, and then referred back to his sheet of paper in case he'd forgotten something, he suspected he was gong to have to get in line for the shaking. And possibly the battering to death with the nearest blunt object, if the look on Spike's face was anything to go by. He half-closed his eyes, hoping to avoid seeing the by-now almost automatic scan Xander kept giving them, as though he were expecting one of them to have vanished within the two minutes grace of peace he tended to give before the next check-through. 
 
Xander glanced at the clock, then back at Wesley, Spike and Illyria. "We ready?" 
 
Oh, for God's sake. Wesley gritted his teeth. They had been ready for what felt like centuries, and were all bored out of their minds. He swallowed his irritation, and smoothed his voice out into blandness as he managed to say, "Apparently," instead of the instinctive sarcasm that had been on the tip of his tongue. 
 
Not that he expected anyone would notice his victory over inherent honesty, but he counted it as a small point in the corner of his rapidly-losing better nature. 
 
He was also, privately, slightly concerned. He didn't trust Gemma completely - not that he thought she was lying, but more that he was unsure that she had any idea of what she really had in her possession other than following the rules her family had laid down. He would have felt decidedly more comfortable if she had shown herself to be capable of more original thought than simply considering family wards that, after all, they had all been brought up to treat rather like oxygen.  
 
He didn't trust Watchers' families. He didn't trust the depository where Gemma had stashed her canister, and he certainly didn't believe that she was truly capable of making any kind of useful judgement call that they could depend on. 
 
Which was the only reason he was bearing with Xander and his list, because he had a suspicion that at some point something was going to go wrong, however small, and at least they could all point out when it did that Xander had obviously done everything humanly possible to avert any sort of catch in the process. 
 
That was, if they let him live long enough to get the damn thing and review any glitches… 

He was hoping that Illyria didn't realise she was their mystical canary. Not that he didn't believe that the jar was harmless - well, as long as they just picked it up, brought it to Gemma, and left it strictly alone other than that, but one twitch from her, one hint of uncertainty that everything was exactly as he had reported Gemma to have promised, and he silently vowed that they were getting the hell out, and she could go and get the damn thing herself. 
 
"For the twelfth bloody time, we're ready, Harris... Can we leave now?" Spike was practically dancing on his toes in eagerness to just do something - possibly smack Xander, if the expression on his face was anything to go by. 
 
Illyria opened her mouth, apparently to ask something, and Spike slammed his hand over it. "Now?" he repeated. Illyria scowled, and looked as though she were contemplating biting him. Spike hastily dropped his hand, and Illyria proved that a serene smile was infinitely more worrying, coming from her, than any sort of threat. Xander looked at them both as if he was seriously contemplating going through the checklist with everyone again, and Wesley, rolling his eyes, decided to head that one off at the pass before someone really did do him harm. 
 
"Yes. Because otherwise Oz is going to drive off without us." He tried to conceal his smile as they headed down the stairs. Back at Angel Investigations, there had been an odd sort of pecking order in which to head out - which in better days had led to rather six-year-old shoving and poking between himself and Gunn, while Angel pretended he couldn't hear them. Here...well.  
 
Oz was playing some kind of rhythm on the van horn, which made the van sound like a mobile macarena outfit, Spike was already in the van before anyone else had got to the first landing, Illyria had chosen to slide down the banister, and Xander was checking his list - again, God, Wesley was going to ritually burn that thing when they got back - and looking like a worried cyclopean Santa Claus. Wesley just made a mental check of his weapons, and made sure the door was locked. Not that there was much that could be stolen, unless someone had an urgent need for power-tools, a fridge, and a couch, but it would still be annoying if they had to be replaced. 
 
Illyria waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, and gave him one of her rare, genuine smiles. "You would say 'Finally', if you let yourself, wouldn't you?" she asked, and Wesley grimaced.  
 
"Yes," he admitted, looking over at Xander and sighing. 
 
"I will protect him," Illyria said it quite calmly, in much the same tone as she had announced that she had knocked down the garden wall, that the electricity had all shorted out again, and that she liked fudge ice-cream. Wesley had no idea where the statement ranked on the scale of importance, but he was grateful right now for any sign of a thaw in her attitude towards Xander, and was definitely coming down hard on the side of 'take what you can get'. 
 
"You won't need to -" he began, getting into the van with her, and was interrupted by Xander saying - 
 
"Good, good... " as though they were all dogs in need of training. Illyria raised her eyebrows a fraction, and Wesley conceded defeat. 
 
"Thank you," he said, and stifled a smile.  

Xander, apparently, was on a roll with 'things you shouldn't say if you want people to refrain from mocking you mercilessly for the next six months'. "Okay, Oz... hit it..." 
 
"Hit what? The back of your head?" Wesley wanted to ask, and was mildly disappointed when Oz didn't. But he did pull calmly away from the curb and head in the direction of their appointment. His sombre grey "working" button down shirt was rather at odds with his currently red hair with black tips. 
 
Wesley breathed a faint sigh of relief, and turned back to Crenshaw's old diary, trying to get rid of the niggling feeling that he'd missed something. Aware that he was probably becoming as irritating as Xander as a result, he closed it, and attempted to distract himself from his own thoughts, Xander from his list, and everyone else from the happy place they were probably inhabiting in which Xander was tied up and gagged somewhere. 
 
"Is this Oz's van, Nuygen's van, or just something random that someone stole and didn't tell me about?" . 
 
Spike grinned at him with the all-too-familiar look of You make this too easy for me. "Got it off a dead hooker. Yummy bit she was too...."  
 
There was the sound of a snorted laugh from Oz. Illyria relaxed into 'you are all foolish and beneath me' mode. Xander, God help them, seemed incapable of doing anything but taking everything seriously. 
 
"Spike." Xander elbowed him sharply. "Nah, Wes, it belongs to one of Mr. Pak's other relatives. The one with the furniture store." 
 
Wesley looked at him blankly for a moment, then just nodded. "Thank you. I think I preferred the other explanation..." His smile was a quirk of rare and unembittered amusement in the gloom of the storage cubicle. 
 
Spike, of course, just smirked at Xander, "See, Harris... my bloke has a sense of humour... " And the implication was all too clear that Xander, really, did not. Wesley, already beginning to regret his attempt to lighten the atmosphere, was about to step in, but Xander was already apologizing. 
 
"Yeah... yeah... sorry. I know I've been a pain in the ass the last week. I just want this to work out... Since, ya know, Wes put me in charge of it and stuff..." 
 
Wesley, briefly, wondered if Xander could see how he had just crossed his eyes at him, and considered adding a stuck-out tongue to the mix. "Mm, how woeful your burden...it's a pick-up, Xander, it's not the bloody Shroud of Rahmon. And here, have a lesson in being in charge. If there's going to be a mistake made? We can all screw up just fine by ourselves, so let it go." 
 
"I know. I know. Sorry... " Xander chuckled and then leaned against Illyria, looking up at her with those big brown puppy dog eyes. "Wes is picking on me." 
 
Illyria looked startled for a moment, shooting a glance at Wesley that showed she had no idea of how to deal with this, before visibly calling on some memory or other to try and respond in kind. "Oh? I thought the word was educating."  
 
Well, at least she had responded, Wesley told himself, rather than pushed Xander onto the floor of the van and stamped on him. And wasn't it a sad day when he knew this counted as progress? 
 
Xander chuckled, then leaned the other way... against Spike, giving him the same puppy dog eyes, "Now they're both picking on me." 
 
Spike snorted and shoved at Xander, though fortunately not hard enough to push him off the bench. "Ya deserve it, don't you, ya git?"  
 
Wesley tried, very hard, not to let his amusement show. I run a kindergarten, I run a kindergarten, I will not laugh…he snorted, suddenly, and called through the grille - "Oz? Are we there yet?" 
 
Oz's reply was as succinct as always as he called back - "Not yet," but there was humour in the voice and you could almost hear the continuation: "Don't make me pull over and come back there to deal with all of you." 
 
Illyria's eyes glittered brightly in the dim light, and Wesley waited in some trepidation for whatever thought had occurred to her to be evinced. When she spoke, her voice was utterly deadpan, but it was obvious that daytime television had corrupted her irretrievably. "Xander Harris is on my side of the van...." And it was very close to a whine, by the end. 
 
And that was it... Spike went off in a gale of laughter, curled up, his head down on his knees as he shook with it. It was the last straw. Wesley gave up, and laughed, his head leaning back on the corrugated metal, and didn't care how bloody offended anyone got. 

* 

But, of course, Xander being Xander had to take everything just one step further, "Weeeeessss... 'Lyria's breathing my air......"  
 
Wes finally gave up and laughed, leaning his head back on the corrugated metal. "Yes, she does tend to do that..." He grinned at Illyria's mouth-open outrage, but Spike thought it was hilarious. This whole thing with Xander and Illyria had been really freakin' hilarious, right from the beginning. Although there were days when Spike just wanted to shove the two of them in the bedroom, lock the door, and tell them to "Shag and get the bloody hell over it." 
 
Wes had snagged Illyria over to his side. "There, now we're evenly spaced. Stop stealing air, sweetheart -" Then he got a rather odd look on his face.  
 
Thinkin' about Fred again. was Spike's conclusion. As much as they had attempted and managed to allow Illyria into their lives… there were still many regrets and sad thoughts associated with the lost of their friend. 
 
Illyria, for her part, simply stuck a very blue tongue out at Xander, and started sharpening her sword. Spike decided not to ask where she had been hiding it all this time. 
 
"We're here" Oz pulled the van, safely to the curb in front of the building, jumping out and going around to open the side door for them. 
 
They had to be the oddest group ever, walking in to the bank armed with only a password to a locked vault that hadn't been opened in maybe a hundred years. Illyria waited in the van with Oz, and Spike spared a brief moment of pity for both of them. Illyria for having to remain part of the waiting game…. And Oz for having to deal with a bored Warrior God. 
 
Spike entered the bank first, of course, his usual prowl almost making the guard nervous enough to confront him, until Xander put a hand on his arm and directed him over to the deposit box area and the room beyond with an array of small private vaults. Jumpy lot, Watchers… and all their connections. Spike shook his head. 
 
Xander spoke to the bank official, "I'm Alexander Harris. We have a pick up for Ms. Crenshaw . I believe you need this." And he handed the official the paperwork arranging for the vault to be opened and the contents to be released to them. 
 
"And of course, the banker's fee." He handed over the check, and watched mild suspicion turn into complete acceptance as they took in the name and signature.  
 
"Yes," Spike chuckled mentally, "We're authorized with money in hand…. 
 
Xander looked ready to say something snide about money being the universal grease, but after glance at Wes, he just bit his lip and looked at the others, "Everyone ready?" 
 
"Ready!" Spike snapped out. Gawd, if he didn't stop repeating himself Spike was going to somehow finagle a conjuration spell out of Wes and have Xander put soundly in the van.  
 
Wes, obviously read his thoughts because he trod firmly on his foot Spike's foot before following the clerk towards the vault. 
 
"Oi! Watch it…."  
 
They followed the vault clerk, Xander carefully, and a bit obviously, keeping track of everything around them. They were lead into a large room and the vault they wanted was pointed out to them. 
 
"If you'll excuse us..." Xander gestured to the guard and the clerk, who were both still standing by the door. "Our security precautions... you understand." The men nodded and left. 

They could hardly have brought Illyria here, but as the they opened the correct miniature vault and Spike saw the canopic-looking jar, he had a brief moment of wondering what the hell they were getting into, and why he hadn't been blessed with some sense that could tell him what they were about to take home. It wasn't so much that there was a sense of power about the thing - even he could tell when that was present - but the sense of.....age.  
 
And it seemed as thought Wes, was having the same thoughts, because Spike could hear him muttering, "Age, and somehow, loss. There's something unwanted, deliberately forgotten about it, and damned if I know why that should bother me because that just about sums up every artefact known, but still…. " Wes paused there, "And I really needed to stop borrowing trouble.…" 
 
Xander examined the artefact, without touching it. Checked to see if it answered the description that he had been given and the drawing he had. It did... 
 
"I'm going to be seriously disappointed in myself if you tell me this isn't the one..."  
 
"No... No, Wes... this is it. Well, of course, I'm no expert, but it matches the drawing and all... and oh, yeah... " Xander pulled a talisman out of his pocket. It glowed bright blue, even in the fluorescent lighting of the vault area. "Yeah... that's it..." 
 
"Mm." It was a thoughtful little hum, as he took the jar from Xander's hands, examining the inlaid jewels and the intaglioed inscriptions. "Well. We have it, I suppose we get it back to its owner..."  
 
Xander held his hand out towards Spike and was handed the special carrying case they had been given for the jar. It was padded and protected and... somehow, it gave him the strange feeling that there was magic imbued in it. It made his skin itch.... "Here. Should be on our way, I guess." 
 
Wes gave a smile, as he watched the jar vanish into the case. "Everyone ready?" he asked dryly. 

"'Bout freaking time...." 
 
Xander just rolled his one eye, "Yeah, I know.... I'm an idiot... but..." He just shrugged and gave Wes a goofy grin. "Let's go." 
 
"Yes. And then I'll buy you an ice cream...." Wes just couldn't resist, but he somehow wasn't surprised when his way out of the door was helped by a nicely enclosed jar hitting him on the arse. 
 
"Oh, yes, Dad... Rocky Road? I just love the little squidgy bits of marshmallow.... " Spike gave an evil chuckle and bumped against Xander as he passed him. 
 
"I feel like Rodney Dangerfield.... " Xander sighed. "I don't get no respect.. " 
 
The clerk gave them all an odd expression as they passed, and Wes grinned to himself, keeping up the patter. "Finish your chores, and I'll give you money to take your girlfriend to the movies..." Wes' voice said he was uncertain that he had the American terms right, but Xander's choking fit, that lasted all the way out of the revolving doors, made potential inaccuracy all worthwhile... 
 
Xander continued his muttering as they re-entered the parking garage, "Yes... My life is a comedy routine. And not some big name American guys like Bob Hope or Abbot and Costello.... more like a cut-rate Benny Hill." 
 
"Van?" Wes suggested mildly. "Home? Analysis of item? Yes?" 
 
"Yes... " Xander handed the bag to Wes, and opened the Van doors, motioning him inside first.  
 
Spike stood back a small distance, looking out over the covered parking area. They hadn't expected any trouble.... but you could never be sure.... 
 
"You are mocking me - again!" And so much for peace and a nice easy job, because an extremely upset God-King jumped out of the cab and slammed the door behind her.  
 
"I am not talking to the wolf!" Illyria announced, and hopped into the back of the van. 
 
"And that changes...what?" Wes frowned. 
 
Oz stepped out of the van, looked at Wes and shrugged. Obviously, he had no clue what he'd said.... or this being Oz... what he hadn't said, to upset her this time. 
 
"Can we discuss this later, 'Lyria? I'll feel a lot better when we get this thing back home." Xander attempted to be the voice of reason for once. 
 
"We are not discussing it at all! And I want to go home. This is dull!" 
 
"Fine... then lets go" 
 
Spike moved forward, intending to urge them all back in... "Fine then --" Then it hit... a flash and a bang... smoke and lights... and bodies, appearing out of nothing. "Shit." 
 
* 

Wesley groaned in a mixture of irritation and chagrin. Apparently Gemma's wards hadn't been quite effective enough - or had worn off. Either that, or this was unrelated and random, but either way, it was deeply unwelcome, and an entirely unnecessary complication to something that was supposed to be completely straightforward. There were going to be enough difficulties later, he felt, without adding whatever-this-was to it. "Oh, just lovely..." He hooked the bag over his shoulder, drawing his guns. "Illyria, stop sulking and be useful!" Because at least she could burn off some of her irritation, if nothing else, now that it seemed Oz had chosen a most inopportune moment to break his habitual rule of silence and laconic detachment. 
 
He had thought at first they were some relic of the old watchers' families, part of the thuggish mentality that had drawn Weatherby and his cronies to approach him in an attempt to take Faith, and was rather looking forward to their reactions to Illyria and an unchipped Spike - but these weren't humans. 
 
They were demons, and even the working, living catalogue he had trained his brain to become couldn't recognise them, couldn't put a name to their appearance - and, more worryingly, couldn't come up with the correct means of killing them.  
 
He had no way of taking a clear shot, either, given that Illyria had already jumped in between Xander and the first rush, her sword in her hand, and was moving fast enough that wherever he aimed, she seemed to a