Desperate Measures
Oct. 4th, 2012 12:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shapinglightHere at last is the penultimate (I hope) part of my ongoing (since 2008) Spike/Giles re-telling season 7 series. If last time is anything to go by, there are about three people still interested in this story, but I've started it, so I'll finish it.
For anyone who hasn't read the previous parts, or wants to refresh their memories, they can be found
here
Setting: The Watchers' Council Headquarters, London, in BtVS season 7 (around the time of Selfless/Him I suppose, events of which have taken place without Spike's participation).
Rating: PG-13 to R, for a bit of bad language
Pairings: none as such, this part.
Desperate Measures
Giles gazed around the old lecture theatre with an unwelcome sense of deja vu.
He hadn't been in it since his student days. In fact, the last occasion had been rather similar to this.
Back then, the medical staff had worn traditional white coats rather than blue scrubs, which had shown the blood stains even more vividly. But the stuffy atmosphere was the same, the air still smelt of disinfectant, the spectators' expressions still ranged from curious to apprehensive.
Not to mention , just like then, the vampire subject of the lecture was restrained on a dissecting table in the centre of the room surrounded by armed Council operatives.
Ironic, Giles thought. When Spike had first come to him in Bath, this was the fate to which he'd consigned him with barely a qualm. Now, the thought of what might have happened if Travers had been quicker off the mark made Giles's stomach churn. The muffled screams of that long ago test subject still rang loud in his memory.
Giles told himself he couldn't afford to become morbid. Travers wanted Spike alive and healthy. Also, the room had been crowded then, whereas now the audience was confined to Travers' most trusted subordinates.
And Giles himself, of course, who was certainly not one of those.
Travers was standing next to the dissecting table, conferring with Griffiths. Whatever it was they were talking about, they were clearly not in agreement, because Travers was frowning and Griffiths was shaking his head very emphatically.
Travers broke off the conversation suddenly and turned. His eyes met Giles's and he beckoned to him. Giles rose slowly to his feet. He looked from Travers's face to Spike's bound form on the dissection table, feeling a vast reluctance to go anywhere near him.
Spike was still muzzled, but Giles could see his eyes darting rapidly this way and that as he listened to the conversations going on around him. No doubt they were the very opposite of reassuring, and seeing Giles approaching probably wouldn't help matters.
"Mr Giles, if you wouldn't mind...?" Travers' frown had become a glare.
Giles drew a deep breath and began to descend the steps. He tried to keep his gaze on Travers, but even so, he was acutely aware of the moment that Spike saw him. Spike's eyes widened. He began to strain against his bonds, trying to keep Giles in sight, until the angle made it impossible and he gave up the effort. Giles clenched his hands hard in case Travers saw how badly they were shaking.
"How can I help you, Quentin?"
Travers' lips tightened in annoyance at Giles's continued use of his first name, but he didn't press the point.
"Griffiths, here, disagrees with me," he said, "but I think we should release the vampire from most of its restraints. Otherwise, the demonstration is worthless."
"Demonstration?" Giles tried to look uncomprehending, though he'd guessed instantly what Travers must mean. "What sort of demonstration?"
"I intend to trigger him," Travers said, "so we can see what happens for ourselves."
"Ah." Giles kept his expression neutral. "And what has that to do with me?"
Travers' eyes narrowed, suspecting deliberate obtuseness. Don't push him too far, you idiot!
"I would have thought it was obvious, man. You're the only person here who has seen the trigger in action. I thought you could reassure Griffiths that with the right precautions we should all be perfectly safe."
Giles glanced over Travers' shoulder at Griffiths, a little surprised that Travers gave such weight to a subordinate's opinion, even if he was ex-special forces. But Griffiths' expression - as usual - gave away nothing at all.
"It'll be safe enough to sit him up," Giles said, addressing Griffiths as much as Travers, "as long as he's restrained with a set of decent vampire-proof chains. In fact, make it two sets, just to be on the safe side."
"What about the muzzle?" Travers pursued. "Griffiths thinks it should remain in place."
Giles shook his head. "Not if you want to get anything useful out of him. He has a soul, Quentin, remember? He's perfectly capable of rational thought. He might even be willing to co-operate."
"If you ask," he added, as Travers opened his mouth to speak again.
Travers blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Giles kept his expression bland. "It's only polite, I would have thought."
Travers' face had gone a rather odd colour. He seemed to swell, but when he opened his mouth to retort this time, Griffiths cut across him.
"I don't like it, sir," Griffiths said. "If it gets loose..."
"It won't," Travers snapped. "Rupert knows the creature. If you're afraid to remove the muzzle, Griffiths, he can do it."
Griffiths didn't even blink. "As you wish, sir." He walked past Giles, blanking him completely, saying to one of his subordinates, "Purvis, bring a chair."
Travers watched Griffiths go with pursed lips.
"Useful fellow in his way, but he needs an occasional reminder of who is in charge around here."
"Ah." Giles hoped his tone was non-committal.
He watched as the security team fastened a metal chair to ringbolts in the floor with chains that looked sturdy enough to hold a Fyarl demon, let alone a vampire.
Maintaining his disinterested facade was more difficult when a crossbow bolt was held to Spike's heart - death a mere slip of the fingers away - while the table restraints were loosened and replaced with more chains and hobble bars at wrist and ankle. Griffiths' caution would have seemed excessive to Giles too, were it not for his vivid memories of Spike's most recent episode. His strength must have been doubled at least when under the First's control.
No, Giles thought. Not excessive at all.
When Spike had been manoeuvred off the dissection table and into the chair, and yet more chains roped around his body, binding him in place, Giles stepped forward.
"I'll take the muzzle off."
Griffiths contrived to look right through him again. "Not necessary, sir."
"I insist." Giles sidestepped him. Now he was directly in front of Spike, everyone else in the room at their backs, only Spike able to see his face. Meeting Spike's eyes, Giles willed him to understand what he couldn't say aloud. No matter what I say or do, I'm on your side, Spike, believe me.
Even as he thought it, Giles knew it for a half-truth. He could only hope that Spike had seen enough in his unguarded face to make him understand that the betrayal wasn't as total as it seemed.
"I'm going to un-gag you," Giles said, for the benefit of the room at large. "If you know what's good for you, you'll behave yourself and co-operate."
The leather straps were old and worn - the muzzle had seen some use over the years - and Giles's fingers were clumsy as he unbuckled them. He stared down at Spike's face, shocking in its gauntness, the pale skin reddened and deeply indented where the muzzle straps had dug into it. The scar left by the bullet wound was still vivid on his temple.
Spike's eyes had never left Giles's. His gaze was lost and uncertain. Giles ventured a tiny smile to encourage him, then stepped back, giving way to Travers.
Travers' expression darkened as he took in Spike's wretched appearance. Giles could well imagine that what Travers saw came as quite a disappointment. Spike certainly didn't look like much of a weapon.
"You - vampire," Travers snapped. "Can you speak?"
Spike stared at him, dull-eyed. He licked his dry lips. "Yeah."
"Good -" Travers began, but Spike interrupted him.
"Don't remember seein' you in Sunnydale last year. Who're you? Head of the Wankers' Council?" He gave Travers a slow, faux-innocent blue-eyed blink.
Travers scowled. "I beg your -" But this time, Giles interrupted him.
"That's enough, Spike. Keep a civil tongue in your head, or you'll be gagged again."
Travers gave Giles an irritable look. Evidently, he felt delivering threats was his prerogative.
"Yes, very amusing, I'm sure," he said, to Spike. "I am indeed the head of the Council of Watchers, and you are alive only on my sufferance."
Spike shrugged an indifferent shoulder. "Ta everso, I'm sure."
Travers raised an eyebrow at his tone. "I assure you, you won't be harmed."
"Yeah?" Spike said, with the same seeming lack of interest. "That why I woke up on a dissecting table, is it?"
Giles watched Travers' jaw working. Speaking in an agreeable tone to Spike was an effort for him.
"A mere convenience," Travers said. "We have a century's worth of anatomical information on vampires available to us already and have no need or intention to gather more at this juncture. Besides, from what my colleague Mr Giles tells me, you have a soul."
Spike looked away across the room. "Have. Doesn't mean I'm not dangerous." He shook his head, and when he faced Travers again, he was in full vamp face. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't rip your throat out first chance I had, if I ever got loose."
"Spike..." Giles began to protest, but Travers waved him to silence.
"Let him speak, Rupert. Go on, vampire."
Spike shrugged again. "Said my piece. Kill me while you have the chance."
Travers frowned. "I already said, I won't harm you."
Spike lifted his lip, revealing his gleaming fangs. "More fool you, then. Not that it surprises me. Watchers always were a bunch of bloody idiots. S'a wonder you survived this long." His feral yellow eyes were full on Giles as he said this last, and Giles winced.
It seemed Spike had failed to understand his unspoken message.
"So much for co-operation," Travers muttered, at Giles rather than to him. "Griffiths? The music please."
Spike's eyes widened again. "Music?" He began to strain against his bonds. "What the fuck're you gonna do?"
But Travers didn't choose to enlighten him, and Giles had a feeling Spike already knew.
Giles watched, dry-mouthed, as Griffiths pressed buttons. A moment later, the sickly strains of Early One Morning filled the lecture theatre.
The change in Spike was almost instantaneous, yet, Giles thought, you would have to be familiar with him to see it. It was nothing so easy to spot as the transition from human to game face. Travers and his entourage probably hadn't even noticed it.
Except, Giles noted, for Griffiths, whose right hand had suddenly sprouted a stake.
"Do we have to listen to this bollocks?" Spike asked, the insolence in his tone ratcheted up a notch. "Might be your idea of a good tune, old man, but some of us live in the twenty-first century."
"You recognise the piece, then?" Travers eyed Spike with open curiosity. "Does it mean anything to you? Tell me."
Spike shook game face away and blinked his slow, sultry blink. "Yeah, all right, then," he said, "but you'll have to come closer."
"Oh?" Travers raised an eyebrow. "Why so? Be quiet, man," he growled at Griffiths, who was attempting to get his attention.
Spike ducked his head lower, looking up at Travers under his lashes. Giles stared. Was Spike trying to seduce the man?
"S'personal, see," Spike said. "Don't mind tellin' you since you've asked so nicely, but I don't want any of this lot listenin' in."
Travers gave Griffiths a warning glare. "Very well."
Giles watched in disbelief as Travers walked towards Spike, who continued to eye him in a way that struck Giles as both inappropriately coquettish and very predatory.
"Quentin - be careful," he heard himself say. The next minute he'd thrown himself forward to knock Travers clear - barely - of a vicious lunge from Spike, accompanied by the screech of tortured metal. One of the chains that bound Spike to the chair tore loose, the free end whipping through the air with lethal force. Giles felt the wind of it over his head, accompanied by horrified gasps from the onlookers, a shout, and a scuffling of feet.
Giles raised his head to see Griffiths, stake in one hand, taser in the other, leap back from a snarling, game-faced Spike, on whom he had failed to land a blow.
"Spike!" Giles shouted. "Snap out of it. And someone turn that bloody music off!"
"No - wait..." Travers protested, staggering upright, but Griffiths had already done as Giles ordered. The music cut off abruptly.
Spike was still snarling - almost foaming at the mouth now, razor sharp fangs bared and gleaming. Griffiths' men hovered ineffectually at a safe distance, but Griffiths himself walked calmly up behind Spike and pressed the taser to his neck. Spike howled. His body jerked and shook in a series of grotesque spasms. Then he went limp, head lolling on his chest.
There was a shocked silence, and then Travers snarled, "Damnit, man! I give the orders around here."
Given their earlier exchange, it took Giles a moment to realise that Travers was speaking not to Griffiths but to him.
Biting down hard on the sarcastic retort that sprang to his lips, he said, quickly, "I'm sorry, Quentin. I was afraid someone would get hurt."
Travers opened his mouth to reply, but a groan from Spike interrupted him.
Spike raised his head with difficulty, to reveal his features reverted to human once again, his nose and eyes streaming.
"My head hurts," he slurred, sounding as if his tongue were too big for his mouth. "What the fuck just happened?"
Travers' attention was gone from Giles in an instant. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" Spike licked his lips, then sniffed loudly. "Got a kleenex, mate?"
"Here." Before anyone could stop him, Giles drew out his handkerchief, stepped forward and wiped Spike's face for him. It gave him a chance to look deep into Spike's eyes, trying once again to impress on him by sheer force of will that they were still allies.
Spike's gaze met Giles's for another long moment.
"Thanks," he said.
"Stand aside, Rupert." Travers elbowed Giles out of the way. "Answer my question," he snapped, at Spike. "Do you remember what just happened?"
Spike turned his head to the side. When he turned back, his face bore an expression of injured innocence, like a mask slipped into place.
"I already said, didn't I?"
Travers' eyes narrowed. "You're lying. At the very least, you remember that song, because you became quite agitated when I mentioned music. The piece means something to you, doesn't it?"
Spike blustered, but his eyes had acquired a hunted look. "Don't talk bollocks. It's only a song - and a bloody annoying one too."
Travers' lip curled in a triumphant smile. "I thought as much." He turned to the small group of onlookers. "Lydia, my dear. The stone, if you please - oh, and the box too."
"Of course, Mr Travers." Lydia Chalmers rose to her feet, straightening her skirt as she did so. In her right hand, she held the small wooden box that Giles had last seen on the table between Spike's and Norah's unconscious forms. The other hand was tightly clenched.
"Oh, "I remember you," Spike said, from behind Giles. He was craning his head to see better, and his voice seemed to have dropped an octave and acquired a sultry purr, though there was an uncertain wobble in it too. "Written any more theses lately, pet?"
"That's enough!" Travers snapped. "You will not address the young lady."
Spike attempted an insouciant shrug. "Only tryin' to be friendly."
Lydia coloured slightly, but she didn't otherwise respond to the provocation. Instead, she unclenched her hand and dropped something into Travers' open palm. Giles had just time to see a tiny polished stone, with a sheen like mother-of-pearl, before Travers' hand closed over it.
"Where shall I set up the amplifier, sir?" Lydia asked.
Travers pursed his lips. Then he indicated a small table on the far side of the room, currently occupied by a projector.
"That should do. Griffiths, bring it over here, if you would. Also, put the projector away. If there's a mystical energy surge, it might get damaged."
Spike's increasingly anxious gaze went from one speaker to another, then tracked Griffiths as he set about his task. "What the bloody hell is going on?"
Giles wished he needed to ask the same question. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
For Spike's benefit, he said, to Travers, "I assume the amplifier box will somehow allow us to tap in to whatever the Prokaryote Stone brings to light and see it for ourselves?"
"Prok-what stone? Can someone talk English here?" Spike's tone was plaintive, with a definite panicked edge to it, but again everyone ignored him.
"You guess right," Travers said, though he didn't sound too pleased that Giles had done so in front of Spike. "Once we know what it was that made this vampire vulnerable to the First, it will be a simple enough matter to superimpose our own trigger, wrest control of the creature from our enemy and make it part of our arsenal."
"What the..." Spike had gone deathly pale. He began to strain against his bonds. "You're out of your sodding minds!"
Travers eyed him coolly. "Not at all. As we discussed please, Griffiths."
"Yessir." Griffiths had been standing behind Spike's chair. He darted forward suddenly, accompanied by a swishing in the air, too fast for Giles's eyes to follow. Spike yelped in surprise and pain. When the air cleared, Giles realised that Griffiths had thrown a double length of some sort of flexible mesh over Spike's head, the ends of which he and his men, despite Spike's desperate struggles, were inexorably pulling down to fasten into housings in the floor.
When they were done, Spike's tightly encased head was bent back at an uncomfortable angle and held immobile. As a restraint, it was very, very effective. Spike's Adam's apple, made more prominent by the angle, jerked convulsively in his throat. He was panting, like an animal caught in a trap, bare chest heaving.
It was unnerving to see him so completely and utterly terrified.
One of Griffiths' men began to attach electrodes to Spike's forehead through the holes in the mesh and connect them to the magical amplifier at the other end.
"Is this really necessary?" Giles protested, while Spike tried vainly to twist his head away. But Travers ignored the question. He opened his clenched palm, to reveal not a stone, but a pool of gleaming liquid cradled in its centre.
"Odd beast, isn't it?" he said. "It has to enter the subject's cerebral cortex via the optic nerve. Once inside, it will move within the vampire's mind to ferret out the root of the trigger's power. Unfortunately, it causes considerable discomfort, but that can't be helped."
On cue, Griffiths' man stepped back and Griffiths himself stuck his big fingers through a hole in the mesh, prising the lids of Spike's left eye as far apart as they would go.
"No!" Spike wailed. "Please...."
"Ready, sir," Griffiths said.
"Good." Turning his back on Giles, Travers said to Lydia. "The incantation, my dear, if you would."
"Yes, Mr Travers." Lydia's eyes had been fixed on Spike. She tore them away with difficulty, took a scrap of parchment from her jacket pocket, adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. "Kun'ati belek sup'sion. Bok'vata im kele'beshus...." The words crackled in the air as the magic built.
Travers moved forward, hand poised over Spike's head with the palm tilting downwards.
"Giles!" Spike's voice was an anguished howl. "Please! You can't let them see....Don't let them do this to me. Giles! For God's sake!"
Spike's plea galvanised Giles into action. Who knew what secrets of Spike's past they might be forced to watch? It could even be....
No, even now Giles couldn't bear to think about what Spike had done to Buffy, and if he felt that way....
Spike was right. Travers could not be allowed to see it.
Raising his voice loud enough for the whole room to hear, Giles grabbed Travers by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. "This is wrong, Quentin. It's rape pure and simple - the mental violation of a souled being. I won't allow it."
Travers gaped at him, before shaking off his grip in fury. "Get your hands off me!"
At the same time, there was a hesitant cough from the back of the group of onlookers, and a familiar voice said, "It's pointless anyway because it won't work."
It was Giles's turn to gape as Radley's bony figure unfolded from one of the seats near the back of the lecture theatre and stood up. The fluorescent light glittered in his half-moon glasses and made it impossible to see his eyes.
"The Prokaryote Stone is only effective if the subject is willing," Radley said, in the overly precise tone that had grated on Giles's nerves so much over the last few days. "If they're not, it's worse than useless and may result in permanent brain damage. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
Stunned silence followed this speech. All eyes were on Radley, who cleared his throat nervously as if uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.
"It was in my report," Radley said, a whine edging into his tone. "Didn't you read it properly, Mr Travers?"
"What are you doing here anyway? I thought I ordered you to go home." Travers' face was dark as thunder.
His glare took in Giles, Radley, the entire group of onlookers.
"Get out!" he roared. "All of you."
His entourage stared back for a moment, pale-faced. Then there was a mad scramble for the exit. Radley brought up the rear, walking slowly, with an un-Radley-like insouciance.
Travers snarled at his departing back, "Do as you're damn well told."
Then he turned on Giles. "As for you, you're a coward and a fool - no better than that idiot Robson. Get out of my sight before I have you thrown out."
"It'll be my pleasure," Giles snapped back.
Throwing an final anguished glance at Spike's contorted form, Giles hurried after the others. He wanted to keep Radley in sight. There was something about the man...
As he went, he heard Travers say to Griffiths with the same snarl in his voice. "Take the mesh off and muzzle it again. We'll have to think of something else."
Giles permitted himself a small, satisfied smile.
*
The other Watchers had scattered quickly from the lecture theatre. Giles hurried after them, trying to catch up with Radley. Radley was walking fast, heading in the direction of the library.
"Radley!" Giles called his name, but Radley didn't appear to hear him. Certainly, he didn't turn around. Giles increased his pace. Something was wrong, and he had a horrible feeling he knew what it was.
"Radley! Wait!"
Still no response. If anything, Radley walked faster, and it might have been Giles's imagination, but it seemed the corridor lights dimmed at his passing. A shiver of pure fear ran down Giles's spine, while under his feet, the tremor that wasn't quite a tremor vibrated through the floor.
At the library door, Radley turned and looked straight at Giles. Their eyes met, and Giles felt himself quail inwardly. He'd seen that look before, in the hushed dimness of the hall way at the Westbury house. It had been Jenny's eyes looking back at him then, but it was the same look.
Suddenly Giles was angry. How dare this...thing violate the sanctity of the dead? How dare it?
"Wait - you!" he shouted, and began to run, but then the lights dimmed even further and Radley's shape faded into the darkness. Giles found himself alone at the library door.
Panting with the adrenaline rush of his anger rather than from exertion, he pushed through it and went inside. All was hushed and dim. There was no sign of the phantom, but the darkness was still eerie, as if tainted somehow by its passing.
With a frown, Giles turned on the overhead lights.
"Light!" Ms Harkness had called, when her semblance had driven Jenny's away. Light was no guarantee of anything, but it made Giles feel better.
The long rows of bookshelves stretched away on either side, all of them full. It seemed that at some point before his death, Radley had re-shelved the books piled up on his desk. Had he met his end here, Giles wondered? Probably not. If Travers had been fool enough to send him out of the building, he could have fallen prey to the Bringers almost anywhere.
And why had Travers sent him home? Was it in a fit of pique over him revealing too much information to Giles? All too believable, unfortunately.
There was no safety anywhere, and no playing Travers' game any longer. He had to find a way to free Spike, Robson and the girls, Giles thought, and get them out of here.
On cue, the ground vibrated under his feet again, as if the earth itself was trying to warn him. The tremor was strong enough this time to cause one of the books to fall off its shelf onto the floor. The noise of the impact was loud in the otherwise hushed building and Giles jumped nearly out of his skin.
Annoyed with himself, he bent down and picked up the fallen book. It was Whitstable's Demonomicon, one of the seminal texts about the dark arts - a cheap later edition, not the original, which Giles knew resided in a locked safe in the librarian's office. All the same, it was a reminder of just how much valuable information the library contained - all the gathered wisdom of the Watchers' Council, including the diaries of who knew how many Slayer guides down the ages. If anything should happen to it...
Giles grimaced. Against his better judgement, which told him to stay well away from Travers, he made his way out of the library and back in the direction of the lecture theatre. Travers might be steering a disastrous course, but he still deserved to be warned that Watchers' HQ was fatally compromised.
Giles glanced at his watch as he neared his destination. It was five am. He hadn't slept for eighteen hours and he could feel himself beginning to flag - running on empty, as the Americans put it. Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to realise there were raised voices inside the lecture theatre.
Travers' voice, and - Spike's.
"I said, no!" Spike was shouting. "Not bloody interested. Was over Dru years ago anyway."
Peering cautiously through the round panes of glass in the door, Giles could make out Spike's slumped form, still bound to the chair, his back to the door, with Travers looming over him - not too near - and Griffiths standing at Travers' elbow. Griffiths was holding the leather muzzle in one hand and a stake in the other. The room was otherwise empty.
"Well," Travers said, obviously exasperated and trying to hide it, "if being reunited with your old paramour doesn't tempt you, I'm sure we can think of something else. Money...might be difficult. We are not as wealthy an organisation as people think, but something could be done, perhaps."
Spike's response to this was a sneering laugh. "Not enough money in this world or any other to make me agree to let a wanker like you poke around inside my noggin. Sod off!"
Travers' hands curled into fists. "I could tell Mr Griffiths here to help you change your mind. He can be very persuasive."
"Ooh -oh, threats now." Spike sounded less than impressed. "Bloke looks tough, I'll grant you, but he'd have to be a lot more than tough to make me spill my guts. Spent the first twenty years of my unlife with Angelus. Nothing much scares you after that. 'Sides, even if he did succeed in 'changing my mind' I still wouldn't be exactly willing, would I?"
"Very well, very well." Travers was clearly at the end of his patience. He turned his back on Spike and began to pace up and down the room.
Giles took a deep breath, put his hand on the door and prepared to push it open. But at that moment, Spike spoke again.
"'M hungry. You wouldn't happen to have any pigs' blood, would you?"
Travers froze in his tracks. There was a short pause. Then, abruptly, Travers turned to face Spike again.
"Pigs' blood, you say?"
"Well...yeah." Spike tilted his head. "Got a soul now, haven't I? Been off the juice ever since."
"But you're still a vampire," Travers said, and there was an eagerness in his tone that Giles didn't like at all. "You still have a vampire's needs...a vampire's urges?"
"'Course I do." A guarded note had crept into Spike's voice. "So what?"
Travers didn't even hesitate. "It's just that, if you co-operate, it might be possible to offer you something a little better than pigs' blood."
Spike tensed, and behind Travers' back, Giles saw Griffiths do the same. "What d'you mean?"
"Let's just say," Travers said, "that there are persons in this building who don't come up to standard, and therefore are extraneous to requirements."
There was a short silence. Then Spike said, "Such as who?"
Travers frowned. "I really can't go into specifics. Not until we have a deal anyway."
Spike's back was stiff. "Such. As. Who?"
Another silence, during which Giles found himself holding his breath. Not that he'd hadn't guessed instantly what Travers was insinuating. He watched, stomach churning, while Travers considered his response. Don't say it, Quentin, for God's sake!
"Oh very well," Travers said, at last. "There are a couple of potential slayers who don't make the grade, and a Watcher or two. How one of them ever tricked his way into this organisation, I have no idea, but I do know we're better off without his sort."
"Think I know who you're talkin' about," Spike said, in a sneering tone. "Poofter, is he? And the other one - he wouldn't happen to be an old acquaintance of mine?"
"Well, he did shoot you in the head..." Travers began, but at that moment, there was an angry beeping sound, which it took Giles a moment to realise was a mobile phone ringing.
Griffiths fished the phone out of his pocket. "Griffiths here," he barked into it, sounding more than ever the regimental sergeant-major. After that, he was silent, listening, and it seemed to Giles that his face grew more impassive the longer he listened.
Spike inclined his head in Griffiths' direction. "Somethin's up."
"It's none of your affair," Travers snapped. "Do you accept my offer or not?"
"Well, let's see," Spike said, in a musing tone, "do I fancy some nice fresh potential slayer blood, not to mention a bite out of dear old Rupert, or do I fancy tellin' you to fuck off and die? Easy really. Fuck off and die, you sick bastard."
"Why, you..." Travers seemed to swell with outrage, but before he could say anything further, Griffiths snapped, "Yes, I'll tell him," and ended his call. "Trouble, sir," he said, to Travers, in the same stoic tone, but with an edge to it that told Giles Spike was right. Something was indeed up.
"Well, spit it out, man," Travers growled.
"It's the retreat at Upper Slaughter," Griffiths responded, still stone-faced. "It's been compromised. They're all dead, sir. Guards, Watchers - all the youngsters. No survivors."
Travers went white as a sheet. He staggered, and for a moment Giles thought he might fall. But then he rallied. Stabbing a furious finger in Spike's direction, he snapped, "Put that in a holding cell, and don't waste time making it comfortable. Then sound the general alarm."
With a last bitter look at Spike, Travers headed in Giles's direction. As he came closer, Giles retreated, slipping into a vacant room further down the corridor, just as the lecture theatre door banged open.
Giles flattened himself against the wall as Travers went past, his tread ponderous, and with something weary in it that reminded Giles that Travers was not a young man. This latest blow had obviously been a heavy one.
Giles told himself not to feel sorry for Travers. All those young lives wasted - all those families facing devastation. Not to mention the Slayer line threatened with extinction. And what about the end of the line? What about Buffy?
The thought had Giles searching the room frantically for a weapon. He had to escape and get to her- with Spike and the others if possible, but without them if necessary.
The room was fitted out as a small laboratory. Giles could remember traipsing in here with the other junior Watchers after the vivisection. There were the subject's vital organs to be sliced up and examined under the microscope.
Giles shuddered at the memory, seized one of the tall wooden stools set neatly at intervals behind each work bench, lifted it above his head and dashed it as hard as he could against the floor, where it shattered into satisfyingly cudgel-like pieces.
It wouldn't be easy, but if he could contrive to take Griffiths by surprise....
Weapon in hand, Giles flung open the door only to find Griffiths standing right in front of him. Their eyes were on a level. Griffiths' were pale blue - almost colourless - and cold. The coldest eyes Giles had ever looked into.
"There you are," Griffiths said. "I want a word with you."
TBC
For anyone who hasn't read the previous parts, or wants to refresh their memories, they can be found
here
Setting: The Watchers' Council Headquarters, London, in BtVS season 7 (around the time of Selfless/Him I suppose, events of which have taken place without Spike's participation).
Rating: PG-13 to R, for a bit of bad language
Pairings: none as such, this part.
Desperate Measures
Giles gazed around the old lecture theatre with an unwelcome sense of deja vu.
He hadn't been in it since his student days. In fact, the last occasion had been rather similar to this.
Back then, the medical staff had worn traditional white coats rather than blue scrubs, which had shown the blood stains even more vividly. But the stuffy atmosphere was the same, the air still smelt of disinfectant, the spectators' expressions still ranged from curious to apprehensive.
Not to mention , just like then, the vampire subject of the lecture was restrained on a dissecting table in the centre of the room surrounded by armed Council operatives.
Ironic, Giles thought. When Spike had first come to him in Bath, this was the fate to which he'd consigned him with barely a qualm. Now, the thought of what might have happened if Travers had been quicker off the mark made Giles's stomach churn. The muffled screams of that long ago test subject still rang loud in his memory.
Giles told himself he couldn't afford to become morbid. Travers wanted Spike alive and healthy. Also, the room had been crowded then, whereas now the audience was confined to Travers' most trusted subordinates.
And Giles himself, of course, who was certainly not one of those.
Travers was standing next to the dissecting table, conferring with Griffiths. Whatever it was they were talking about, they were clearly not in agreement, because Travers was frowning and Griffiths was shaking his head very emphatically.
Travers broke off the conversation suddenly and turned. His eyes met Giles's and he beckoned to him. Giles rose slowly to his feet. He looked from Travers's face to Spike's bound form on the dissection table, feeling a vast reluctance to go anywhere near him.
Spike was still muzzled, but Giles could see his eyes darting rapidly this way and that as he listened to the conversations going on around him. No doubt they were the very opposite of reassuring, and seeing Giles approaching probably wouldn't help matters.
"Mr Giles, if you wouldn't mind...?" Travers' frown had become a glare.
Giles drew a deep breath and began to descend the steps. He tried to keep his gaze on Travers, but even so, he was acutely aware of the moment that Spike saw him. Spike's eyes widened. He began to strain against his bonds, trying to keep Giles in sight, until the angle made it impossible and he gave up the effort. Giles clenched his hands hard in case Travers saw how badly they were shaking.
"How can I help you, Quentin?"
Travers' lips tightened in annoyance at Giles's continued use of his first name, but he didn't press the point.
"Griffiths, here, disagrees with me," he said, "but I think we should release the vampire from most of its restraints. Otherwise, the demonstration is worthless."
"Demonstration?" Giles tried to look uncomprehending, though he'd guessed instantly what Travers must mean. "What sort of demonstration?"
"I intend to trigger him," Travers said, "so we can see what happens for ourselves."
"Ah." Giles kept his expression neutral. "And what has that to do with me?"
Travers' eyes narrowed, suspecting deliberate obtuseness. Don't push him too far, you idiot!
"I would have thought it was obvious, man. You're the only person here who has seen the trigger in action. I thought you could reassure Griffiths that with the right precautions we should all be perfectly safe."
Giles glanced over Travers' shoulder at Griffiths, a little surprised that Travers gave such weight to a subordinate's opinion, even if he was ex-special forces. But Griffiths' expression - as usual - gave away nothing at all.
"It'll be safe enough to sit him up," Giles said, addressing Griffiths as much as Travers, "as long as he's restrained with a set of decent vampire-proof chains. In fact, make it two sets, just to be on the safe side."
"What about the muzzle?" Travers pursued. "Griffiths thinks it should remain in place."
Giles shook his head. "Not if you want to get anything useful out of him. He has a soul, Quentin, remember? He's perfectly capable of rational thought. He might even be willing to co-operate."
"If you ask," he added, as Travers opened his mouth to speak again.
Travers blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Giles kept his expression bland. "It's only polite, I would have thought."
Travers' face had gone a rather odd colour. He seemed to swell, but when he opened his mouth to retort this time, Griffiths cut across him.
"I don't like it, sir," Griffiths said. "If it gets loose..."
"It won't," Travers snapped. "Rupert knows the creature. If you're afraid to remove the muzzle, Griffiths, he can do it."
Griffiths didn't even blink. "As you wish, sir." He walked past Giles, blanking him completely, saying to one of his subordinates, "Purvis, bring a chair."
Travers watched Griffiths go with pursed lips.
"Useful fellow in his way, but he needs an occasional reminder of who is in charge around here."
"Ah." Giles hoped his tone was non-committal.
He watched as the security team fastened a metal chair to ringbolts in the floor with chains that looked sturdy enough to hold a Fyarl demon, let alone a vampire.
Maintaining his disinterested facade was more difficult when a crossbow bolt was held to Spike's heart - death a mere slip of the fingers away - while the table restraints were loosened and replaced with more chains and hobble bars at wrist and ankle. Griffiths' caution would have seemed excessive to Giles too, were it not for his vivid memories of Spike's most recent episode. His strength must have been doubled at least when under the First's control.
No, Giles thought. Not excessive at all.
When Spike had been manoeuvred off the dissection table and into the chair, and yet more chains roped around his body, binding him in place, Giles stepped forward.
"I'll take the muzzle off."
Griffiths contrived to look right through him again. "Not necessary, sir."
"I insist." Giles sidestepped him. Now he was directly in front of Spike, everyone else in the room at their backs, only Spike able to see his face. Meeting Spike's eyes, Giles willed him to understand what he couldn't say aloud. No matter what I say or do, I'm on your side, Spike, believe me.
Even as he thought it, Giles knew it for a half-truth. He could only hope that Spike had seen enough in his unguarded face to make him understand that the betrayal wasn't as total as it seemed.
"I'm going to un-gag you," Giles said, for the benefit of the room at large. "If you know what's good for you, you'll behave yourself and co-operate."
The leather straps were old and worn - the muzzle had seen some use over the years - and Giles's fingers were clumsy as he unbuckled them. He stared down at Spike's face, shocking in its gauntness, the pale skin reddened and deeply indented where the muzzle straps had dug into it. The scar left by the bullet wound was still vivid on his temple.
Spike's eyes had never left Giles's. His gaze was lost and uncertain. Giles ventured a tiny smile to encourage him, then stepped back, giving way to Travers.
Travers' expression darkened as he took in Spike's wretched appearance. Giles could well imagine that what Travers saw came as quite a disappointment. Spike certainly didn't look like much of a weapon.
"You - vampire," Travers snapped. "Can you speak?"
Spike stared at him, dull-eyed. He licked his dry lips. "Yeah."
"Good -" Travers began, but Spike interrupted him.
"Don't remember seein' you in Sunnydale last year. Who're you? Head of the Wankers' Council?" He gave Travers a slow, faux-innocent blue-eyed blink.
Travers scowled. "I beg your -" But this time, Giles interrupted him.
"That's enough, Spike. Keep a civil tongue in your head, or you'll be gagged again."
Travers gave Giles an irritable look. Evidently, he felt delivering threats was his prerogative.
"Yes, very amusing, I'm sure," he said, to Spike. "I am indeed the head of the Council of Watchers, and you are alive only on my sufferance."
Spike shrugged an indifferent shoulder. "Ta everso, I'm sure."
Travers raised an eyebrow at his tone. "I assure you, you won't be harmed."
"Yeah?" Spike said, with the same seeming lack of interest. "That why I woke up on a dissecting table, is it?"
Giles watched Travers' jaw working. Speaking in an agreeable tone to Spike was an effort for him.
"A mere convenience," Travers said. "We have a century's worth of anatomical information on vampires available to us already and have no need or intention to gather more at this juncture. Besides, from what my colleague Mr Giles tells me, you have a soul."
Spike looked away across the room. "Have. Doesn't mean I'm not dangerous." He shook his head, and when he faced Travers again, he was in full vamp face. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't rip your throat out first chance I had, if I ever got loose."
"Spike..." Giles began to protest, but Travers waved him to silence.
"Let him speak, Rupert. Go on, vampire."
Spike shrugged again. "Said my piece. Kill me while you have the chance."
Travers frowned. "I already said, I won't harm you."
Spike lifted his lip, revealing his gleaming fangs. "More fool you, then. Not that it surprises me. Watchers always were a bunch of bloody idiots. S'a wonder you survived this long." His feral yellow eyes were full on Giles as he said this last, and Giles winced.
It seemed Spike had failed to understand his unspoken message.
"So much for co-operation," Travers muttered, at Giles rather than to him. "Griffiths? The music please."
Spike's eyes widened again. "Music?" He began to strain against his bonds. "What the fuck're you gonna do?"
But Travers didn't choose to enlighten him, and Giles had a feeling Spike already knew.
Giles watched, dry-mouthed, as Griffiths pressed buttons. A moment later, the sickly strains of Early One Morning filled the lecture theatre.
The change in Spike was almost instantaneous, yet, Giles thought, you would have to be familiar with him to see it. It was nothing so easy to spot as the transition from human to game face. Travers and his entourage probably hadn't even noticed it.
Except, Giles noted, for Griffiths, whose right hand had suddenly sprouted a stake.
"Do we have to listen to this bollocks?" Spike asked, the insolence in his tone ratcheted up a notch. "Might be your idea of a good tune, old man, but some of us live in the twenty-first century."
"You recognise the piece, then?" Travers eyed Spike with open curiosity. "Does it mean anything to you? Tell me."
Spike shook game face away and blinked his slow, sultry blink. "Yeah, all right, then," he said, "but you'll have to come closer."
"Oh?" Travers raised an eyebrow. "Why so? Be quiet, man," he growled at Griffiths, who was attempting to get his attention.
Spike ducked his head lower, looking up at Travers under his lashes. Giles stared. Was Spike trying to seduce the man?
"S'personal, see," Spike said. "Don't mind tellin' you since you've asked so nicely, but I don't want any of this lot listenin' in."
Travers gave Griffiths a warning glare. "Very well."
Giles watched in disbelief as Travers walked towards Spike, who continued to eye him in a way that struck Giles as both inappropriately coquettish and very predatory.
"Quentin - be careful," he heard himself say. The next minute he'd thrown himself forward to knock Travers clear - barely - of a vicious lunge from Spike, accompanied by the screech of tortured metal. One of the chains that bound Spike to the chair tore loose, the free end whipping through the air with lethal force. Giles felt the wind of it over his head, accompanied by horrified gasps from the onlookers, a shout, and a scuffling of feet.
Giles raised his head to see Griffiths, stake in one hand, taser in the other, leap back from a snarling, game-faced Spike, on whom he had failed to land a blow.
"Spike!" Giles shouted. "Snap out of it. And someone turn that bloody music off!"
"No - wait..." Travers protested, staggering upright, but Griffiths had already done as Giles ordered. The music cut off abruptly.
Spike was still snarling - almost foaming at the mouth now, razor sharp fangs bared and gleaming. Griffiths' men hovered ineffectually at a safe distance, but Griffiths himself walked calmly up behind Spike and pressed the taser to his neck. Spike howled. His body jerked and shook in a series of grotesque spasms. Then he went limp, head lolling on his chest.
There was a shocked silence, and then Travers snarled, "Damnit, man! I give the orders around here."
Given their earlier exchange, it took Giles a moment to realise that Travers was speaking not to Griffiths but to him.
Biting down hard on the sarcastic retort that sprang to his lips, he said, quickly, "I'm sorry, Quentin. I was afraid someone would get hurt."
Travers opened his mouth to reply, but a groan from Spike interrupted him.
Spike raised his head with difficulty, to reveal his features reverted to human once again, his nose and eyes streaming.
"My head hurts," he slurred, sounding as if his tongue were too big for his mouth. "What the fuck just happened?"
Travers' attention was gone from Giles in an instant. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" Spike licked his lips, then sniffed loudly. "Got a kleenex, mate?"
"Here." Before anyone could stop him, Giles drew out his handkerchief, stepped forward and wiped Spike's face for him. It gave him a chance to look deep into Spike's eyes, trying once again to impress on him by sheer force of will that they were still allies.
Spike's gaze met Giles's for another long moment.
"Thanks," he said.
"Stand aside, Rupert." Travers elbowed Giles out of the way. "Answer my question," he snapped, at Spike. "Do you remember what just happened?"
Spike turned his head to the side. When he turned back, his face bore an expression of injured innocence, like a mask slipped into place.
"I already said, didn't I?"
Travers' eyes narrowed. "You're lying. At the very least, you remember that song, because you became quite agitated when I mentioned music. The piece means something to you, doesn't it?"
Spike blustered, but his eyes had acquired a hunted look. "Don't talk bollocks. It's only a song - and a bloody annoying one too."
Travers' lip curled in a triumphant smile. "I thought as much." He turned to the small group of onlookers. "Lydia, my dear. The stone, if you please - oh, and the box too."
"Of course, Mr Travers." Lydia Chalmers rose to her feet, straightening her skirt as she did so. In her right hand, she held the small wooden box that Giles had last seen on the table between Spike's and Norah's unconscious forms. The other hand was tightly clenched.
"Oh, "I remember you," Spike said, from behind Giles. He was craning his head to see better, and his voice seemed to have dropped an octave and acquired a sultry purr, though there was an uncertain wobble in it too. "Written any more theses lately, pet?"
"That's enough!" Travers snapped. "You will not address the young lady."
Spike attempted an insouciant shrug. "Only tryin' to be friendly."
Lydia coloured slightly, but she didn't otherwise respond to the provocation. Instead, she unclenched her hand and dropped something into Travers' open palm. Giles had just time to see a tiny polished stone, with a sheen like mother-of-pearl, before Travers' hand closed over it.
"Where shall I set up the amplifier, sir?" Lydia asked.
Travers pursed his lips. Then he indicated a small table on the far side of the room, currently occupied by a projector.
"That should do. Griffiths, bring it over here, if you would. Also, put the projector away. If there's a mystical energy surge, it might get damaged."
Spike's increasingly anxious gaze went from one speaker to another, then tracked Griffiths as he set about his task. "What the bloody hell is going on?"
Giles wished he needed to ask the same question. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
For Spike's benefit, he said, to Travers, "I assume the amplifier box will somehow allow us to tap in to whatever the Prokaryote Stone brings to light and see it for ourselves?"
"Prok-what stone? Can someone talk English here?" Spike's tone was plaintive, with a definite panicked edge to it, but again everyone ignored him.
"You guess right," Travers said, though he didn't sound too pleased that Giles had done so in front of Spike. "Once we know what it was that made this vampire vulnerable to the First, it will be a simple enough matter to superimpose our own trigger, wrest control of the creature from our enemy and make it part of our arsenal."
"What the..." Spike had gone deathly pale. He began to strain against his bonds. "You're out of your sodding minds!"
Travers eyed him coolly. "Not at all. As we discussed please, Griffiths."
"Yessir." Griffiths had been standing behind Spike's chair. He darted forward suddenly, accompanied by a swishing in the air, too fast for Giles's eyes to follow. Spike yelped in surprise and pain. When the air cleared, Giles realised that Griffiths had thrown a double length of some sort of flexible mesh over Spike's head, the ends of which he and his men, despite Spike's desperate struggles, were inexorably pulling down to fasten into housings in the floor.
When they were done, Spike's tightly encased head was bent back at an uncomfortable angle and held immobile. As a restraint, it was very, very effective. Spike's Adam's apple, made more prominent by the angle, jerked convulsively in his throat. He was panting, like an animal caught in a trap, bare chest heaving.
It was unnerving to see him so completely and utterly terrified.
One of Griffiths' men began to attach electrodes to Spike's forehead through the holes in the mesh and connect them to the magical amplifier at the other end.
"Is this really necessary?" Giles protested, while Spike tried vainly to twist his head away. But Travers ignored the question. He opened his clenched palm, to reveal not a stone, but a pool of gleaming liquid cradled in its centre.
"Odd beast, isn't it?" he said. "It has to enter the subject's cerebral cortex via the optic nerve. Once inside, it will move within the vampire's mind to ferret out the root of the trigger's power. Unfortunately, it causes considerable discomfort, but that can't be helped."
On cue, Griffiths' man stepped back and Griffiths himself stuck his big fingers through a hole in the mesh, prising the lids of Spike's left eye as far apart as they would go.
"No!" Spike wailed. "Please...."
"Ready, sir," Griffiths said.
"Good." Turning his back on Giles, Travers said to Lydia. "The incantation, my dear, if you would."
"Yes, Mr Travers." Lydia's eyes had been fixed on Spike. She tore them away with difficulty, took a scrap of parchment from her jacket pocket, adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. "Kun'ati belek sup'sion. Bok'vata im kele'beshus...." The words crackled in the air as the magic built.
Travers moved forward, hand poised over Spike's head with the palm tilting downwards.
"Giles!" Spike's voice was an anguished howl. "Please! You can't let them see....Don't let them do this to me. Giles! For God's sake!"
Spike's plea galvanised Giles into action. Who knew what secrets of Spike's past they might be forced to watch? It could even be....
No, even now Giles couldn't bear to think about what Spike had done to Buffy, and if he felt that way....
Spike was right. Travers could not be allowed to see it.
Raising his voice loud enough for the whole room to hear, Giles grabbed Travers by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. "This is wrong, Quentin. It's rape pure and simple - the mental violation of a souled being. I won't allow it."
Travers gaped at him, before shaking off his grip in fury. "Get your hands off me!"
At the same time, there was a hesitant cough from the back of the group of onlookers, and a familiar voice said, "It's pointless anyway because it won't work."
It was Giles's turn to gape as Radley's bony figure unfolded from one of the seats near the back of the lecture theatre and stood up. The fluorescent light glittered in his half-moon glasses and made it impossible to see his eyes.
"The Prokaryote Stone is only effective if the subject is willing," Radley said, in the overly precise tone that had grated on Giles's nerves so much over the last few days. "If they're not, it's worse than useless and may result in permanent brain damage. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
Stunned silence followed this speech. All eyes were on Radley, who cleared his throat nervously as if uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.
"It was in my report," Radley said, a whine edging into his tone. "Didn't you read it properly, Mr Travers?"
"What are you doing here anyway? I thought I ordered you to go home." Travers' face was dark as thunder.
His glare took in Giles, Radley, the entire group of onlookers.
"Get out!" he roared. "All of you."
His entourage stared back for a moment, pale-faced. Then there was a mad scramble for the exit. Radley brought up the rear, walking slowly, with an un-Radley-like insouciance.
Travers snarled at his departing back, "Do as you're damn well told."
Then he turned on Giles. "As for you, you're a coward and a fool - no better than that idiot Robson. Get out of my sight before I have you thrown out."
"It'll be my pleasure," Giles snapped back.
Throwing an final anguished glance at Spike's contorted form, Giles hurried after the others. He wanted to keep Radley in sight. There was something about the man...
As he went, he heard Travers say to Griffiths with the same snarl in his voice. "Take the mesh off and muzzle it again. We'll have to think of something else."
Giles permitted himself a small, satisfied smile.
The other Watchers had scattered quickly from the lecture theatre. Giles hurried after them, trying to catch up with Radley. Radley was walking fast, heading in the direction of the library.
"Radley!" Giles called his name, but Radley didn't appear to hear him. Certainly, he didn't turn around. Giles increased his pace. Something was wrong, and he had a horrible feeling he knew what it was.
"Radley! Wait!"
Still no response. If anything, Radley walked faster, and it might have been Giles's imagination, but it seemed the corridor lights dimmed at his passing. A shiver of pure fear ran down Giles's spine, while under his feet, the tremor that wasn't quite a tremor vibrated through the floor.
At the library door, Radley turned and looked straight at Giles. Their eyes met, and Giles felt himself quail inwardly. He'd seen that look before, in the hushed dimness of the hall way at the Westbury house. It had been Jenny's eyes looking back at him then, but it was the same look.
Suddenly Giles was angry. How dare this...thing violate the sanctity of the dead? How dare it?
"Wait - you!" he shouted, and began to run, but then the lights dimmed even further and Radley's shape faded into the darkness. Giles found himself alone at the library door.
Panting with the adrenaline rush of his anger rather than from exertion, he pushed through it and went inside. All was hushed and dim. There was no sign of the phantom, but the darkness was still eerie, as if tainted somehow by its passing.
With a frown, Giles turned on the overhead lights.
"Light!" Ms Harkness had called, when her semblance had driven Jenny's away. Light was no guarantee of anything, but it made Giles feel better.
The long rows of bookshelves stretched away on either side, all of them full. It seemed that at some point before his death, Radley had re-shelved the books piled up on his desk. Had he met his end here, Giles wondered? Probably not. If Travers had been fool enough to send him out of the building, he could have fallen prey to the Bringers almost anywhere.
And why had Travers sent him home? Was it in a fit of pique over him revealing too much information to Giles? All too believable, unfortunately.
There was no safety anywhere, and no playing Travers' game any longer. He had to find a way to free Spike, Robson and the girls, Giles thought, and get them out of here.
On cue, the ground vibrated under his feet again, as if the earth itself was trying to warn him. The tremor was strong enough this time to cause one of the books to fall off its shelf onto the floor. The noise of the impact was loud in the otherwise hushed building and Giles jumped nearly out of his skin.
Annoyed with himself, he bent down and picked up the fallen book. It was Whitstable's Demonomicon, one of the seminal texts about the dark arts - a cheap later edition, not the original, which Giles knew resided in a locked safe in the librarian's office. All the same, it was a reminder of just how much valuable information the library contained - all the gathered wisdom of the Watchers' Council, including the diaries of who knew how many Slayer guides down the ages. If anything should happen to it...
Giles grimaced. Against his better judgement, which told him to stay well away from Travers, he made his way out of the library and back in the direction of the lecture theatre. Travers might be steering a disastrous course, but he still deserved to be warned that Watchers' HQ was fatally compromised.
Giles glanced at his watch as he neared his destination. It was five am. He hadn't slept for eighteen hours and he could feel himself beginning to flag - running on empty, as the Americans put it. Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to realise there were raised voices inside the lecture theatre.
Travers' voice, and - Spike's.
"I said, no!" Spike was shouting. "Not bloody interested. Was over Dru years ago anyway."
Peering cautiously through the round panes of glass in the door, Giles could make out Spike's slumped form, still bound to the chair, his back to the door, with Travers looming over him - not too near - and Griffiths standing at Travers' elbow. Griffiths was holding the leather muzzle in one hand and a stake in the other. The room was otherwise empty.
"Well," Travers said, obviously exasperated and trying to hide it, "if being reunited with your old paramour doesn't tempt you, I'm sure we can think of something else. Money...might be difficult. We are not as wealthy an organisation as people think, but something could be done, perhaps."
Spike's response to this was a sneering laugh. "Not enough money in this world or any other to make me agree to let a wanker like you poke around inside my noggin. Sod off!"
Travers' hands curled into fists. "I could tell Mr Griffiths here to help you change your mind. He can be very persuasive."
"Ooh -oh, threats now." Spike sounded less than impressed. "Bloke looks tough, I'll grant you, but he'd have to be a lot more than tough to make me spill my guts. Spent the first twenty years of my unlife with Angelus. Nothing much scares you after that. 'Sides, even if he did succeed in 'changing my mind' I still wouldn't be exactly willing, would I?"
"Very well, very well." Travers was clearly at the end of his patience. He turned his back on Spike and began to pace up and down the room.
Giles took a deep breath, put his hand on the door and prepared to push it open. But at that moment, Spike spoke again.
"'M hungry. You wouldn't happen to have any pigs' blood, would you?"
Travers froze in his tracks. There was a short pause. Then, abruptly, Travers turned to face Spike again.
"Pigs' blood, you say?"
"Well...yeah." Spike tilted his head. "Got a soul now, haven't I? Been off the juice ever since."
"But you're still a vampire," Travers said, and there was an eagerness in his tone that Giles didn't like at all. "You still have a vampire's needs...a vampire's urges?"
"'Course I do." A guarded note had crept into Spike's voice. "So what?"
Travers didn't even hesitate. "It's just that, if you co-operate, it might be possible to offer you something a little better than pigs' blood."
Spike tensed, and behind Travers' back, Giles saw Griffiths do the same. "What d'you mean?"
"Let's just say," Travers said, "that there are persons in this building who don't come up to standard, and therefore are extraneous to requirements."
There was a short silence. Then Spike said, "Such as who?"
Travers frowned. "I really can't go into specifics. Not until we have a deal anyway."
Spike's back was stiff. "Such. As. Who?"
Another silence, during which Giles found himself holding his breath. Not that he'd hadn't guessed instantly what Travers was insinuating. He watched, stomach churning, while Travers considered his response. Don't say it, Quentin, for God's sake!
"Oh very well," Travers said, at last. "There are a couple of potential slayers who don't make the grade, and a Watcher or two. How one of them ever tricked his way into this organisation, I have no idea, but I do know we're better off without his sort."
"Think I know who you're talkin' about," Spike said, in a sneering tone. "Poofter, is he? And the other one - he wouldn't happen to be an old acquaintance of mine?"
"Well, he did shoot you in the head..." Travers began, but at that moment, there was an angry beeping sound, which it took Giles a moment to realise was a mobile phone ringing.
Griffiths fished the phone out of his pocket. "Griffiths here," he barked into it, sounding more than ever the regimental sergeant-major. After that, he was silent, listening, and it seemed to Giles that his face grew more impassive the longer he listened.
Spike inclined his head in Griffiths' direction. "Somethin's up."
"It's none of your affair," Travers snapped. "Do you accept my offer or not?"
"Well, let's see," Spike said, in a musing tone, "do I fancy some nice fresh potential slayer blood, not to mention a bite out of dear old Rupert, or do I fancy tellin' you to fuck off and die? Easy really. Fuck off and die, you sick bastard."
"Why, you..." Travers seemed to swell with outrage, but before he could say anything further, Griffiths snapped, "Yes, I'll tell him," and ended his call. "Trouble, sir," he said, to Travers, in the same stoic tone, but with an edge to it that told Giles Spike was right. Something was indeed up.
"Well, spit it out, man," Travers growled.
"It's the retreat at Upper Slaughter," Griffiths responded, still stone-faced. "It's been compromised. They're all dead, sir. Guards, Watchers - all the youngsters. No survivors."
Travers went white as a sheet. He staggered, and for a moment Giles thought he might fall. But then he rallied. Stabbing a furious finger in Spike's direction, he snapped, "Put that in a holding cell, and don't waste time making it comfortable. Then sound the general alarm."
With a last bitter look at Spike, Travers headed in Giles's direction. As he came closer, Giles retreated, slipping into a vacant room further down the corridor, just as the lecture theatre door banged open.
Giles flattened himself against the wall as Travers went past, his tread ponderous, and with something weary in it that reminded Giles that Travers was not a young man. This latest blow had obviously been a heavy one.
Giles told himself not to feel sorry for Travers. All those young lives wasted - all those families facing devastation. Not to mention the Slayer line threatened with extinction. And what about the end of the line? What about Buffy?
The thought had Giles searching the room frantically for a weapon. He had to escape and get to her- with Spike and the others if possible, but without them if necessary.
The room was fitted out as a small laboratory. Giles could remember traipsing in here with the other junior Watchers after the vivisection. There were the subject's vital organs to be sliced up and examined under the microscope.
Giles shuddered at the memory, seized one of the tall wooden stools set neatly at intervals behind each work bench, lifted it above his head and dashed it as hard as he could against the floor, where it shattered into satisfyingly cudgel-like pieces.
It wouldn't be easy, but if he could contrive to take Griffiths by surprise....
Weapon in hand, Giles flung open the door only to find Griffiths standing right in front of him. Their eyes were on a level. Griffiths' were pale blue - almost colourless - and cold. The coldest eyes Giles had ever looked into.
"There you are," Griffiths said. "I want a word with you."
TBC