What Ho, Spike
Sequel to Code of the Watchers
Cynthia Martin
Chapter One
Giles still has much for which to atone and now Angel's in it.
Thanks to the IB, PG Wodehouse, and to Joss -- long may you wave

Thanks to Nan Dibble, too.  Please stand by.

*****

It's a complex world, isn't it? Nothing seems black or white anymore.
I blame science, perhaps, or the persistent devolution of human
character, which I only happened to notice after my own evil youth
lost momentum and conked to a halt. Funny how spending one's early
years worshipping chaos and setting trashbins on fire blinds one to
the subtler things, such as how downright pissy and peevish the good
guys have become. When did that happen? Time was, after I signed on
as a defender of Right, that merely flashing one's card as a doer of
good was enough to set one's fellow doers of good to killing the
fatted calf and slopping over with fraternal welcome, before the big
chill set in.

Anyway my point is that nothing's simple anymore, dash it. We needed
shelter, Buffy and Spike and Jeffries and Zuptya and I. I was the
reluctant leader of a desperate band of fugitives, fiendishly
harassed and pursued, and the f. pursuers were jolly determined. I
decided early on that the only viable option was headlong flight to
Los Angeles, where Angel would throw down the drawbridge of his
fastness at Wolfram and Hart, welcome us with scented towels and
sustenance, and pull the moat in after us.

Better to dwell on a rooftop in the company of brothers than in a
palace amongst foes, as they say. We certainly had a elegant
sufficiency of foes, as demonstrated by our perilous race from
Nebraska, which had been punctuated by ambushes, attacks by night,
and daggers in the dark. But as we trooped into the chilly gleam of
the W&H lobby, exhausted, forlorn, travel-stained and peckish, I
became immediately aware that the company of brothers was still far
to seek.

"So. You're here." Angel had planted himself a pace forward of his
supporting echelon, a stone-faced line consisting of Winifred Burkle,
a natty Charles Gunn, a chartreuse demon it had never been my
pleasure to meet, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Snippy Git Extraordinaire.

"Yes. We're here," I replied, hoping to make things plain.

Angel's cold eye found Spike. "Wasn't really expecting it to be
true."

"Hi, Angel," said Buffy.

"Hi, Buffy," said Angel, with an unreadable expression.

"It's true, it's true," I said hastily. "All true, a wonder, a marvel
I witnessed with these very orbs. Spike is alive, and human, and
there's no explanation for it within the grasp of mortal ken, but --"

Wesley snorted softly, with more than a dab of what-do-you-call-it
mixed in. "Hah!" said he.

I ignored him, always the wisest way to deal with the W.W-Ps of this
world. "But that is neither here nor there, for the moment. At this
stage our primary need is sanctuary. Most grateful for the
assistance, truly we are. The hounds of hell are at our heels -- we
barely made through San Bernardino in one piece, you know, and I
think the local gendarmerie might be in the pay of -- "

"You're human?" demanded Angel bluntly, absolutely failing to display
any eagerness for details of our ordeal and falling well short of the
solicitous mark.

"Yeah," said Spike.

"How'd you swing that?"

"You know he died saving the world," said Buffy, taking Spike's arm
and gazing upon him with a melting adoration that made me queasy,
even in my role of not-being-Buffy's-pathologically-possessive-ex. "I
told you that, Angel. He died a horrible flamey death, in a
collapsing Hellmouth, all alone. But a few weeks ago he got sent
back, and now tornados follow him and obey his will, and he can even
multiply fishes."

Spike smiled modestly. "The fish thing is still kind of touch and go,
actually."

"You just need practice, Spike," cooed Buffy, planting a kiss on his
nose.

"But enough of fishes," I said. "Fishes don't come into it. We are
weary and would sleep, Angel, if you'd be so kind."

At last Angel seemed to remember himself. He said a word to his
hangers-about, and preparations and bustle followed. We were led to
elevators, which disgorged us by party into halls, all of which
looked the same, and pointed to offices with couches. It wasn't
baronial splendor, exactly, but our refugee status was dire, and I
had seen enough of truckstops and wind-scoured arroyos to last me
several years.

Winifred handed keys to the executive washrooms around, and then we
all stood awkwardly for a bit, as Zuptya yawned.

"Nice to meet you," said Winifred, to the former.

"Mmm," yawned Zuptya. "Likewise."

"Try to get some shuteye," said Gunn, in a bragging but praiseworthy
attempt to bolster the shaky confidence and wrap us in calm. "Don't
worry about anything. This place is a vault. It's perfectly secure."

"Secure as a lavishly-appointed sink of black-hearted iniquity can
be," said Spike pleasantly. "It's not like the reek of money and evil
is gonna suffocate us in one night -- I mean, any port in a storm..."

"If you don't like it --" began Wesley.

"Oh, no, no. I'm sure I'll sleep like a log. Because I sleep at
night, now," he added pointedly. "Being human and all."

Angel and Spike locked gazes with something less than perfect amity.

"Well! A busy day tomorrow. Defenses to prepare, fortifications to
raise, research to ponder. Goodnight, everyone," I said.

Buffy and Spike withdrew, arm in arm, without further ado. The door
to their borrowed office shut firmly.

"Goodnight, Angel. Thank you," I said.

Angel was already walking away, and Wesley was shadowing him, one
hand raised as if to offer a pat of consolation or support. They
paused and stared at me.

Wesley's face was set. "Goodnight, Mr. Giles," he said shortly.

Angel said nothing at all.

***

I cast myself down on my narrow bed of suede, weariness banishing all
thought of resurrections, miracles and family tension from my mind,
and sleep claimed me immediately. I woke to alarms scarcely a moment
later.

"Here, what's amiss?" I shouted, staggering into the hallway in my
suit jacket and boxer shorts. "Hi! Hold up! Is it an attack?"

Security lads were nipping to and fro with important faces. "Get down
to the street," barked one. "Take the stairs. We've got a fire."

A fire. I really should have anticipated a fire. But then, I had been
prostrated by exhaustion and quite reasonably assumed that the other
members of our party would be prostrated, too. The more fool I.

Hearken and learn of me, future generations. If one is determined to
interrupt a moment of intimacy while the intimates are engaged in
setting off sprinklers and alarms, along with other less mentionable
activity, care is requisite. Try, if you ever find yourself in such a
situation, to don a pair of trousers before charging off. Remember,
if you can, that even the most expensive carpeting in the most
upscale of hallways turns into a swamp of surpassing slickness if the
charger is barefooted. And if despite all precautions you find
yourself at such a pass, endeavor at all costs not to skid around a
blind corner, lose your footing, collide with your host and knock him
down, because you will be doing nothing whatsoever to help his mood.

"Angel," I shouted, over the deafening shriek of the building's top-
of-the-line klaxons. "Nothing to fear, old man! I have the situation
under control!

"Buffy! Where's Buffy?"

I was trying to assist him upright and failing rather. "Buffy was
first out the door, of course! When last I saw her she was leading
our party and the night janitors to safety, and at this very moment --
"

An office door to our left opened with a puff of steam and the
aforementioned Buffy emerged, en dishabille but for the protective
and equally ill-clad ex-vampire adhering to her person. A few tardy
licks of flame were still chasing over them, making the spray from
the sprinklers sizzle.

"Oh," said Buffy. "I think we set off the alarms, Spike."

Spike gave the hall the appraising once-over and grinned provokingly.

Angel and I managed to untangle and regain our footing. Angel seemed
at a loss for words, and indeed the expression on his face put me in
mind of one of those dour-visaged American presidents carved into the
side of Mt. Rushmore, so perhaps it was best. The alarms died,
emphasizing a silence that could not under any circumstance be
described as comfortable, and permitting the distant wail of sirens
to reach our ears.

I slapped Angel on the back. It was like hitting a beached whale.

"And there you are! Just a household accident of a very minor sort,
happens every day, no lasting harm done. Perhaps we should adjourn,"
I suggested heartily, "don trousers, and do what we can to reassure
the fire brigade, who are certain to be concerned for our welfare,
selfless servants of public safety that they are. Angel, as the head
of the firm and master of the establishment, I'm sure your presence
is required in the lo--"

Whether it was or wasn't is a question that shall remain forever
moot, for Angel retreated a step or two, turned like a Russian
soldier offering his back to a Cossack horde, and squelched off down
the hall.

Buffy bit her lip, gazing after him with a troubled eye, but Spike
draped an arm around her shoulder and steered her back into the
office.

"Let's find a priceless tapestry and towel you off, darling."

"I think they're all wet," sighed Buffy.

"Yeah, I guess they are."

The door closed on Spike's chuckle, and I was left, alone of them
all, to deal with the officialdom, lobbies, and the threat of worse
to come.

***

Angel might have been a vampire abused by fate and crossed in love,
but the objective observer was forced to admit that in terms of
material advancement he had nothing of which to complain. At the
stroke of eight the gates of Wolfram and Hart flung high their heads
to admit a squadron of moppers-up, armed with blow dryers and every
imaginable sort of post-sprinkler remedy. Angel strode amongst them
like a captain of war, snapping orders and fawned upon to a
thoroughly revolting degree. Sunlight streamed in through the tall
windows and he passed through it with impunity, sheltered from all
harm by a thick cocoon of money, technology, diabolism and privilege.

"We're having a meeting," he growled, catching sight of me.

I took this as a typically polite invitation to attend, and followed
him into a wide office containing Wyndam-Pryce in a seat of
prominence and enlivened by the presence of Buffy, Spike, Zuptya and
Jeffries. My flock were wolfing down pastries and swilling pungent
coffee, oblivious to the hard stares of the Angel contingent. I
slipped into an empty seat at the massive powwow table and sank a
good six inches into the buttery leather.

"There's a lot happening," said Angel, launching the proceedings with
a sharp smack at the tabletop that made Zuptya jump and cough on a
crumb. "We need to make some fast decisions. Last week our operation
was infiltrated by the enemy, and Wednesday we turfed out a mole. The
Hellmouth's shut, Spike's shanshued, and a spell for resouling every
vampire on earth just arrived in the --"

"Spike's what?" interrupted Buffy, roused from her deep involvement
with a Krusty Kreme by the mention of Spike's name. Angel's face
became, if that were possible, even more Rushmorishly stern and
impassive.

"A prophecy," interjected Wyndam-Pryce, clearing his throat and
tuning up for a long tutorial in the manner that had long been the
thing that made me treasure him least. "It was foretold that a
vampire with a soul would perish saving the world and return to life
as a human being. We have always understood this to refer to Angel,
but in retrospect it seems clear that Spike -- " he said the name
with marked lack of warmth -- "is the one to whom the honor has
fallen."

Spike kept his eyes modestly downcast but grunted, "Huh," in a
pleased way, as he reached for a maple bar.

"Oh," said Buffy, watching Angel. "I see."

I raised a hand. "Just a moment. The shanshu prophecy was discredited
years ago. It can't possibly refer to Spike."

Buffy turned startled eyes my way. "You knew about it?"

Spike laid down his maple bar and gave me a narrow look.

"Of course I knew about it. Any paranormal researcher worth his spurs
has known about it since the flood. But there are holes in the thing,
Buffy, my dear, and inconsistencies and obscurities, that make any
straightforward reading imp--"

"You knew about it, and then Spike got a soul, and you still tried to
have him killed?"

"You did?" asked Angel, with a note of dawning respect.

"Let us not air our laundry here, I beg you. It is all water under
the bridge now, eh? We must permit bygones, as the Wise Man enjoined
us, to be bygones. I was wrong, I was wrong, I was thrice dastardly
and wrong, but a new day has dawned and we must be going forward."

"I'm not so sure I want the job now, Rupes," sniffed Spike. "You have
a problem with sharing information."

"What job?" asked Angel.

Spike grimaced, clearly wishing he hadn't been so quick to
speak. "Rupert thinks... train... Watcher," he mumbled.

Angel leaned forward with a smirk. "Giles is going to make you a
Watcher? Is that what you said?"

Spike shot him a sour, embarrassed glare and took a slug of coffee.

For the first time since we arrived Angel seemed to be noticing the
sunny side of life. "Well, what do you know. Spike is going to be a
Watcher, and trained by the famous Rupert Giles, of all people. Good
luck in your new career, Spike."

"Sod off. Sorry," said Spike, through a mouthful of doughnut.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce tapped a sheaf of mouldy parchment with a rigid
forefinger. "Interested as we all are in Spike's new job, there are
other matters in the world of equally dire importance. Only yesterday
I received this text, from senders unknown, which outlines a spell
that will resoul every vampire on earth. It is without question a
powerful magik, of nearly unlimited scope, and the fact that it has
surfaced now makes me think that powerful forces have aligned to
strike a blow against the curse of vampirism."

"We need to get out of Los Angeles," I said, thinking that perhaps
the agenda needed trimming.

"Just a moment, Mr. Giles, if you please," replied Wyndam-Pryce, in a
tone that suggested pleasing me was the very last thing he ever
wanted to do. "The spell, which has the potential to eliminate
vampires from our plane forever, cannot be successful without the
cooperation of a willing, er, sacrifice. It must be bought with the
blood of the Shanshu: the resurrected hero of the apocalypse."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just so."

"No way!" cried Buffy, clutching at Spike, who looked at her blankly.

"Let me understand you, Pryce," I said. "We have accepted your
hospitality, eaten your salt and slept on your office couches, and
you now confront us with a wheeze to spill the blood of our own? What
has become of you, man, that you can sit there and babble of
sacrifice and spells to your own guests? Angel, I simply must insist
that you get us out of Los Angeles."

"Don't do it, Spike," moaned Buffy, tears welling.

"Hush, love, don't be silly," murmured Spike. "I'm not going
anywhere."

"That's pretty much what I expected." Angel rose, sticking out a hand
for the parchment, which was promptly handed off by Pryce. "Spike,
don't feel like a shirker or a gutless coward, okay? Nobody can ask
you to give up your life just when you've got it back, to help a
bunch of vampires and their legions of potential victims. I told
Wesley that much going in, but he felt he had to bring it up. Giles,
I've had my people secure a safe house in the Virgin Islands, and
there are false passports, tickets and money in the car downstairs.
Have a safe trip. Drop me a line when you think it's safe, Buffy."

"Thank you, Angel," replied Buffy through tears.

"And we're off," said Spike. "Let's roll."

Zuptya and Jeffries were already in the lobby when Angel's phone
rang. He waved off Buffy's farewells and additional thanks to answer
it, and I had nearly passed the door when a choked "What!?" arrested
me. I turned to see Angel sway like a great oak and turn stunned eyes
upon Wyndam-Pryce.

"Wesley..." stammered Angel. "Wesley."

"What is it? What has happened?"

Angel replaced the phone on the cradle unsteadily, like a
somnambulist with an inner-ear infection. "That was Lorne, Wesley.
We've... we've been fired."

"What!?" cried Wyndam-Pryce. It was a largish day for what!?s at
Wolfram and Hart.

"They're on their way, Wesley. The contract's void. They're coming to
clear us out."

Wesley lost no time in idle protests about the unfairness of it all.
He hopped to a painting, shoved it aside, and began working a safe
with nimble fingers. "Then we have to go, now. Angel, I'll meet you
in the garage after I fetch Fred. Get Gunn down here with whatever he
can carry. We haven't a moment, Angel. Move!"

Spike took Buffy by the arm and hustled her toward the door.

Angel stabbed his intercom. "Harmony!"

No one answered. Angel punched another button.

A surly "Yeah?" rose from the speaker.

"Bring the Landrover up to the first level," snapped Angel. "Now."

"Who's this?" "This is your boss, and you'd better quit asking stupid
questions and bring that car."

"I don't think so," drawled the voice. "The garage is sealed. We just
got the call. All company cars are impounded."

"Damn it, you listen to m -- "

The line went dead. Angel traded a grim look with Wesley.

"The helicopter," said the latter.

"We'll have to fight our way up."

"Then," said Wesley, pulling an absurdly outsized sidearm from a
holster under his jacket, "We'll fight."

"Oh, Christ." Angel looked ill. "Who's going to fly it?"

Pryce looked at me. I looked at Spike. Spike looked at Buffy. Buffy
spread her hands helplessly, and then we all turned to stare at
Jeffries, who was standing in the doorway, waving for our attention.

"I can fly a Huey," he said. "Is your helicopter a Huey, by any
chance?"

****

TBC