Hyperion Hotel, Los Angles CA, March 2002
Slouched in a chair across from Angel, Spike watched his Sire brood. Three sighs and a couple of throat clearings had no success in getting Angel to notice him. Patience not being one of his strong suits, he finally gave in to his first preference of attention getting; he dropped a glass paperweight on the floor.
Angel never flinched or looked around at the sound of breaking glass, just calmly stated, "you're going to clean that up."
"Oh, it talks." Spike said triumphantly. "Now, the million-dollar question is, does it move?"
"William." Angel growled softly. "Don't push me."
"Just get over it, will you?" Spike said with exasperation. "Connor is not your problem now. So what if the Ventrue Poof can't control him, and he's been shacking up with Cordelia, who by the way can probably control him better than you or Mr. High-and-Mighty Ventrue."
"Childe." Now it was Angel who sighed. "Wait until you're a father, and then you'll know that it's not so easy to wash one's hands of blood, especially a child of blood. Now leave me alone; I need to do some thinking."
Spinning his chair around, Angel looked across his desk, hoping that Spike would take the hint and leave. A few moments passed and no one moved.
"What do you want that is so important?" Angel asked, head dropping in his hands. How well he knew his middle son. "More movies, games, another TV, what?"
"Actually I wanted you to answer a question, but if you're offering those other things, I won't say no."
"What's the question?" Angel asked through gritted teeth, his tolerance fast coming to an end.
"How old am I?"
**
"Bloody bad tempered Poof." Muttering to himself, Spike was sprawled out on the hotel lobby floor, as he had literally been thrown out of Angel's office.
"Err. . . ." Coming down the Hyperion's main staircase, Eamon could see Spike on the floor. "Is there a particular reason you're sitting on the ground?"
"I asked his Majesty a simple question, and he throws me out of his office." Spike grouched. "The High Poof's got a bug up his arse." Standing up, he brushed himself off. "Hey." An idea occurred to him. "What do you tell people when they ask your age?"
"Well I was born in nineteen seventy n. . . ."
"You were born a human." Spike interrupted. "Now you're a vampire. So as a vampire do you count the years that you were a human?"
"I-I. . . ." Eamon wasn't sure. "Probably not."
"Okay, so you've been a vampire for. . . ?" Spike raised in eyebrows questioningly.
"A year last month." Eamon said proudly.
"So if someone asks how old you are, you tell them a year?" Spike found that idea to be ludicrous.
"Well, I guess if a human asks me, I tell him the age I was as a mortal before I was turned." Eamon's answer was logical. "If a vampire asks me, I tell him I'm a fledgling."
"And how many years are you going to be a fledgling? And after you're not a fledgling anymore, you're what? A grown up vampire?" Spike had put a lot of thought in the whole how-old-am-I question.
"Well, I. . . ." Eamon exchanged a puzzled look with Spike. "I have no idea."
"But you know age is as important to vampires as it is to humans. Everyone and his uncle love to brag that they're a century or more old. And a lot of poofters lie about how they were around during the Crucifixion. Which is a lot of rot; I don't think there's a vampire alive, who's been around since then."
"Are you sure?" Damon had entered the room and had heard Spike's last statements. "Because I do believe that the Ventrue High Master has stated that he witnessed the Crucifixion."
"Pft." Spike didn't believe much of what Judelin said. "Rot, I tell you. The bloody bugger probably isn't much older than my Sire."
"And what knowledge do you have that makes you so sure of this?" Damon folded his arms across his chest and gave Spike an intense stare.
"Cause I'm telling you that vampires don't make it to a century old let alone two or more." Spike argued from his beliefs, instead of researched facts.
"Uh huh." Damon was not convinced, as he turned toward Angel's office.
"I wouldn't go in there if I were you." Spike warned his uncle. "His Highness is not in a good mood. I went in there with a simple question, and he threw a royal fit."
"Why do I think that you did more than just ask a simple question?" Damon asked with a small smirk. He knew what Spike was like.
"It was a simple question." Spike conveniently forgot about the broken paperweight. "Which by the way, uncle, maybe you know the answer. How old I am?"
**
"Well, he was no bloody help." Spike complained as he watched Damon enter his Sire's office.
"He can't help the fact that Angelus kept your rebirth a secret from the Clan." Eamon defended his Sire. "And besides, how come you don't know how old you are?" He gave Spike a suspicious look, wondering what kind of game his cousin was playing.
"Listen, when you get to be more than a one hundred years old." Spike told him. "Come and see me, and I'll see how many little details of your unlife you remember."
"Alright." Eamon was thoughtful. "But we're not talking about a little detail, we're talking about the date of your rebirth."
"When I was turned, I was disoriented. You know how that is. And then my Sire kept confusing me, changing my age, saying that Drusilla, who's younger than I am, sired me. So now I can't remember what really happened, or what was the product of the Big Poof's imagination."
"Well that explains it." Eamon said. "I was checking out a couple of Watcher's Diaries, and they had different ages for you. One said you were about two centuries old, and the other said you were a little more than a century old. I thought that was odd."
"See." Spike was vindicated. "My Sire managed to confuse everyone. In fact the common lore is that Drusilla is my Sire, even though I remember specifically calling Angel my old Sire. Afterward some stupid Watcher recorded that even though I said Sire, I really meant GrandSire. Bloody Git! If I had meant Grandsire, I would have said Grandsire."
Eamon had to grin. "This could only happen to you."
"Right then." Spike didn't find it all that funny. "But I'm tired of making up different ages. You going to help me figure this out?"
"Sure." Eamon shrugged his shoulders. "But can't you just ask Djoser? Wouldn't he know?"
"We're on the same wavelength, mate because I planning to see him next."
**
After searching for Djoser upstairs, Spike and Eamon wound their way down to the basement, where they discovered Djoser doing his usual daily workout.
"Bloody hell!" Spike exclaimed as he jumped down from the last step. The basement was filled with brand new weight equipment. "When did we get all this stuff?"
"It was a present from our Sire to *me*." Djoser got up off the slant board and grabbed a towel. "You," he gave Spike a hard stare, "don't touch anything, unless I give you permission."
Spike never liked being told he couldn't touch something. "And what makes you so frigging special?"
"I passed the Trials." Djoser stated matter-of-factly.
"He made you his Successor." A hint of spoilt child came out in Spike's tone. "That's present enough. You don't need all of this," he waved his hand around, "too. So I think it should be shared." Bending down he picked up a dumbbell and then immediately dropped it, surprised at its weight. "Fucking Christ. What's with the heavy artillery? Gonna try out for Mr. Universe? Must be someone out there you're trying to impress?"
"Will you be careful!" Djoser growled. "That's why I don't want you touching anything unless I say so, because you break everything you come in contact with."
"Sod you." His brother's high-handed manner was annoying him, and Spike never reacted well when annoyed. "Think you're the bleeding king around here? I'll do what I bloody well please."
"Actually, Spike," Eamon leaned over to whisper, "he is the Clan's Successor, so he is the. . . ."
"So." Spike cut-off his cousin. "I break everything I touch, do I?" Picking up the dumbbell again, he forcefully threw it on the ground, cracking it.
Djoser moved so fast, that it was only moments, and both Spike and Eamon found themselves hauled upstairs by the collars and thrown down on the lobby floor.
"Hey!" Again sprawled out on the ground, Spike yelled at his brother's retreating back. "I just wanted to ask you a simple question; how old am I?"
**
"Well, that went well." Eamon commented sarcastically as he got up off the floor. "Guess you managed to piss off the last person you could ask."
"Nope." Spike was undaunted. "There's still Nic."
"If my Sire doesn't know when you were reborn, I don't think Nic is going to know."
"What don't I know?" Nic asked, hearing his name as he entered the hotel lobby.
"I need to ask you something, uncle." Spike heaved himself up off the floor.
"I don't have any money, and you can't borrow my gun."
"That wasn't what I was going to ask. . .whaddya mean, I can't borrow your gun?" Spike had been looking forward to taking his uncle's .50 caliber desert eagle handgun to the neighborhood demon pub, where he planned to get shit-faced, start an argument with a demon bigger than himself, and then blast the demon full of large, round holes.
"An order straight from Angelus, 'under no circumstances, let William get a hold of that gun'." Nic quoted.
"Man, Poofy sure knows how to take the fun out of unlife." Spike grumbled.
"So what were you going to ask me, if it wasn't for money?" Nic asked.
"I need you to ask Wesley how old I am?"
"What?" Strange things had always come out of his nephew's mouth, but this was the strangest.
"Wesley knows how old you are?" Eamon's incredulous expression said it all. "You don't know how old you are, but a human does?"
"It's actually very simple." Spike explained. "A little while back, Wesley decided he was going to write a journal on his experiences with our family. He cornered me one day and badgered me with a whole lot of questions, one of them being my age. When he couldn't get the answer he wanted from me, he went and asked my Sire, and I'm sure that the High Poof told him. So he knows, and I want to find out from him."
"So if you didn't know your age back then, why didn't you go with Wesley when he asked Angelus?" Nic asked after a moment of unraveling Spike's convoluted story.
"Well I was there at the beginning of their conversation, but in those days, Wesley was a real suck up, especially to my Sire, and he was babbling on about how he was so honored to be able to chronicle the Tremeren Clan's history, etc, etc. I got bored and left."
"Wesley was a suck up?" Nic had never known the younger, insecure Wesley of old.
"Big time." Spike made the gesture of brown nosing.
"Okay." Nic said slowly, as he tried to picture a toadyish Wesley. "So why do you need me? Call him on the phone," he gestured over at the front desk, where the telephone was, "and ask him."
"Don't know his number, and besides I thought you might like to have an excuse to give him a ring." Spike said with a leering grin.
"Why would Nic want an excuse to ring this human?" Eamon asked.
"Because he fancies the poncey Watcher." Spike explained, leering grin still plastered on his face.
"But he's a mortal!" Eamon's expression was that of shock, which drew puzzled looks from both Nic and Spike. "We don't allow ourselves to have feelings for them!"
"Is that so?" Nic gave his nephew a cynical stare. "Your old man giving you that line about how inferior humans are to us?" He knew his brother Damon's attitude well. "Because that kind of thinking was part of what brought the Old Master down. Your Sire needs to get over his medieval ideas."
"Don't. . . !" Eamon began to angrily protest the criticizing his Sire, when the front door of the Hyperion banged open.
"Angel!" Lorne and Gunn came running through the door slamming it behind them. "Angel, high alert. . . ." At that moment a rain of sparrows came crashing into the door and windows of the Hyperion. The impacts were so hard they exploded leaving trails of blood and entrails.
"Lorne." Hearing the racket, Angel had stepped out of his office. "What's going on?"
"Weirdness abounds." Lorne sighed with relief at the sight of Angel. "The paranormal activities are going off the scale here in LA. We," he pointed first to himself and then at Gunn, "have been bombarded with phone calls from people, whose. . . ."
"Walls are bleeding, faucets are oozing pink slime, and snakes are coming up the bathtub drains." Wesley interrupted, as he, like Lorne and Gunn had made a swift entrance to avoid the kamikaze birds. "I've been tracking similar reports. Whatever is causing this, I think we need to pool our data, and. . . ."
"I know what's causing this and where." A tall, majestic figure entered the hotel. Unlike Lorne, Gunn, and Wesley he strolled at a normal pace, seemingly unaffected by the splattering birds. "And," the Ventrue Master stared over at Angel, "I need your help to stop it."
"This affects all of us." Wesley turned to Judelin but avoided looking him directly in the eye. "We should be included in any pl. . . ."
"By all means." Judelin interrupted. "The more bodies the better."
"Get ready." Angel ordered, gaze sweeping over his family. Stepping closer to Judelin, he growled out softly. "Tell me what this is about."
"A creature who goes by the simple name of the Beast." Judelin explained. "And I have been told that he has a connection with Connor."
"Connor!" Angel exclaimed. "What kind of connection would this Beast have with Connor?"
"You tell me." Judelin expression was unreadable.
"I. . . ." Angel broke off as he took the sword Damon handed him, realizing that Connor might very well have been responsible for bring the Beast to LA. "That Childe has been more trouble than two of my Williams." He muttered softly, as he strode to the front door, Judelin at his side, and the rest following behind.
Pushing his way so that he was right behind Wesley, Spike managed to whisper in the human's ear, as they filed out of the Hyperion. "Hey, Wes, need to ask you a question, how old am I?"
**
Once again Spike was sprawled out on the hotel lobby's floor, but this time it was by choice. They had fought the Beast, but the demon was powerful, injuring all of them, including Judelin and Angel. "Bloody beast!" He mumbled, as he gingerly felt his sides. Broken ribs always hurt like hell. "What the fuck was that Beast made of?" He managed to lift his head slight off the ground, to shout the question at his uncles, and brother, who were all slumped down on the couches and chairs of the Hyerion's lobby, bloody and beaten. "Granite?"
"He greeted Angelus." Damon stated tiredly, as he stroked Eamon's head, which was resting in his lap. "Angelus knows this Beast."
"Bloody hell." Spike swore. "So we've got an indestructible demon running around LA, who's probably been pissed-off at my Sire for two centuries. Fucking great."
"I'm telling you." A beat-up Angel protested, as he stumbled through the front entrance. "I don't know this Beast. I couldn't come up against a demon like that and not remember."
"I want him stopped." Judelin, who had only suffered minor cuts and bruises, followed Angel through the door. "It is obvious that he has a plan, and he is methodically following his plan step by step. Now what do you know of it?"
"I don't know what to tell you, because I don't know what plan or plans he has." Stepping down into the lobby, Angel surveyed his family. A dismal picture of injuries and blood.
"He addressed you by name." Judelin spoke with distrust. "Which seems suspicious since there has already been talk that he has a connection with Connor."
Angel sighed with anger, frustration, and pain. "I'll locate Connor and," he paused a moment at the skeptical lift of Judelin's eyebrow, "find out what he knows about this Beast."
"I will be waiting for your answer." Judelin turned and headed toward the door. "And I do not think I need to tell you that I want this Beast out of LA."
**
Epilogue
The smell of his Sire woke him. Turning over, Spike still ached all over, but he was pleased to find that someone had cleaned him up and put him to bed.
"Find Connor?" He mumbled to Angel, who had slid under the covers next to him.
"Yes." Angel could barely answer because of pain and exhaustion. "He doesn't know much about the Beast, but. . . ."
"But what?" Spike asked after a moment. Lying face to face with his Sire, he saw Angel's eyes were closed. "Sire?" He poked Angel.
"But he saw this Beast spring out from the exact place where he was born." Sighing, Angel threw an arm around Spike pulling him close.
Head resting on his Sire's chest, Spike closed his eyes. "Really? Bloody hell." He mumbled, nuzzling Angel's pectoral. Before drifting off into healing sleep, he managed one last question. "Sire, how old am I?"
****
Finis