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Thanks: Thank you to everyone that reviewed -- Your words are greatly appreciated. I never really knew the power of a good review until I got some!

Digression: Just a quick thought -- does anyone else feel like that by being a whole-hearted Spuffy Shipper, you are talking/writing/shipping to a brick wall? Do you also feel not represented? I don’t know, I keep running into Bangel paraphernalia and maybe it’s just that that’s got me all upset. It just gives me an overwhelming sense of helplessness -- like watching a train wreak -- and I can’t do anything to make it better short of kidnapping Joss and Co. and talking over production of Angel myself. Anybody with me!? OK, I’ll try to get over it, really. I’ll try not to violently kill off Angel for the good of the Spuffy story, but I’m not making any promises.

Author’s Note: If there is anything in the story that needs further explanation in future chapters, an aspect you don’t understand and need background on, please give me a heads up so as not to make the story confusing. Thanks.

CHAPTER FOUR

What it was about this particular English accent that made the entire caravan freeze, Buffy wasn’t sure. God knew there were enough over-the-pond voices in the room to be confusing -- especially in the sense that Angel mysteriously lacked that family trait. But the new Brit’s words were unpolished and unapologetic -- just like the man himself.

“Who is that?” a business woman asked in a tone Buffy thought was disgust. The whole group of them stood off against this man, who simply stared back with shining blue eyes.

Wesley broke his way to the front of the group to answer in his matter-of-fact tone, “This is Spike Giles, heir to Wolfram and Hart, second in line only to . . .”
“Me.” Angel answered, forcing his way through the small crowd to come toe to toe with the intruder.

They stood like that for a moment, as the onlookers frowned at the display.

“You mean they’re brothers!?” another woman, wearing some appalling looking dead animal on her shoulders, exclaimed. This brought a sudden realization over the crowd and Buffy couldn’t help but study the two men faced off before her.

They were so different though they could not be but mere years apart. Where she knew Angel to be a burly, dark featured man with a monotone and calm disposition, this Spike was anything but. The way the bleached man glared at his older sibling attested to that. Fire and lightning danced behind his azure eyes. His aura revealed him to be spastic and antsy, his muscles twitched in readiness to pounce. Where Angel wore his polo shirt and khaki slacks, his younger brother wore scuffed boots, ragged Levi’s, and a elongated leather coat with a high collar. Under his right arm, he clutched a motorcycle helmet. Neither of them took any notice of the spectators as they glared each other down.

“Spike,” Angel barked, “I see you’re still holding onto that coat.”

“Peaches,” he smirked, “I see you’re still holding onto that hairstyle.”

As Angel fumed, Spike, now acknowledging they had an audience, glanced around him and instantly landed on Buffy. He turned his head slightly, in appreciation of what he saw. Buffy raised her chin higher, not faulting under his intense gaze. Angel, taking note of where his eyes fell, tried to snap him back to attention.

“Is there something I can do for you, Spike?”

For a beat, Spike didn’t take any notice of his brother as he continued to look at Buffy, but he smiled softly and eventually faced his foe. “Now, is that the way to say hello to your brother after all these years?” Spike looked past his brother to see his father for the first time. “Rupert,” he greeted.

“William.” Giles had fear and apprehension written all over is face -- and maybe a hint of disappointment.

The woman -- who knows how many animals died for her to look that stupid -- piped up again, “William? I thought you said his name was Spike?” She received no answer. “Well, which is it?” she demanded.

When the rest of them ignored her, Spike chose to humor her. “You can call me whatever you want, Luv,” Spike did a quick double raise of his eyebrows to get his point across, then smiled when the obnoxious woman gasped, appalled by his behavior.

“Spike, I asked you a question,” Angel took a stride forward, looming violently over him.

This earned a chuckle from Spike, “And I’m answerin’ . . .” Though before Spike could offer an explanation, Wesley again spoke.

“I believe William has returned to us to claim what is rightfully his,” he ventured.

Spike turned on his heals, pointing a finger at Wesley, “And the grand prize to the man in the monkey suit.”

“And that is?” A unattractive vein in Angle’s forehead throbbed.

“The grand prize? Well, being the glorified butler for this establishment should reap him a fair amount of benefits . . .”

“You,” Angel interrupted his brother’s mirth. “What are you here for?”

“Half the company,” his father answered gravely. Everyone turned to face the older Giles, not believing what they were hearing. “On the day I hand down the company, if both of my sons want Wolfram and Hart they are to split it fifty-fifty.”

A fair amounts of gasps and “Oh my’s” rang out from the crowd.

“Mum made sure to put that little stipulation in there, didn’t she Rupert?” Spike spoke directly to his father, making sure to yet again to use his father’s given name.

Buffy was baffled as the men continued to speak in vague terms and inside jokes. From what she could analyze from the scene, the only people in the room that were aware of Spike’s existence prior to his unexpected visit were Giles, Angel, Wesley, Travers, and a few cooks and maids.

“Well I just won’t stand for this!” a Senior Partner bellowed.

“You’re not going to get away with this, Spike,” Angel agreed.

“I’m not committing a crime, mate, gotta get me on something more substantial than that.”

“This changes everything!” another Senior Partner complained, insinuating to the paper work that they had all gather to discuss.

“This changes nothing,” Giles insisted. “There will be two names signed instead of one. This changes nothing.” He spat the last sentence. His confidence was to calm himself, his associates, and to let Spike know that his sudden appearance was not as disruptive as he would have liked. “But, gentlemen,” he addressed the many businessmen around him, “you will excuse me if I do not feel up to discussing these matters with you any further tonight. I have developed a sudden distaste with the situation,” he glared penitently at his youngest son. The crowd quickly “This changes nothing,” Giles insisted. “There will be two names signed instead of one. This changes nothing.” He spat the last sentence. His confidence was to calm himself, his associates, and to let Spike know that his sudden appearance was not as disruptive as he would have liked. “But, gentlemen,” he addressed the many businessmen around him, “you will excuse me if I do not feel up to discussing these matters with you any further tonight. I have developed a sudden distaste with the situation,” he glared penitently at his youngest son. The crowd quickly began to dissipate, their feelings mirroring those of their boss.

Whatever kind of coolness Giles had hoped to convey towards him, Spike knew better. This was ripping his father and his precious business plans into neat little shreds. His dream had always been to hand his perfect firm down to his perfect son.

Soon, all that was left in the foyer was Giles, Travers, Angel, Buffy, and Spike -- who continued to smirk at them all.

Giles began up the steps, stopping to address his son, “William, your old room remains unoccupied, you can sleep in there.”

“So nice to know you held it for me all these years,” was his reply. Angel took Buffy’s hand without a word and followed Giles, leading her into their room and closing the door.

Spike sighed at his handiwork. As he sauntered past to reach the stairs, he halted abruptly in front of the elder man who hadn’t said a word throughout the entire show. The grayed man studied the young rebel critically. “Travers, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No,” he replied, “Just the shell of a man.”

Spike sucked in air, as if Travers had poked him with a hot iron. “Touché. Can still hit the curveball in your old age. I’m impressed.” Spike’s laugh echoed unsettlingly off the decorated walls as he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

TBC





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