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“It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in.
There's an old man sitting next to me, makin' love to his tonic and gin.
He says, "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes.
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes."
- Billy Joel, 'Piano Man'

* * *

It had been a century or more since Spike had bothered to really immerse himself in any kind of research project. Once, the musty smell of untouched books and the texture of paper and ink would have been his own personal heaven.. Those days had long since passed into distant memory and currently Spike found that he was unable to summon the same level of enthusiasm. It wasn't that his mental acuity had faded over the years, in his opinion it had only grown, but Spike no longer relished a purely intellectual existence. When he had been turned he had been determined to carve out a purely physical existence, one in which he could give into and savor all the desires of the flesh that his previous moral existence had ignored. He had become a man of action, not of words, and almost every problem he had encountered since had been solved by fist or fang.

But even he couldn't deny that he want getting the whole story from Rupert. Something felt ... off. It was all too conveniently vague for his tastes. Spike had an active interest in not only finding Eowyn's Construct but being alive enough to bring it back to Buffy. Giles, he knew, might be hedging his bets - he would win whether or not Spike returned and it was a coin flip as to which resolution he preferred. Things between the two men had disintegrated completely over the past several months, any chance of a working relationship smashed against the immovable force of Rupert's dislike. Spike knew that he held a lot of the blame; as if loving the Slayer wasn't bad enough his harebrained schemes to win her affection or some semblance thereof had made him persona non grata with the Scoobies. Spike wouldn't put it past the Watcher to use this opportunity to make sure Spike was unable to bother Buffy ever again.

It was that possibility which was responsible for his current predicament. Scattered around him were books of various sizes and ages, their pages creased from his impatient examination. He felt as if he had gone through every book in the library over the past few days and knew almost nothing more than he had when he started. For all his searching, and had been thorough dammit, he had found only vague references and a plethora of footnotes. All of it useless information that had done little more than reinforce the idea that this thing was dangerous.

The only thing that had provided any enlightenment was the slim, red tome he held tightly in his hands. It was older than the rest and had to be ordered from another archive yet Spike was unsure whether it had been worth the wait. Part of Spike had wanted to believe the story he'd found, but another part of him couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more he was missing, a dark undercurrent that would come back at some inopportune moment to bite him in the ass. It just couldn't be a simple as once upon a time there was a rebellious young girl with a propensity for dark
magic and revenge who had gone out in a patricidial wave of glory that had created the Construct. The Council's interest in the item alone had him second guessing the whole thing and the bit about no survivors coming back from the Anatolian Well had been the cherry on top.

"Find what you're looking for?"

The obsequious voice shook Spike from his reverie, forcing him to acknowledge the aging man before him. Even if he hadn't ever met him before he would've exactly what if not who the man was. It was all the tweed. Spike was fairly certain that Watchers single-handedly kept the tweed industry afloat, "Travers."

The head of the Watcher's Council smiled condescendingly down at the vampire as his eyes landed on the book Spike held, "Come now, you can't be all that surprised. After all, with this particular vein of research you've been pursuing, not to mention the fact that the book you're now holding is the property of the Watcher's Council, we were bound to become directly involved eventually. When I learned it was Ms. Summers newest pet vampire who was poking around I decided it might be best if I came to retrieve or property personally."

Spike cocked a brow in disbelief before sliding the book across the table at the Watcher, "Well then, don't let me keep you from all your important work on the sidelines then. Off you go, why don't you toddle along back to the rest of your children?"

To his disappointment, Quentin Travers did nothing odd the sort. Choosing to ignore Spike's suggestion in favor of sitting himself across the table from the vampire, "I rather think I'll stay and have a word with you first."

Spike shrugged and slumped further back into his seat, watching the mam carefully as he collected his thoughts. After his recent encounter with the goon squad he had a feeling that he'd be smart to keep his guard up despite Travers harmless appearance, “Suit yourself.”

“As you many have surmised, I am here on official Council business.” He paused, his calculating eyes weighing and measuring the vampire, “After our interview in Sunnydale I have come to the conclusion that you could prove to be a valuable asset for the Watcher’s Council to acquire. For all your notoriety, William, you're still very much a cipher to us. It’s a matter which certain members of our group believe should be rectified.” He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, “You are unique among your species and it would be a great pity to let this opportunity such as this to pass us by without seizing it in order to expand our knowledge of vampires.”

Spike was completely floored by the words coming out of Travers’ mouth. Part of him was tempted: it satisfied the lingering vestiges of the man he had once been to be included in a society that, for all its military applications, was essentially a scholarly sphere. It was a world that William, given half a chance, would have flourished in. But is was a dead man's dream and no longer suited what he had become. The scholar was dead; the demon had takenhis place, “Let me get this straight: you want me to work with you at the great and almighty Council of Wankers?”

He didn’t bother to try and keep the derision out of his voice but let it shine through with every word instead. Quentin noticed and there was no smile this time, only a slight tightening around the eyes. But instead of rising to the bait he merely chuckled; a low, warm, nasty sound that grated on the vampire’s ears, “I believe, my boy, that you misunderstand me. I do not want you to work with me or even for me. I merely want you to let us … study you.”

Spike started; a stream of obscenity on the tip of his tongue as he prepared to tell the man exactly where he could stuff his proposal when Travers held up an imperious hand and continued before the vampire could draw the necessary breath for speech, “No need to look so taken aback. Only think of what a creature of your longevity and notoriety could contribute to our archives. Your personal history alone could be considered a great scholarly coup and Lydia is positively salivating to get her hands on you and ferret out all your dark little secrets. And then, of course, there’s what you could contribute about the general history of the Aurelian line and general demon culture and biology." He paused for a breath, his sharp eyes gleaming with anticipation as he eyed the vampire the way a scientist might examine an unusual bacterial configuration beneath a microscope, "The information you could provide would be invaluable to us."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Don't be a fool. You're already half an experiment with that chip in your head. At least with us you'll be put to some good use instead of wasting away as the Slayer's glorified lackey."

Spike let out a low growl, his face flashing between demon and man as he struggled to get a grip on his temper, "You're treading on dangerous ground, old man."

"Spare me the false bravado. We both know that you couldn’t touch me if you wanted to." Travers rose, removing a business card from his pocket and tossing it carelessly on the library table before Spike, “Consider this, vampire, it's only a matter of time before you wear out your welcome in Sunnydale and what then? Mr. Giles may seem like the epitome of British politeness but he won’t tolerate your presence any longer than strictly necessary and the Slayer … well, you already know what her job description is I believe?”

He turned away, leaving Spike to stare unseeingly at the thick square of white on the table before him. He paused for a moment at the end of the stacks, his voice carrying back in a low tone that Spike’s hearing just barely managed to pick up, “Face it, Spike, you’re little more than an animal that walks and talks like a man. You’re a predator who has lost his claws. Whatever you do now, you will always be at the mercy of others and eventually you won’t even have the little value that you currently do in Sunnydale. And then, when that inevitable day comes, like all useless, toothless dogs you’ll have to be put down.”





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