A/N: Alright. New story from me. I originally did not intend to post this until I had it at least halfway done, but the muse is demanding that I see what y'all think right now. Some Kind of Oil is NOT abandoned, but my brain needs a serious break from it. Finals killed it, and I'm starting at UCLA for summer school in a couple of weeks, so I'm going to just go with whatever I can write now.

IMPORTANT THINGS TO READ BEFOREHAND!

1) This story is not strictly chronological - There's not flashbacks, but we do see pieces of the past among bits of the present (they are clearly labeled, so hopefully it won't be too confusing).

2) This will be TOTALLY confusing at first - Like I said, it's not chronological, so there's going to be bits of the story missing until later on in the fic. Questions WILL be answered though, and if you'd just bear with me to answer 'em, then that'd be awesome. :)

~*~

Chapter 1 – Alive with the Glory of Love

June 13, 1980
London, England

He stared at the small white object in her hands, the two pink lines standing out in sharp contrast to the paleness of the smooth plastic. Two pink lines. With those lines, a new life was beginning—from his lover and himself, something much greater than their own lives was growing. He could feel it.

Finally dragging his eyes away from the pregnancy test, his gaze fell upon the anxiously eager look on her face. “Well?” she asked breathlessly, her excitement tinged with an undertone of fear at how he would receive the news.

It was entirely unfounded. “I love you,” he murmured, a smile breaking across his face as he pulled her small body against him, brushing kisses across her cheeks, eyelids, lips. “Marry me.”

A relieved sob coursed through her body as the two lovers sank to the floor in an emotional heap, her expression awash with happiness even as tears coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, god, yes, of course Henry. I love you.”

Pulling away from their embrace, he stared intensely into her shining eyes, as if trying to ascertain whether she was telling the truth—not curious that she would be lying, of course, but wanting to see that someone as wonderful as her could truly love someone cursed with the evils of his past. Nothing, nothing in those jade irises told him otherwise—in his own dark gaze her eyes were reflected, bright and alive with the glory of the love she felt for him.

Suddenly unable to be even their short distance apart, Henry pulled her back against him, cradling her body with his strong arms. “Oh Joyce,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into her soft blonde hair. “I love you too.”

~*~

June 28, 1997
Atlantic International Airspace

“What the hell is that?”

“Language, Buffy,” Joyce replied automatically, turning her head to face her daughter with her chastising expression already in place.

“Sorry,” the sixteen-year-old replied flippantly, “Golly gee, what could that be?”

Joyce rolled her eyes. “No need to get sarcastic, my darling daughter,” she replied exasperatedly.

“Well where do you think I got it from, Mommy Dearest?” she shot back, gracing her mother with a genial grin before indicating a photo in the magazine she was flipping through. “And besides, I think that outfit definitely deserves a swear or two.”

“Well what the hell is that?” Joyce blurted out as soon as she saw the heiress’ elaborate costume, before glancing up, chagrined, and meeting her daughter’s slyly raised eyebrow. “And don’t you start on me, missy. I am an adult and can say as I wish.”

“Whatevs,” Buffy conceded good-naturedly, her tone clearly proclaiming her win where her words did not. “So! London.”

“London,” Joyce parroted when Buffy paused, knowing instinctively that her daughter had something to say but was trying to find out how to breach the subject. “It’s… pretty nice this time of year,” she offered lamely, her efforts rewarded when Buffy jumped on the subject.

“Oh yeah, I forgot that you went there when you were young,” she replied easily, her voice deceptively teasing as she asked, “What was that, thirty years ago?”

“Seventeen,” Joyce remarked with false annoyance, letting out a laugh; however, the look that briefly flashed across her daughter’s face not lost on the perceptive woman, and it let her know that her daughter had her own suspicions about the connections between both of her trips abroad.

Of course, there was no question why Buffy would be curious as to the nature of their visit. The two had rarely taken an impromptu visit to Los Angeles, let alone anywhere too far to drive—and London? Not exactly a typical summer vacation spot.

Joyce let out a sigh once Buffy turned towards the airplane window and put her white earphones on, turning her music on so loudly that her mother could make out the words. No, she knew her daughter would suspect that this trip was more than a hastily-planned vacation. She just couldn’t figure out how to bring up the subject that had been taboo since a little girl’s confused questions after she began kindergarten.

Oh, why did she agree to this damn trip? Joyce rubbed her throbbing temples and rested her head against the firm cushion of the seat. Plane rides had never been easy for her, even before all the airline restrictions had been put in place—and now she had on her mind the subject that she’d been avoiding for years, suddenly forced back into her life without so much as a “how are you, Joyce?”

Her daughter was only sixteen. Sixteen. An age far too young for Buffy to face the ugly truths her past held—hell, Joyce hadn’t been able to accept them when she was twenty. Her then-self had been so wrapped up in her love affair that she hadn’t been able to see the harsh light of day—but no, that wasn’t exactly true. She had seen the light—but it had blinded her, and left her crippled when the clouds finally came out of hiding and showed the truth for what it really was.

The woman closed her eyes, thinking back to that letter—that shocking piece of post that had obligated her to this trip back to hell. No, she was not looking forward to going back to London and reopening a chapter of her life that she had firmly closed, locked, and sealed the day her daughter was born. But there was something in her that didn’t want to let her own stubbornness cause her to regret that decision she made seventeen years ago, a decision that was her own to make but that affected the one person in the world she loved more than her own life.

She thought that if it came to this, she would be strong. That she would not be pulled back into that web of trickery, lies, and deceit, and she would proudly shield her daughter from its powerful call. But when that letter came and she realized her sixteen years of effort were about to be paid off, she found that there was nothing in her that felt relieved in the least. Not even justified.

And she realized she couldn’t let the father of her child die before their daughter could know the truth of his life.

~*~

A/N: Okay, so what do you think? Dumb? Silly? Pathetic that I’m going this path when, like, a billion other people have “gone there?” Any reviews are greatly appreciated, and again, ALL QUESTIONS WILL BE ANSWERED! I have it all planned out, I’m just being silly and not telling you right away. :) Please review!

A/N: Okay. First of all, thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter. :) I didn’t respond to them yet, but I definitely will soon. Secondly (or ‘second of all’ if you’re Chris Crocker), I’m going to update every Thursday, and maybe more if the muse allows. Right now I have a bit of a head start, and I hope to keep it that way. :) More after.

~*~

Chapter 2 – The Truth Hits Everybody

January 19, 1981
Aurelius Estate
Devon, England

H. J. Nest stared at the small slip of paper he held in his thin hands. The text was bold and stood out sharply from the crisp white page, as if its presence on the paper mirrored the heavy weight of their truth on his conscience.

The bowtie around his neck suddenly felt constrictive and tight, and he loosened it with the hand still holding the page, crumpling the paper in the process. Taking in deep gasps of breath, he tried to steady himself, to maintain the composure he knew he would need tonight. You knew this was coming, he internally berated himself. Don’t act like it’s such a big damn shock. Bitterly chuckling, Nest blinked and reached for the small tumbler of brandy he’d been drinking, taking a generous swallow.

This was not the time to be showing any signs of weakness. His father’s murder had damaged the reputation of the Aurelius Family too much already, and any sign of public weakness from their young Master—especially the night before his carefully negotiated marriage—would send them into a downward spiral. “You’re in the past now,” he said out loud, but to whom he was not entirely sure.

A final, fleeting twinge of pain blossomed in his stomach as Nest looked down at the now-crumpled paper in his fist. With a scoff, he let it fall to the artfully cluttered surface of his desk, before turning and crossing the room to the large gilded mirror on the wall. His study was decorated in dark hues of green and brown, these shades reflected behind him as he studied his own face. Where once his eyes had taken in the purest sort of love imaginable, he now only saw the cold darkness of their own depths. His pale face was thinner than it had been before, enhancing his sharp features; it suited him, the person he had become, the man he found himself now to be.

Fixing the black tie in an automatic, almost robotic fashion, Nest favored himself with one last glance in the mirror and strode quickly from the room, heading downstairs to coordinate with his colleagues the security of the home.

A moment after his departure, a slim, beautiful blonde in a lavish dress slipped through a second door into the study—it had been slightly open the entire time, the woman’s clear brown eyes having peered through the space at the curious activities of her husband-to-be. These same eyes were now narrowed purposefully as she took light steps across the plush carpet, until she stood at the very spot Nest had been standing moments before.

In her hands she held the crumpled piece of paper, which she could now see was a telegram. Her eyes clouded as they quickly scanned the message, her face not betraying the immense shock and betrayal exploding within her chest. Darla was not naïve—no, on the contrary; most women brought up in her type of family chose to be ignorant of the cruelty and pain their lives were awash in. Darla, on the other hand, reveled in it, the cold detachment and steely malice—but even now, as she stood in her husband’s house the night before their wedding, she felt hurt rage where there should only have been indifference. And for that, the blonde realized that she had already lost herself in the trap that so many women had found themselves in.

A dull ache set itself in her chest, its last remnants of girlish innocence fading away into a darkened hollow. There was nothing more to be done of it—her darling fiancé had surely done enough already. However, Darla reassured herself, this mattered no more; Henry was to be wedded to her tomorrow, solidifying his role as Master of the Aurelius Family. From then on, no one would be able to come between the two—in the eyes of their peculiar underworld, their union was to last for eternity.

Slowly, a sly smile crept onto Darla’s beautiful features. Casting one more glance at the paper clutched in her red-painted nails, the boldly proclaimed words now seemed arrogant and foolish.

ELIZABETH ANNE SUMMERS BORN TODAY
YOU ARE NOT NAMED FATHER
PLEASE CEASE CONTACT

“Foolish woman,” Darla muttered through her perfect red lips, tossing the paper into the fire and sweeping from the room.

~*~

December 24, 2001
Aurelius Estate
Devon, England

Irregular flickers of light painted the plush room with color not entirely suited to its mournful hues of evergreen and earth. The girl lay curled up on the soft cushion of a sofa, staring into the roaring fire but not feeling any of its warmth. She pulled the crocheted blanket closer around her thin form and shivered—even after four years she still hadn’t acclimated to the harsh English winters.

“Elizabeth?”

The sudden sound of her given name did not startle the pensive girl as one might have expected; instead, she let out a lengthy sigh before placing her hands on the back of the couch and turning to give her attention to the man standing in the room.

“It’s Buffy,” she corrected, the firelight gleaming on her blonde hair. “Is it time?”

A slight nod from the servant prompted her to stand, the soft blanket carelessly discarded on the cushions as Buffy strode purposefully out the door into the hall, refusing to be led to the chambers of her father’s widow—any semblance of formality in their relationship was in play merely to maintain the balance her mother had established four years before. Her only reason for staying was to carry out Joyce’s dying wishes, but the despite she felt for Darla outweighed even her immense respect for her mother’s memory.

“Sadistic bitch,” Buffy muttered as she stopped before the door to Darla’s suite, plastering a look of indifference onto her face before knocking sharply on the wooden surface.

It opened immediately, a dark-haired maid avoiding her eyes as she fled into the hall. Taking that as an invitation to enter, Buffy stepped onto the Persian rug covering the elaborately patterned hardwood. A musty scent assailed her senses as she closed the door behind her, shutting out any light from the hall. “Hello?” Buffy called out impatiently, making her way over to the wing-backed armchairs and perching herself on an uncomfortable seat. She was in no mood for the Nests’ dramatically late entrances, but there was no use hoping for a short encounter—it would be lucky for her to be able to leave before midnight.

Glancing at the chair angled to face her own, its seat conspicuously unoccupied, Buffy felt her heart twist painfully. If she’d known last year at this time that she would be sharing her last holiday with her mother—her true family—she… There was no way to know what she would have done, Buffy resigned herself to accept. Tragedies are unexpected, unforeseeable—

“Happy Christmas, Elizabeth.”

Unavoidable.

“Dearest Darla,” Buffy said, rising to face the deceptively angelic face emerging from the shadows. “Has another year passed this quickly?”

“Time’s speed is entirely relative,” the older woman replied carelessly, a smile appearing on her features. “Were you not eagerly awaiting this last holiday we are to share together?”

“No more than you were, I promise,” Buffy answered steely; their words were civil, but neither woman bothered to feign a conversational tone. “Has Liam arrived yet?”

“He will be out shortly,” said Darla, her long fingers absentmindedly caressing the arm of a chair. “Shall we sit? I am sure he will not mind.”

Buffy nodded tersely and reclaimed her seat, silently sighing in relief when Darla chose to sit upon the sofa instead of the chair nearest to her. To most, the silent company they shared—in an entirely unlit room—might have seemed strange, but Buffy had long forsaken her own reservations over the customs of the Aurelius home.

Still, Darla looked oddly ill-at-ease—and nervousness was something Buffy was unaccustomed to seeing in the eternally self-satisfied woman. “Is there something wrong?” she asked boldly, an uneasiness beginning to take hold of her as well. If something had Darla shaken, it must be of at least some importance to Buffy. Considering her entire survival relies on my charity, she wryly thought to herself, as Darla sat even straighter up in her chair and opened her mouth to speak.

“Allow me to answer that question,” a smooth voice called out from the shadows, before the irritated blonde could respond. Buffy didn’t know whether to be relieved or shaken as Liam walked through the thin trail of moonlight falling past the closed window, its beams highlighting his sharp features oh-so like his mother’s as he completed their circle.

“How nice of you to join us, my son,” Darla commented, narrowing her eyes at the usurpation of her commentary.

Liam ignored his mother’s obvious displeasure, crossing his legs easily and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. “I had some business that needed attending to,” he replied, icily smiling at his sister and looking much older than his nineteen years. “Which is presently our most urgent matter to discuss.”

“Really?” Buffy quirked an eyebrow. “I thought we were maintaining our traditional semblance of familial holiday closeness.”

“Oh, Elizabeth,” Liam chuckled, shaking his head good-naturedly. “You’re being harsher than usual. I assure you, this attitude you have suddenly developed will disappear immediately once you hear what I have to say.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes threateningly at his words. “Brother dearest,” she began, “do not presume that you have any say-so in my behavior towards you. In one month, I will leave England and the Aurelius Family for good—but until then, I feel that you ought to show more respect to the true head of the Family.”

Her words were carefully chosen, and stung Liam as intended—but Buffy felt no true pride at the truth behind them. Yes, her father had named her as his successor—but she felt no calling for the type of life Henry Nest had chosen to lead. After her twenty-first birthday, she would be granted the privilege to pass along the title to the next in line, namely her younger brother Liam—the power that came with running a crime organization was more than the down-to-earth Buffy Summers felt she could take.

But she had done it—even as lower members handled the specifics of the operations, Buffy had made a few choice decisions that neither Darla nor Liam had been able to deal with, proving to herself—and the Nests—that she possessed the same shrewd logic her father had carried through his own reign. The knowledge both strengthened and scared her; still, she put up a calm front and hoped that her younger brother would obey her leadership for once, despite his much more active role in their family’s dealings.

Unfortunately for her, he quickly recovered from his initial shock and went on. “But of course,” he replied gallantly, sneering as if he needed to further emphasize the sarcasm in his response. “But I feel, Elizabeth, that as our revered Head you may need to be made aware of this information, as it is of relative importance to our Family’s survival.”

“And that would be?” Darla cut in, before Buffy could ask (though she would never admit it) the question (in the exact same impatient tone—she had had it all planned out in her head).

“It would be,” Liam began, “that the Aurelius Family about to be placed under investigation, and the main figure of interest will undoubtedly be you,” he smirked, “Buffy.”

~*~

A/N: Okay. So that’s Chapter 2—and again, I promise that everything is going to make sense after not too long, but it will take a teeny bit of time. And there will be a time when the jumping around time will stop—hopefully you guys can bear with me until then. Okies! Oh, and Buffy’s a bit OOC in this chap, I know—but it’ll be explained. Oh! And be sure to read the little italicized settings! Cause that will make the time-jumping a lot easier to keep track of. Thanks all! Much love and smooches! Reviews make my day!

Note: The Serious Organised Crime Agency is a policing agency in the United Kingdom that acts (obviously) against organized crime. It wasn’t formed until 2006, but considering I’m American and am not entirely familiar with the UK’s policies/departments dealing with this (and am an American teenager, sentencing me to inherent laziness), I’m just going to go with what I can find most information on—and at this point, it’s the SOCA. To anyone from the UK (or who is a stickler for accurracy), my apologies for this slight anachronism!

~*~

Chapter 3 – Dirty Business

December 24, 2001
Aurelius Estate
Devon, England

“It appears to me, Jenny,” Darla hissed, “that we have had a misunderstanding regarding exactly what we expect from you in this household.” When the dark-haired woman, conspicuously clothed in her maid attire, did not lower her gaze, the blonde went on. “When I say I would like you to do the cleaning in my chambers, it does not mean I am giving you permission to look through my valuables. Especially,” she took a step forward, moving herself less than a foot away from the stoic woman, “those that are related to my business records. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jenny answered once she found her voice. Throughout the entire monologue, her state of panic had increased exponentially until she could barely stand, let alone speak—still, there had been nothing in Darla’s speech that suggested that the Family could know anything of her own undercover status—but Jenny was already developing plans to escape from this volatile situation as soon as possible. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

“Not tonight, Jenny,” Darla said dismissively, just as a knock sounded on the door. Taking that as her cue to leave, the brunette opened the door to face none other than the Head of the Family herself, Elizabeth Nest; not daring to draw any more attention to herself than necessary, she quickly moved out of Elizabeth’s way and began to walk towards her room, the whole time inconspicuously typing her emergency extraction code into the small communications device she wore.

Stepping through a doorway into an unlit hall, her heartrate began to regulate and her breathing returned to normal. To some, after being caught snooping through the personal effects of none other than Darla Angelus Nest, one would not dream of letting their guard down, but to Jenny, there was nothing in her mistress’ attitude that revealed that she had compromised her identity. Still, any further attempts at obtaining information would be difficult, if not impossible—so her role as a mole was essentially over.

Her room was around the corner, and Jenny was just beginning to let herself think of the man she had shut out of her mind for nearly a year—when three hulking forms stepped out of the shadows and blocked her path to safety.

In that instant, Jenny realized that they knew. They knew who she was, what she had done, and what she had told; Darla’s supposed ignorance was merely a malicious game. “Ever been to London?” one of them cruelly remarked, grinning as the two others easily grabbed the woman, restraining her and halting her futile attempts to escape. “You will soon,” he laughed, gagging her and shoving a black bag over her head. “We’ve got a message to deliver to a Mr. Rupert Giles.”

~*~

December 28, 2001
SOCA Office
London, England

“I won’t bloody well stand here and let them get away!”

“But if you strike now, Rupert, you won’t be able to take all of ‘em down. Especially the ones that are really responsible for what happened!”

The older man in the room stood up with a glare, before stalking over to the filing cabinet against the wall and pulling out a sheaf of papers. Throwing them down on the desk dramatically, images were revealed of a dark-haired, slender woman sprawled out grotesquely on a bed; both the blood from her wounds and the delicately scattered rose petals across her naked body gave the scene an appearance of sharp relief—it looked both dreamlike and real, and altogether gruesome. “This is a murder,” Rupert Giles said slowly and carefully, as the younger man’s face softened into an expression of understanding. “This isn’t just—”

“—something that happened,” William finished for him, taking a step forward and placing a hand on his now-sagging shoulders. “Rupes—”

“No!” Giles said sharply, cutting William off. “I refuse to allow you to try persuading me to let these animals get away with this!”

“I’m not saying that at all!” William roared, finally matching Giles’ level of emotions—and letting himself truly feel the pain from kindly Jenny’s fate. “Just listen to me for one bloody minute before you tell me to sod off.” At his words, Giles clenched his jaw and leaned back against the metal desk, clearly waiting for his friend to speak.

“Thank you,” said William. “I have a plan. We call off any official investigation into Jenny’s murder—”

“Bollocks!”

“—because this is the first public pressure they’ve had since ol’ H.J. kicked it. We don’t know how the Juniors are gonna handle it, and frankly, I don’t want to wait and see whether they skip town and come back in a few decades.” William could see that his words were affecting Giles as he’d hoped, and he internally let out a sigh of relief. Even through the most painful experience of his life, Rupert was still one of the most rational men he knew. “If they still leave, which sources have been telling us at least one of the kids has been planning for some time, then we’ll still be able to keep track of their dealings.”

“And just how are we going to manage that?” Rupert asked impatiently, crossing his arms across his chest.

William sighed then, fully steeling himself for what he was about to do. “We send in a mole,” he explained. “If there’s no official investigation, they won’t be looking as carefully—and considering what happened to Jenny…” He swallowed down the lump in his throat before continuing. “Well… I don’t think they’ll expect that we send another in so soon.”

At this, Giles removed his glasses and furiously began to clean the lenses, trying to ignore the water spilling from his tightly-squinted eyes. “Do you already have someone in mind?”

This was the part that William had been dreading since he’d heard the news of his friend and colleague’s brutal murder—but what he knew he had to do. “Me,” he said simply, looking straight into Giles’ eyes and readying himself for what was to come.

~*~

June 3, 1980
Aurelius Estate
London, England

“Father.”

Joseph Nest looked up from his papers upon hearing his visitor’s greeting, letting a sneer once ascertaining who it was. “Why hello, Henry,” said the elder man as he stood. “Just what may I do for my son?” His words were accommodating, but both men could feel the rift stretching further between them.

“Father,” Henry said again, bravely taking a step forward and into the darkened recesses of the room. “I came to speak to you… about Joyce.”

“How is the American trollop?” Joseph smirked when a grimace of rage flashed across his son’s face.

Henry tried to calm himself, but there was something within him—something deep, primal—that would not let his father keep that smug look of satisfaction upon his face. He had dealt with his father’s emasculation and disrespect his entire life, and it was only the strength that Joyce provided—and the knowledge that at this point he was ensuring the future safety of their child—which kept him from roaring with rage. Instead, with a steely cold voice Henry proclaimed, “You are never to speak of her in that matter again.”

A look of surprise flashed across Joseph’s face—clearly, he had not expected resistance from anyone, let alone his usually compliant and obedient son. “Well, well, well,” Joseph said as he quirked an eyebrow. “It appears that you’ve finally grown a spine. I know not whether to thank Ms. Summers for this development, or seek to remedy its cause.”

“You will do neither,” Henry replied, unfazed by his father’s obvious threat. “We are cutting ties to the Aurelius Family for good. Joyce is… We are going to have a child.”

This time, Joseph could not easily mask his shock and anger. He took a few furious steps from behind his desk and moved straight towards his son, seething with barely-contained rage. “You fool!” he hissed, narrowing his eyes threateningly. “Do you have any idea what you will do to our family if you—”

“I don’t give a damn what happens to this… family!” Henry spat, taking a step forward himself. “Joyce and I are leaving and there’s nothing you can—”

“Oh, don’t you dare presume that I will not use the full extent of my powers to prevent you from making this grave error, Henry,” said Joseph, coldly precise with every syllable he spoke. The words hit his son like a burst of frigid air, goosebumps erupting over his entire body as his eyes widened fearfully.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, not believing the words even as he spoke them.

Joseph let out a harsh chuckle and moved towards his desk, confident that he had won. “I most certainly would,” he smirked, comfortably settling himself down in his leather chair. “In fact, you have convinced me of your… noble dedication to this young woman. Please, feel free to see yourself out. You are of course welcome to leave this family if you so wish, Henry. I will do nothing to prevent you from doing as you desire.”

“You can’t hurt her,” Henry stammered, shivering despite the warm spring breeze drifting through the open window. “Father, please, promise me you won’t hurt her!”

“That, my son, is entirely up to you,” Joseph replied smoothly, a cool smile gracing his features. “If you wish for the survival of your lover and child, then I would strongly advise you to stay in the Aurelius Family. However, if you truly want to leave—”

“You bastard,” Henry murmured. His vision blurred and he could no longer hear the oiled tone of his father’s voice. All he could see was the image of Joyce, gunned down brutally in her cozy London flat, blood splattered over the carefully collected artwork on the walls, an expression of shock and horror on her beautiful face. Almost robotically, he reached into the pocket of his coat and grasped the smooth steel of his pistol; he never saw the look of betrayal flash over his father’s face as he leveled the barrel with his chest and pulled the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

Until the weapon clicked blankly in the sharp silence of the room.

~*~

A/N: So, what did you all think? I was in a particularly good mood today (yay first day of college!!!!!!!!!!), so I decided to post a little early. :) So look for this fic next Tuesday or sooner for an update! And I really appreciate all the reviews I’ve gotten. I know the events are all really independent and confusing right now, but I have all these occurrences tied together—and I promise, it won’t be too long before you can get a better idea. :) And feedback makes me happy!!!

Chapter 4 – Same Problem

December 28, 2001
SOCA Office
London, England

“Are you completely mad?”

“This is the only way, Rupert!”

“William,” Giles carefully said, as he removed his glasses automatically. “I do insist that you think this through before you make any rash—”

“This is the only way, Giles,” interrupted William. “You know better than I do that I have an advantage—”

“Are you referring to your mother?” Giles asked placidly. “Oh, right, the sister of Darla Nest herself—who knows you have become a police officer! William, Drusilla is not going to believe that you are no longer working for us!”

“Rupert,” implored William pleadingly, “they know enough about me to assume—and rightly so—that it’d be tough for me to accept this sort of life. We both know my record, and honestly, Rupes, would anyone be shocked if I were to leave this bloody 9 to5 nightmare and return to my rightful place in the Aurelius Family?”

Giles turned his head sharply to the side, gulping and grimacing as he forced himself to acknowledge the truth. No other agent could possibly hope to infiltrate the highly exclusive family in the way that a born member could. William was essentially their last tie to their more serious criminal affairs, barring the possibility of an Aurelius voluntarily confessing. “There are quite a few disciplinary actions in your record.”

“That’s true!” William agreed. “And who’s to say that the next time I lose my temper, you get fed up with my ‘incessant sedition’—”

“—and I get rid of you for good?” Giles considered the idea for a moment, then threw his hands into the air exasperatedly. “Oh, this plan is shit!”

“No it isn’t.” William shook his head vehemently, grabbing Giles by the shoulders and forcing him to look into his dark, intense eyes. “Rupert, you know they will believe it. I never cut ties with my family, and I know they’ve assumed the past six years that I’m doing nothing more than playing at being a police officer.” A dark pain began to twist itself among William’s insides, but he was unfazed. “Why would the police send me in undercover? The beauty of it is just how obvious it is! If I get sacked, and then do some jail time—”

“By God, William, you would really have to be convicted of a crime! I’m not entirely sure the Head Office would approve of this—”

“It doesn’t matter,” the younger man protested, lowering his eyes as he whispered, “as long as we can bring those bastards down. I’ll go in unofficially if necessary, as an informant even. For Jenny.”

“For Jenny,” Giles echoed resignedly, pulling William into an uncharacteristically fierce hug, hoping that he would not lose both of the most important people in his life.

~*~

December 24, 2001
Aurelius Estate
Devon, England

“An investigation?” Buffy repeated numbly. “What kind of an investigation?”

“Well, well, well,” Darla smiled, “I was under the impression, Elizabeth, that you did not wish to concern yourself with our affairs.”

“Don’t you even start, Darla,” Buffy snapped, shooting the older woman a look that clearly showed her dislike of her manipulations. “If this prevents my plans to leave—”

“On the contrary!” Liam interrupted good-naturedly, smiling wickedly at his sister. “In no way will this investigation prevent you from returning to the United States. In fact, your departure is scheduled most conveniently!”

“How’s that?” asked Buffy suspiciously. There was something definitely wrong with this situation, it didn’t take a genius to see that—and with both mother and son Nests sinisterly smiling at her, it was no wonder why she felt so unnerved. In that second, the young woman realized just what that heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach was—foreboding; she’d been waiting for this moment for five years, ever since she and her mother had first come to this country to quell the last wishes of her dying father. That single instant when she and Henry Nest had locked eyes, Buffy knew she would never escape from the horrors of the Aurelius Family. “Well?” the blonde demanded impatiently of her brother. “Tell me!”

“Our family has come to a sort of… turning point,” began Liam. “For generations we have resided at this very estate, and it has become the head of operations throughout the entire United Kingdom. No one can say we have not been successful,” —he smirked arrogantly— “but our grandfather, Joseph Nest, had ambitions of his own. Ambitions that our father was unable to fulfill. I, therefore, am dedicated to bringing their dreams to reality.”

Resisting the urge to yell ‘just get out with it,’ Buffy took a few calming breaths. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You, my dear sister, have something that an Aurelius has never possessed—American citizenship.” Liam scoffed in a way that made it apparent he did not personally view that as remarkable. “And the United States is currently a country with a great deal of power, making it an ideal place to begin the next stage of business. International expansion.”

Buffy let out a gasp at the words, to Darla’s great amusement. “Surely this is not coming as a surprise to you, Elizabeth?”

“It’s Buffy!” she spat angrily, leaping to her feet in rage. “And I refuse to be an accomplice to your—”

“You have no choice,” said Liam, entirely nonplussed by his sister’s apparent distress. “You will not be able to survive without the family’s support.”

“Yes, I will!”

“You know what we say to be truth,” Darla continued, caring not in the least about the state of her stepdaughter’s sensibilities but fully dedicated to convincing Buffy of her weakness. “Not only are you vulnerable to police inquiry, which in all likelihood will happen merely because of your relation,” —she spat out the word— “to my late husband, but enemies of our family will want to take you out. They’ll care nothing about whether you were ever actively a member, or simply born into this life, but they will see you alone and without our support, and they will strike.”

Buffy had no choice but to accept the older woman’s words as truth. There was no returning to normal for her—if she could ever say she had once known that blissfully ignorant lifestyle. No, she would not be able to survive without the Aurelius’ help; and even though it was slowly destroying the person she once was, Buffy knew that she was not weak enough to accept her days as numbered. She would survive.

“Darla,” she began, “Liam. Fine.” A lump tried to form in her throat, but she swallowed bravely and continued. “I’ll do it.” Mother and son toasted cheerfully, but the glass of wine that found itself into Buffy’s hand felt heavy and oppressive. She needed their protection—that much was sure—but Buffy would not give in to the temptation of accepting the Aurelius lifestyle. There was something more for her—she would escape from this prison, even if it meant becoming an entirely different person to do so.

The clock chimed twelve, just as the falling snow began to collect along with window pane.

~*~

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Please don't kill me. :( Been so very busy at UCLA, having an AMAZING time here. :) Please tell me what you're thinking!