“So, did she call yet?” Buffy barged through the door, grocery bags in hand. She hoped that this would all be over sooner than later--they were running out of money. Did England even have soup kitchens?

Spike’s head peered around the television for a moment before disappearing again. “Yeah. She and Travers, along with a few other Council members--an’ I’m guessing they aren’t members of Stewie’s entourage--will be here later on.” Message delivered, he returned his attention to his football match.

The young woman looked around at their digs and shrieked. “Did they say what time?!” The place looked like a disaster zone: the bed was unmade--really, really unmade, as in ‘mattresses hanging off the side’ unmade; there were clothes lying around; dishes on the coffee table.

“No... Argh! That wasn’t an offside! Get your bloody eyes... hey!” Spike sat up straight the second that the TV went black. “What’s this all about, then?”

Buffy’s eyes were narrow slits. Here she was, cleaning up the mess, and Spike was watching soccer. Typical guy... “What this is all about, then, is that we’re going to have people over here, at some unknown time because someone doesn’t know how to ask questions, and the place is a ‘bloody’ mess!!” She threw an armful of his t-shirts at him, catching him right in the face. “Now pick up your clothing, get it out of sight, and put the dirty dishes in the sink.”

Spike knew when to argue, and when not to. This was definitely the latter. So, grumbling, he gathered the clothing and went off to complete his assigned tasks. He mumbled under his breath, “used to be the bloody scourge of Europe, I’m William the Bloody, for Christ’s sake, fuckin’ stuck here cleaning a hotel room for the Council of Watchers...”

The Slayer rolled her eyes and let him kvetch all he wanted. There was no way she was having Council members--or anyone, for that matter--over in this mess. If there was one thing that Joyce Summers had instilled in her daughter, it was that one’s house (or hotel room, in this case) was an extension of one’s self. While Travers and Amelia were already sold on Buffy and Spike’s capabilities in this assignment, she needed to convince the others that weren’t relying on a spoiled brat and an undead slob.

And a clean apartment--with the cheese, crackers and appetizer fixins she’d picked up, just in case--would help project that image.

***

This watcher business was not new to Sylvia Washburn. She was a fifth generation watcher, third generation board member. Vampires, demons, Slayers--she had it all down pat. But, as she sat in a living room at the Sheffield Arms, she couldn’t help but feel that her whole world had fallen over on its ear.

The Slayer’s accusations against Stewart were grave. His own seniority and standing in the Council were even higher than Sylvia‘s; to boldly suggest that he was in league with darker powers was a serious insinuation. But she had given her word to Quentin and the others that she would remain open-minded until every detail was aired.

And, watching the scene in the kitchen through its reflection in the window, she had to be nothing but open-minded. Leaning over to pick up a carrot stick off of a tray, her eyes were glued on the Slayer and her vampire. There was no doubt that they were intimate: William gently laid his hand on Miss Summer’s lower back every time he needed to squeeze by in the tight quarters where they were working; when they weren’t quietly talking one blonde always had their eyes on the other; and then, of course, there was the moment when the vampire pressed the young woman up against the refrigerator, hands roaming and lips against her neck. If the notion of anyone being touched by a vampire didn’t revolt her so much, Sylvia might just have found herself flushed by what she’d witnessed.

So much passion, so much... love?

Shaking her head, the older woman snapped out of the voyeuristic trance. Her eyes darted to Quentin’s and, judging by the look he gave her, his mind was reeling with similar conclusions.

***

Buffy stared at the tray of cheese. She’d opted for Stilton, Gloucester and--her safe favourite--marble. Others could have all the stinky cheese they wanted; as far as she was convinced, whatever was left was heading for the garbage before she went to bed. “Do you think I put enough? I mean, I don’t want to put too much and make them think I’m trying too hard, but I want to put enough so I don’t look like I’m cheap or anything...”

She bit her lip and turned to the vampire, who was busy plopping pate onto the other tray. “Hey! Be careful with those--put them nicely.” She began to rearrange them, but her hand was smacked.

He was going to either kill something or throw himself out the window. Ever since she’d returned from the grocer’s, Buffy had been like a woman with a mission. The Hellmouth’s own twisted version of Martha Stewart. “Slayer, if you start fiddlin’ with anything else, I’m going to lose it. The trays are stocked just enough, and are pretty enough for the bloody Council. By the look on their faces when they walked in, they’re already more than impressed with you. So for the love of Christ, let’s get on with the talking so we can get some quiet time. All these watchers are making my nerves sing.” Grabbing a tray, he nodded towards the living room. “Now come on, and quit stalling.”

She didn’t know how he did it, but the bleached vampire always saw through her. And right now was no different, even with a roomful of watchers present. Sighing, she tossed a bunch of toothpicks on the cheese tray and picked it up. It was finally time to find out the Council’s position, and what she stood to gain from them.

Although she hadn’t expected so many Council members to show up at the hotel room, Buffy feared that these nine people were the only ones who hadn’t yet fallen to Stewie’s (great, now she was even thinking like Spike) ruse. While the cheese tray made its first round, she decided to break the ice. Fighting back the urge to start with ‘Hi, my name is Buffy and I have a thing for vampires’, she cut straight to the issue at hand.

“Ok. Someone’s going to tell me that we have a kick ass plan, that we have access to unlimited resources, and that you guys are the few elected by all the others in our corner to come to this meeting.” When all she got was a couple of blank stares, some sheepish half-smiles and even more averted gazes she started over. “Didn’t think that was gonna work.” Turning to the Council head, she asked him to put them all on the same page.

Quentin Travers ran his hand through his short greying hair. The time for posturing had passed and he didn’t even try to keep up any sense of decorum. “I’m afraid, Miss Summers, that those you see present are the only members whom I trust enough to be invited to this assembly. Stewart has been very busy poisoning the minds of Council members with seeds of dissention. A veritable Wormtongue, he’s become.”

Buffy turned to Spike, who snickered at the older man’s allusion. Giving him a ’well, out with it’ stare, she silently asked him to share.

“It’s Tolkien, pet. Too long a story for this shindig. I‘ll tell you about it later”

Travers bit back a compliment. There was no way he was going to give the master vampire the satisfaction of knowing he was impressed. “In consequence, you can imagine that our resources are rather... scant. To tell you the truth, we haven’t come up with a viable plan in regards to the prophecy.”

The Slayer immediately began to pace the limited floor space. Back and forth she walked, arms crossed over her chest, lips pursed. Finally she stopped and faced her guests. “Well, we’ll just have to start at the beginning, then, won’t we?” She turned to Spike. “Could you grab a pen and a notepad or something? Your handwriting’s way better than mine...”

The vampire shrugged and got up, rummaging through the kitchen counters for something on which to jot down notes. He ignored the Council members’ stares--so he did as Buffy bade, no questions asked. It was no use arguing with her when she was in Slayer mode; anyway, of what use would it be to bicker? They were up shit creek without a paddle--no use trying to rock the boat on top of it.

When Spike was back in his seat--well, the floor, actually, seeing as all the seats were already taken by watchers--Buffy began. “We need to take note of all the resources we have. How many people, weapons, books... anything we can think of. It’s no use trying to come up with a workable plan if we don’t know what lies at our fingertips.”

***

The next two hours passed by quickly, as everyone gathered in the room put their heads together, trying to come up with a list of anything that would help them with their mission.

Buffy groaned. “Are you sure you can’t provide us with even ten guys that can help us fight the Pelorak? I mean, Spike and I are strong, but there’s no way that we can fight so many of them--never mind Blakeford on top of that.”

As Travers went into his third explanation of why the Council of Watchers didn’t keep an army of fighters on reserve, Spike noticed that Amelia seemed to want to speak up. She’d opened her mouth a few times, but had remained silent. Locking gazes with her, he interrupted the older man’s nattering. “Seems like someone’s got something to say.” Nodding towards the other woman, he raised his scarred eyebrow as an invitation to speak.

Amelia cleared her throat. All eyes were on her, and she didn’t quite know how she felt about that. She was frank with Travers, but she’d never been given the opportunity to join in with so many higher Council members. “I may have an idea, but I’m not sure how it’s going to be received.”

“Hey, right now anything’s better than the nada we’ve got.” Buffy was eager to hear a fresh idea after having the same crap rehashed over the past couple of hours.

Ok, here goes... “Well, Council may not have the resources to join Buffy and William on the battlefield, but we do have the resources to help them help themselves.” She’d expected the blank stares, so she went on with her oft-practiced explanation. “If we are able to increase their ability to cope with Evan and his army, it will be as if they actually have backup. Why can’t we get Ruth to teach Buffy a few spells--basic protection and self-healing spells can be taught to a beginner.”

Spike remained silent among the tumult that ensued. Aside from the Slayer, whose eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of magic, most present nixed the idea. “No Slayer has ever dabbled in magic”, “That’s a preposterous suggestion”, “How are basic spells supposed to help against Evan”... Strangely enough, though, Travers had also remained silent. The vampire watched him carefully, the older man’s eyes closed, lips pursed, index finger and thumb pressed against his forehead.

The sound of his voice, quiet as it was, brought silence to the room. “While unorthodox, Amelia’s suggestion is the most workable of the ones that have been brought up this evening. Miss Summers has the same potential for magic as any novice, due to the mystical nature of her powers. I agree that it wouldn’t be my first choice as a plan, but we are working with a very time-sensitive mission. Two days from now, Buffy will meet with Ruth at an assigned location for her first lesson.” Sternly, he interrupted the beginnings of more protests. “There will be no arguing. A decision has been made.”

A voice broke the silence that ensued. “And what about me? How the hell am I supposed to deal with a bloody army of Pelorak? Click my heels together three times and wish myself back to the hotel?!”

If his countenance hadn’t been grim before, by now Travers looked downright ashen. “You leave that detail up to me, William. When the time comes, your challenge will have been vastly altered.” He left it to that, and was glad the vampire didn’t question him.

At that, the Council members began to prepare to leave. Most were unsettled with the decisions that had been made, but resigned to trust their faith in the Head of Council. He had led them through some serious situations and was yet to let them down.

***

The door closed after the last departing guest, and Buffy quickly snapped the deadbolt into place. She turned to survey the room, let herself fall back against the door with a thud and groaned at the mess. “Ugh... I’m never going to bed.” Walking around the room, she began to gather up half-empty trays.

“Pet, just throw them into the fridge. You can worry about them later.” Spike followed her, gathering glasses and used napkins. Council members may be rich, but they certainly didn’t clean up after themselves. “Right now, you need sleep. That training’s going to wear you out--magic required immense concentration and if you don’t have at least one day to rest, you won’t be able to keep up.”

Closing the refrigerator door, the young woman sighed. “You’re right. All I need right now is a fluffy pillow, nice warm blankets and a special someone to snuggle up against.” She made her way to the bedroom as the vampire turned the lights off, imagining Willow’s jealousy at her official training. This was going to be so much fun...

***

Seated in his conservative black Mercedes sedan, Quentin Travers stared at his cell phone. He’d dialled the number--he still remembered it, after all these years--but was yet to press ‘send’. Sighing, he finally pressed it, knowing he had no other choice. Buffy and William depended on it; the baby depended on it; the world depended on it.

Three rings and someone finally picked up the line. “’Ello?”

*Sigh* He would have preferred to never hear that voice ever again. “It’s me.”

The other man seemed delighted, but in a self-important way. Voice teeming with false propriety, he chuckled. “Well, well. Never thought I’d ever hear from you again. And how are you doing, dear old Quentin?”

Travers ignored the taunt. “I need a... favour.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “There’s something that that I need you to do, and don’t bloody well ask me any questions. You know I wouldn’t contact you if it wasn’t of dire importance.”

There was a pause at this, as if the other held back a snide remark or two. All false pretence aside, his voice was now as cold as the Council Head’s. “Fine. I said I owed you one and, as much as you’d love to disagree, I’m a man of my word. What is it you need?”

Travers explained his requirements in fine detail to the man, glad that he’d allowed him to go straight to business. Sometimes, dealing with him was more than it was worth. “And it has to be done tonight.”

“Tonight?! Are you insane? How do you expect me to gather my resources on such short notice? Two, maybe three nights from now, but...”

“Two or three nights from now you’re going to be as knee deep in shit as the rest of the world, if this doesn’t get done tonight!” He didn’t lose his temper or swear often, but Quentin’s patience did have its limits. “Now, it gets done tonight. Do you understand?”

Resigned to agree--Lord knew what kind of apocalypse they were facing this time, the man let out a frustrated breath. “Yes. I understand. It will be done tonight, as you have ‘requested’. But that’s the last favour you’ll ask of me, big brother.”

The line went dead and Travers let his head fall onto the steering wheel, both relieved and nervous. This had to work, or they stood no chances at winning.

Author's Note: Well, here you have it. The last chapter I have in reserve. I'd love to be able to say that the next chapter's almost done and that I can post it on Monday, but I don't lie to good readers :) There are a few details I need to iron out re: magic, and I need to get many of my thoughts organized in regards to what's going to happen with Evan. My most difficult writing is yet to be undertaken. So please be patient--I'll do my best! And thanks, as always, for the lovely reviews.

And--cause I almost forgot this...--thanks to Passionfish for DP's honourable mention at Morbid Desires!! She's running a great site--go check it out! www.morbiddesires.com