Author: Sandra Pascoe

Pairing: None - there’s a turn-up!

Rating: FRT

Disclaimer: Giles doesn’t belong to me…I’m only borrowing him. Can I keep him...please?

Spoilers: I don’t think there are any …

Setting: When Giles returns to England in S6

Notes: The Museum of Ancient Antiquities doesn’t exist - I just sort of slotted it into Bath. Thoughts are in Italics. Oh and the Latin quote will be translated at the end.

Dedication/Thanks: This fic is for Pam for introducing me to the joys and delights of Ice Hockey (Go St Louis Blues!)… and also for any other B5 fans out there.

Giles sighed and sat back, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at his watch, his eyes widening with surprise. Is it that time, already? Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Tired, Rupert?" Henry’s voice was tinged with concern and Giles smiled slightly.

"I forgot the time," he explained and Henry nodded.

"Happens to the best of us. By the way, thought I’d tell you before I left … I remembered the name of that object of Alistair’s."

"Oh?"

"The Romans called it ‘Vulcan’s Bane’ and if I remember right, Alistair mentioned something about it being in bits."

"Well," shrugged Giles, "I must admit it doesn’t ring a bell."

"I didn’t think it would," replied Henry. "Ah well … excitement over for one day. I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Yes … goodnight Henry."

"Goodnight Rupert."

Giles chewed his pen thoughtfully as Henry left his office. Vulcan’s Bane, he thought, Vulcan’s Bane. Time for me to go home and hit the books.

DS Roberts put down the phone and cursed loudly. It had seemed such a nice juicy murder … something to get his teeth into … something that could have meant promotion. Bloody Doctors.

"Guv?" Andrew Brenton hovered at the door, nervously clutching a file. "I’ve spoken to the police in Sunnydale and they say…"

"Forget it," interrupted Roberts irritably. "It seems there are ‘no suspicious circumstances’ and these two just happened to die of brain aneurysms … at the same time."

"But…"

"No buts. We’ve been ordered to close the investigation." Roberts looked around the large office the Curator had given them. "So pack up the gear and get back to the Station."

Roberts stood up, put on his jacket and walked out through the Museum. He glanced with distaste at the various display cases and shuddered. Bloody Museums … full of dead things and dead people … I HATE bloody Museums.

Gerald Montague tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair irritably. He should be here by now, he thought, I don’t exactly live in the middle of nowhere. He picked up his cup and sipped his tea, smiling grimly as a knock sounded on the front door.

"About bloody time," he muttered, putting the cup down and standing up slowly. Damn these old bones, he thought, I hope Vulcan’s Bane will rejuvenate as well as bestow immortality. He opened the door and ushered the young, dark suited man inside.

"How are you, Alan?" He smiled and gestured to the younger man to go into the lounge.

"Fine," replied Alan Gough as he moved ahead of Gerald. "Sorry I’m late … had a bit of trouble finding the place."

"Oh, quite alright, dear boy … please sit down. Would you like some tea?"

"Uh … no thanks," Alan quickly took a seat, keeping a tight hold of his briefcase.

"Now," said Gerald, "did you bring the information I requested?"

"Um … yes sir … I did," replied Alan nervously. "If I may say … this is a most unusual request … far outside the normal procedures…"

"Yes, yes, yes," snapped Gerald, "and you are being well paid for this."

"Yes … but the unusual nature of the request forces me to … insist upon an additional payment…" Alan trailed off as he noticed the dark look on Gerald’s face. He swallowed nervously; convinced he’d pushed things too far.

"I see," replied Gerald evenly, "and precisely how much more do you want?"

"Another thousand."

"Wait here," said Gerald as he left the lounge, closing the door behind him. So, he thought, the young man is getting greedy. Such a shame … I had further use for him. Ah well, never mind. Gerald walked steadily along the corridor, unlocking a door at the end. He entered the small, dark room, turning on the light and locking the door behind him. The large, fireproof safe stood against the far wall, the dominant feature in the sparsely decorated room. Its very solidity made a statement, as though it were daring anyone to try and break into it. Gerald dropped to one knee in front of the safe, very aware of the ironic and religious overtones of his current position. A wry smile crossed his face as he carefully unlocked and opened the safe door. He pulled out two sealed bundles of banknotes and then quickly locked the safe as though afraid the contents would leap out and make a break for freedom. He stood slowly, casually dropping the banknotes on the table and picking up the telephone.

"Right, Mr Gough," he muttered, "time for you to learn a lesson."

Gerald dialled a number, waiting patiently whilst he was connected and then speaking one sentence into the receiver.

"Alan Gough has outlived his usefulness."

Giles sipped his tea as he quickly skimmed through the volume before him. He was trying desperately to stop himself from getting distracted - an occupational hazard of the researcher. You start following one thread, he thought, and unless you’re careful you end up going off at a complete tangent as other things, other discoveries, take hold of you. So far Giles had stuck rigidly to his task, searching for references, no matter how obscure. The sheer number of books scattered over every available surface, including the floor, was a testament to his tenacity … not to mention his admittedly chaotic method of research. He sat back, closing the book in front of him with a sigh. Nothing, he thought, nothing apart from tantalising possibilities. He glanced at his notebook, smiling ruefully at the scribbled notes. Three hours research and what have I come up with? One reference to an old legend about Vulcan getting careless and letting something fall to Earth … and that’s it. Maybe I’m going about this all wrong … after all, if few people believe in its existence then perhaps I should search in the more theoretical volumes? Giles scanned the bookcases; his eyes drawn to the variety of what could be termed "hypothetical" authors. He stood up, picking his way carefully to the bookcase. He ran his fingers along the spines … smiling as he recalled the times he’d used these books as his last resort - his final hope. He glanced up, his eyes caught by a number of volumes sitting on a higher shelf. He carefully pulled a volume out and smiled as he caressed the cover.

"The Mythology of All Races," he read, "volume one."

A gift, he thought, the whole set … a gift from Ethan. He knew me TOO well … far better than I know myself. I wish … Giles frowned and returned the book to the bookcase … no … no time for wishing. Giles looked up as the sound of the letterbox clattering interrupted his thoughts. Probably another bloody free newspaper, he thought as he carefully made his way out of the lounge. The small white envelope lying on his mat was unmarked and unaddressed. Giles frowned as he picked it up and carefully opened it. Inside was a key … and a small piece of card with a name and address printed on it.

"Alistair Butler," he read, "4 Clairbourne Avenue, Bath."

He tapped the card thoughtfully against his chin. This doesn’t really seem Henry’s style, he thought, so if not Henry … then who? Travers? The Council? The job DID come along at precisely the right time. Giles shrugged and pocketed the card and the key. Well they can lead me to the right place … but they can’t control what I do when I get there. He grabbed his jacket and car keys and left without a backward glance.

I did it. I actually bloody did it. The grin on Alan Gough’s face gave the young man a slightly manic look and he gripped the steering wheel hard, trying desperately to stay within the speed limit and not floor the accelerator gleefully. The great Gerald Montague … what an asshole … this was as easy as snatching chocolate buttons from a child. Alan giggled, the euphoric feeling of the banknotes in his jacket pocket threatening to send him into a mental orbit. He pulled into his parking space and then sat for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. Hmmm … what shall I spend the money on? A holiday? Yes … I can take Diana with me … somewhere hot. His mind full of beaches and bikinis, Alan got out of the car, whistling happily as he trotted up the steps to his flat. He paused at the top, frowning as he noticed his front door standing a few inches ajar. Slowly reaching out, he pushed the door open and peered inside. His eyes widened and he cursed loudly.

"Fucking hell … some bastard’s robbed me…"

He stepped inside in a daze … looking around in disbelief at the total mess and chaos to which his flat had been reduced. He didn’t hear the dark suited man step up behind him; he didn’t see the gun being raised; he didn’t hear the soft sound of the silencer but he felt the brief flash of intense pain before he pitched forward. Alan didn’t feel the hand searching around and deftly extracting the money from his pocket; didn’t hear the soft chuckle or the rapidly retreating footsteps. Alan Gough had died before he hit the floor.

The sphere flashed briefly. Death. It surrounds you both … wraps you in its cold embrace. One of you accepts it, beckons it … the other does not. I have killed … with regret, I have had to. Why does it always happen this way? Why, upon my completion, do I hunger SO much? Knowledge completes me - upon activation I MUST consume information or all will be lost. Which of you regrets? Which of you wishes … wishes there could be another way?

The large house was set back slightly from the rest of the tree-lined avenue, the streetlights casting eerie shadows over its outer façade. Rather different to what I expected, thought Giles as he pulled up outside. He got out and walked purposefully towards the front door, fishing the key out of his pocket as he did so. The security light flicked on, bathing the doorway with light and Giles smiled slightly.

"Very thoughtful of you," he murmured, unlocking the door and stepping inside. He turned on the interior light and, for a brief second, Giles had the impression that he had mistakenly stepped into a hobbit hole: there was clutter everywhere … books cascaded off every available surface and a host of faces gazed down at him from photographs on the walls. And this is just the entrance hall, thought Giles with a sigh. Careful not to disturb anything, he walked to the lounge, flicked on the light and then audibly groaned. Giles narrowed his eyes as he gazed with resignation and more than a touch of annoyance at the computer sat on a desk in the corner of the room. Bloody thing is taunting me, he thought as he moved across and sat at the desk. Please … PLEASE … don’t tell me that Alistair Butler kept all his notes on that infernal contraption? He looked around the room, frowning slightly. And what is a life worth? To die … your life’s work unfinished and sneered at. Where is your family? Why are your friends not here? Who is there to carry on now? What will happen to all this? The books … the work … the LIFE? Is this my ultimate fate? No, he shook his head, it is not. At least I have the small comfort of knowing that my books, my work, will not lie forgotten, collecting dust in an old family house. One advantage of the Council, he mused, is that it will be taken care of. I may be alone but I will not be forgotten. Giles took a deep breath, bringing himself back to the present with a sigh. Let’s get on with this. He pulled open a couple of drawers, rifling quickly through the contents before shifting his attention to the folders arranged neatly on a shelf behind him. The first folder contained a series of notes and diagrams concerning the various archaeological digs that Alistair Butler had been a part of. Fascinating, thought Giles, as he skimmed through the contents, quite fascinating … but not what I’m here for. Carefully putting the folder aside, he opened another and began looking through the various papers inside. Now, this is more like it, he thought, sitting back in the chair.

"The Immortals," he read aloud, "having set Vulcan his task, retired and awaited completion of the Sphere. Vulcan toiled long and the flames of his forge burned bright until finally, the Sphere was in his hands … complete and serene. Whereupon, exhausted, Vulcan slept. The Sphere, now imbued with the spirit of the Immortals, fell to Earth and was lost in the hands of Mankind."

Gerald sat at the table and took a sheaf of papers out of the large brown envelope. He looked down at the photocopies and smiled. This is it, he thought, the sum total of the Council’s knowledge concerning Vulcan’s Bane. Poor fools. Centuries of existence … centuries of gathering information … and this is all you can come up with? Gerald sipped his tea, slowly reading through the various highlighted references. Again, nothing firm, nothing substantiated … merely legends and the odd oblique reference. Why? Why are there no actual first-hand accounts? Did those who came in contact with Vulcan’s Bane actually achieve immortality? Or were they deemed unworthy? Gerald glanced up irritably as the shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted his train of thought.

"Yes?" He snapped into the receiver, his mind still wrapped in contemplation.

"It is done." The single softly spoken sentence in reply caught his full attention and he smiled happily.

"Very good," Gerald tried to keep his voice even. "Did you obtain your initial payment?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. The remainder will be deposited into your account tomorrow." Gerald paused, his thoughts turning to Rupert Giles. "I may shortly have another job for you. Be ready."

Gerald put down the receiver and sipped his tea once more. I wonder how much Quentin has told you, Rupert? Not a great deal I suspect. In which case he has made a grave error. I am so far ahead of you, Rupert, that you are not even a speck in my wing mirrors. It is as well though to be ready … just in case your bumbling inefficiency should produce results. Gerald put his cup down and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. He started to flip through them and then stopped, his eyes widening in delight. Alistair Butler’s notes! Dear God, I don’t believe it! Quentin guards these jealously … bloody man even had his people watching Butler’s damn house. Mr Gough … I owe you an apology … I may have been a bit hasty.

Travers put the phone down with a sigh and looked up at Bernard’s questioning face.

"Rupert is now at Alistair Butler’s home," said Travers and Bernard grinned.

"Good … at least SOMETHING is going to plan."

"And something else isn’t," Travers said softly. "Alan Gough is dead."

"Alan Gough?"

"He works … worked … in Records. We thought he’d been passing information to Gerald … but nothing we could prove."

"And Gerald has had him killed?"

"I would say so. He’s probably outlived his usefulness. You know Gerald … he never clings onto dead wood." Travers leaned back in his chair. "The clean up operation is underway … and why do I get the feeling that there will be more deaths before this thing is resolved?"

"Well," Bernard shrugged, "death does seem to follow that object around. Every time there are rumours of its reappearance you can guarantee a number of odd deaths."

"Three so far," remarked Travers. "How many more, I wonder?"

"At least one," Bernard replied. "You’d better have clean up on standby."

Giles shifted uncomfortably in his chair and rubbed the back of his head. Fascinating though this is, I need a break. I wonder if I could make a cup of tea? Better not disturb things TOO much though. He stood up and stretched, dropping the small sheaf of papers on the table. Walking around the desk, he wandered slowly around the room, examining various objects and picking up the odd book. Hmmm … Mr Butler has a similar collection to my own, he thought. I wonder where he obtained them? Passed down through the family perhaps? Giles felt a sudden shiver as he gazed around the room. There but for the grace of God … this could have been me … this could so easily have been me. In fact, the parallels are there. He dedicated his life to finding Vulcan’s Bane … I dedicated mine to my Slayer … and the Council, of course. To the spirit of the Council anyway. I guess you could say that everyone has obsessions … the only difference between us is the lengths we will each go to in order to satisfy them. Giles sighed and sat at the desk once more. Back to work … I don’t fancy being here all night. He picked up the papers and started reading again, frowning as a thought meandered through his mind. The tone has changed, he mused, the tone of the writing is different. It’s more … excited. Alistair Butler has returned from Peru … and is writing with what seems to be barely suppressed delight. Of course! Giles leapt to his feet, scattering the papers as he did so. He found it … he found Vulcan’s Bane. Giles quickly ran from the house, barely having the presence of mind to lock the door behind him. His mind was filled with one thought and one thought alone: I have to get to the Museum …

Gerald sat silently, his eyes gleaming as he read through the papers before him. Mr Butler, he thought, you and your family took obsession to new heights. Although I DO understand the driving force behind it … I have felt it myself. Whereas you took the hard road - the road of research, of digging, of kneeling in the dirt - I took the easier road. I merely sat and waited for you to recover the pieces. Yes, I may have walked through the sewers … I may have killed … but we ARE similar, Mr Butler. I would do anything and I mean ANYTHING to get Vulcan’s Bane. There are no limits to my desire. Were there limits to yours? Was there ever a time when you thought ‘no, this is too much’? Judging by your notes, I don’t think there was. You bribed, cheated and bought your information. No price was too high, was it? Gerald turned the page, starting the final sheet. He read quickly, his eyes widening with delight. He found it … oh dear god … he found it. With a shaking hand, Gerald picked up the phone and pressed a single number.

"Bring my car around immediately."

He got to his feet and headed for the door, his mind echoing with one thought: I have to get to the Museum…

John Downing drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed loudly. I hate surveillance, he thought irritably; it’s so bloody boring. He glanced down at his half-eaten cheese sandwich and grimaced. I need something hot. God, I would kill for a double quarterpounder with cheese … large fries … coke … and a McFlurry to finish. Biting into the quarterpounder … that moist meat … the slightly dry bun …the cheese … the onion … must take those bloody pickles out first though. Who in their right mind likes those damn things? John’s eyes widened as he saw Rupert Giles dash from the house and fling himself into his car.

"Shit," muttered John as he started his car, "what’s crawled up HIS ass?"

John waited patiently with his car ticking over as Giles recklessly reversed out of the drive, barely missing a blue van, which swerved wildly, the driver yelling and gesticulating. John winced in empathy. Bloody idiot, he thought, nothing is THAT allfire important. He watched Giles pass him, waited for a couple of beats and then eased his car out into the sparse traffic. He soon found that he had to drive rather faster than he’d done for some considerable time in order to keep up with his quarry. Great, he thought, they’ve got me following a bloody lunatic. John spotted the large yellow ‘M’ looming in the distance and sighed moodily.

"Guess there’s no chance of him stopping at the drive-through."

James Hadley held the car door open, inclining his head slightly as Gerald brushed past him.

"Shall I wait up for you, sir?" James tried to keep his voice even and disinterested.

"I don’t care what you do," replied Gerald irritably as he slapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. "Come on, come on … get this bloody car moving, you damned idiot!"

"Where to, sir?" The chauffeur exchanged a quick glance with James and then gazed steadily forward once more.

"The Museum … and don’t take all bloody night!"

James shut the door and stepped back, watching expressionlessly as the car pulled out of the drive. He sighed and thrust his hands into his pockets, walking back inside the house. I’m not cut out to be a butler, he thought, this assignment had better be over soon. James glanced around and then went into the lounge, closing the door firmly behind him. He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and quickly thumbed a few buttons.

"Yes … could you put me through to Quentin Travers, please?"

They are close. Good. The Sphere pulsed and the air shimmered, small bursts of energy coalescing to form a man who stood unmoving in the centre of the room. He was a thin, almost gaunt figure, with piercing blue eyes. He looked down at himself and smiled, taking deep lungfuls of air. He held his hands up in front of his face, wiggled his fingers and then clenched his fists.

"I had forgotten what it was like," he murmured, glancing towards the Sphere. "Despite everything, I can never quite understand why you want to give all this up."

The Sphere was silent and still, no light emanating from it and the man shrugged.

"I didn’t actually expect an answer. So what name shall I use THIS time?"

The Sphere pulsed and the man smiled.

"Julian … yes. That is … familiar enough." Julian walked over to the table and picked up the Sphere. He glanced around then opened a drawer, carefully placing the Sphere inside and gazing down at it. He reached down and briefly ran a finger over the odd jewels dotted around the metallic surface.

"You said there are two this time. Am I to be guided by you … or shall I use my own judgement?"

The Sphere pulsed and Julian sighed.

"It really doesn’t matter to you, does it? Who I was … what I did … what I achieved before you." Julian shook his head and closed the drawer. He wandered slowly around the room, examining various objects before picking up a book and flicking through it. He stopped and gazed at a photograph of a statue. And what does history say about me? Am I considered an innovator? A man before my time? Or am I considered a tyrant? He read the accompanying caption and shrugged slightly. Why am I not surprised?

Giles slammed on the brakes, bringing the car screeching to a halt outside the Museum. Without a backward glance, he leapt out and ran inside. It never occurred to him that the security system had been deactivated … that the cameras were off … he simply continued running … knowing exactly where he had to go. Nothing else mattered … nothing else existed. He slowed suddenly, pushing open a door and stepping inside a large, dimly lit room. Giles stood perfectly still, unblinking, his breathing shallow and even. His eyes were glazed and unfocussed … the heavy grey fog in his mind completely impenetrable. The voice told him to wait … so he waited.

Julian walked up to Giles and casually waved a hand in front of his face.

"So, which one is this?" He said aloud, his head on one side as though listening for something. He nodded and then continued, "he has weaknesses … but he also has strength. What of the other?"

Julian paused again and then shrugged. "So we wait."

John Downing slowed up, shaking his head as he watched Giles dash into the Museum. I knew it, he thought, a bloody loon. He parked along the side of the road, opposite the front entrance of the Museum. He rummaged around through the empty wrappers and old papers on the passenger seat, finally extracting a grubby looking mobile phone. He started to dial and then stopped, his attention caught by another car pulling up in front of the Museum. John watched intently as an elderly gentleman got out of the car and, after speaking briefly to the driver, moved quickly inside the large, imposing building. What’s this … a mother’s meeting? He shrugged and continued dialling, keeping one eye on the other car, which turned around and headed back the way it had come, soon disappearing from sight.

"Yes. He’s now at the Museum … yes … and so is Gerald Montague." John nodded. "He’s just gone inside. You want me to follow or wait here?" There was a lengthy pause before John smiled to himself. "Certainly, sir," he continued. "I’ll report as soon as anything happens."

John’s smile widened into a grin and he disconnected the call, tossing the phone casually onto the cluttered seat once more. He settled back into the seat, shifting around and trying to get comfortable, his mind turning to food again. Well, McDonald’s is out … I can’t justify popping back and risking missing something here. What else is there? Pizza, he thought triumphantly, I could get a pizza delivered. Now, he frowned and looked around, where the hell did I put my phone?