It was amazing how one’s life could slip steadily past one’s notice, changing in tiny little increments till one tripped over something that would have been impossible days earlier, months earlier. Then one tiny phrase, one tiny moment, and you realized that the tectonic plates of your life had rubbed off in a different direction, and that it didn’t bother you at all.

    Either that, Spike thought, or he needed better beer.

    In what felt like three centuries of watching the Hyperion Hotel, he had discovered that they basically didn’t have any damned fun at all, except for Cordelia, who had either had lots of fun, or very little, judging by the pram he’d seen her pushing about. Based on his brief glimpse of the little ankle biter, it didn’t appear that the young black guy on the premises was the father, but he just couldn’t picture the weedy-looking accountant-type guy as the proud papa either.

   Nor the green demon who periodically took up walking duties. And the mick was nowhere in evidence.

   There was another woman on the premises, although ‘woman’ appeared to be the wrong word; she looked barely older than Dawn, if taller, and possibly even thinner. She had something of Dawn’s gawkiness, too, but based on the fact that there seemed to be no sulky body language in evidence, he guessed that she was a bit older than the late teens.

    He didn’t see Angel once.

   He seriously wondered how he was going to do this.

   Plan? Why bother? It wasn’t as if he’d ever been able to stick with any of his plans any way, so why try? He was definitely better with inspiration, which was why he was still sitting grumpily in his car, glaring out the windows at the hotel, waiting for the muse.   At least that’s what he told himself. Inspiration, dammit. He needed an idea. That was all; he certainly wasn’t dreading what would definitely be, even with rampant lying on his part, the most uncomfortable conversation of his life, and that included most of the nail biters he’d had with Buffy.

   Except, no doubt, for the one awaiting him on his return. 

   He toyed with the idea of finding the safe and breaking into it, but tossed that idea aside.  Angel had money, he knew, but he didn’t exactly keep it in his mattress; he’d kept a fair amount of it in the form of small, portable things that were easy to carry.

   Or steal. 

   That was a good possibility, too, except damned if he’d know how to recognize something valuable unless it was gold and had a big huge price tag with numerous zeros slapped on it. He and his grandsire definitely didn’t share the same idea of value; Spike had always been the one to take a nice couple of well-bound volumes, aged and worn from generations of reading, but Angel had always gone for the shiny stuff, like a crow---at least when there was nobody around. With an audience, he always turned into Mr. Sensitive Literature.

   Besides, much as he dreaded the thought of Revealing All, part of him actually liked the thought, the build up, the anticipation.  It would definitely be a rush, squaring off after such a long drought. Dru had passed on some interesting tidbits by way of explaining those nasty burns on her face, but he rather suspected she hadn’t returned to Daddy after he’d set fire to her.

    Yet.

   And it wasn’t as if he himself were in much of a position to criticize.  His eye hardly hurt any more. Hardly at all.

    For a brief and rather disturbing moment, irritation flashed through him; at Dru, for being so attached to Angel no matter what; at Angel himself, for general principles, for somehow, despite all his torment, still displaying that wonderful knack he’d never lost, that of hurting other people even while he ever so picturesquely brooded over his own torment. And, well, lastly, at himself, for being irritated all over again, when it looked as if his irritation was accomplishing nothing more than keeping him here and away from Buffy.

    That last was the biggest step. He suspected they wouldn’t believe him if he blurted out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but in an odd way, they’d not have a problem believing Buffy would shag him almost blind. And they’d think the less of her for it.  Something told him that bringing that into the conversation would result in many vivid mental images of Buffy-boffing for the LA gang, when there was also the inevitable panicked dash to Sunnydale after he broke the news.

    He was thinking of finding the least-secure bank in LA to rob, when a black convertible pulled up to the front of the hotel, and… who was it? Oh, it was---could it be? Was it…..Angel?---Who got up and opened the passenger side door for Cordelia, who was carrying a car seat. Why yes, it was Angel.   How nice, how very bloody nice. Funny Angel had never displayed that solicitude toward Buffy, he fumed.  He knew her mother had died, he knew she’d died, and he’d never so much as sent a card or …..

  Him. Ahem. Hm again.  So the Brooding One was going to help Cordy with the kid?    Interesting. And opportune.

  He’d been sitting in the bloody car too long, that was it, that was all.  Too much time sitting here, thinking about Buffy, thinking about what he was doing.   Time to get out and wreak havoc, or at the very least see what was going on.   There was a payphone in front of the Hyperion, excuse enough to get out and stretch a bit.  He couldn’t stand sitting in the hot car anymore, alone with thoughts he’d rather not have, and a body that didn’t belong to him anymore. Somewhere along the way, it had switched sides, going over to the enemy, becoming more hers than his.   He got up and stretched like a dog, hearing bones and joints cracking as never before. Guess I’m not a hundred any more, he thought dryly. Time’s wasting.  He flipped throught the ripped-up Yellow Pages, and found the number for Angel Investigations.   Angel Investigations.  How cute.  Just the right note of the divine.   He fumbled for change, and then managed to dial the number, cursing Pac Bell for switching to ten-digit numbers. Always forgot some of the numbers by the time he got to the last four digits. Always. Bloody bastards.

     “Angel Investigations. We help the helpless. Can I help you?”  English voice, perhaps West London, he thought.

    “What sort of help is it that you provide?”

    “We do the sort of work most other investigators can’t.”

   “Such as?”

   “Sir, may I ask what the problem is?”

   “Uh.” Spike thought about it. “Vampires.”

   “What, in particular?”

   Well, I’m one, and I’m in love with the Slayer. But she doesn’t love me, or at least, she just won’t admit it. And it scares the crap out of her if we even get close to talking about the R word. See this eye? But see, she wouldn’t even have given me the time of day if she hadn’t died and her friends brought her back. The sex is amazing. We’ve done everything I can think of that doesn’t involve battery-operated devices and scary hillbillies. Got any Vampire Viagra?  He actually wanted to say it for a minute, then stopped himself.  “It’s rather difficult over the phone. How late do you schedule appointments?”

   “We could take you now, if you’re close by.”

   “I might be able to make that,” Spike said, as if he had other concerns draining away his free time. “Where are you located?”

    “It’s…..” He tuned out the rest of the conversation, wondering what in hell he was doing. Then he thought of Buffy, and he swallowed his impatience. There just had to be a way of doing this. There just had to be. “Thanks then. I’ll be right there.”

     He walked around the block a couple of times to kill time, then presented himself at the door of the hotel and knocked. As he’d expected, the door was answered by the guy he’d pegged as an accountant, who identified himself as Wesley Wyndham-Price, and who barely glanced at his eye before politely beckoning him across the lobby toward a small but tasteful office.   He settled himself behind a desk, leaned back in his seat, and crossed his hands on his mid section. Then he gave Spike a look that was jarring coming from behind those librarian glasses, and asked, “So what sort of problems does one vampire have with other vampires?” He glanced at Spike’s eye quickly, then, and rearranged the pens on his desk.

   “Wasn’t sure if I should mention that.” He realized that the fellow was looking at his eye and he glanced away himself so he wouldn’t have to pretend he didn’t see it.

   “We can’t help you unless you’re honest with us.”

   They studied each other across the desk, and it occurred to Spike that Wesley’s body language wasn’t that of a proper corporate minion. He’d had minions before, he should know. Hell, he’d briefly been one.  All of them had certain minion-like traits, off the job and on. A certain submissiveness, perhaps, which was why he’d not lasted long in the ranks; ironic, really, because as a human he’d practically been born with a “KICK ME!” sign already in place.  But this guy? He was the boss.

    He tried to look properly bewildered, instead of calculating, stalling till he came up with a good explanation. “What sort of stuff do you do?”

   Wesley sighed and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Protection. Extermination, in some cases. Exorcisms, astral projections.”

  “Love spells?” He asked slyly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr.—ah?” He glanced at Spike curiously, waiting for the name. Spike froze for an instant…..

  “Ah--”  Vampires didn’t have last names; they weren’t human; they didn’t hand out business cards.  He covered his hesitation by extending a hand for a shake, and after a moment, Wesley reached across the desk and took it, giving it a firm shake and dropping it after only one iteration. Hm, Spike thought.  Maybe the guy was more nervous than he looked; then again, maybe he just wasn’t used to shaking hands with vampires.

   “We just can’t afford to keep a witch on retainer for that, that, ah, type of thing.”   Spike could have sworn the guy blushed. “However, I can recommend you to certain—“

   “No, just checking.” He smirked. He didn’t believe in love spells---it certainly hadn’t worked with Dru---but it was amusing to see that Wesley might, if he was giving recommendations.

    “So, what sort of problem is it that brings you here to us? Might I ask how you found us?’

   “Word of mouth,” he said, then wondered what sort of problem he actually had. Yeah, I need lots and lots of money, because my girlfriend is going to wither away from over work, and her worthless friends ought to be helping her instead of pressuring her to make happy. “I’ve heard interesting things about Angel.”

   “Oh.” Now the human was shifting uneasily in his chair. “Really, may I ask what?”

   Oh, you know the usual gossip; that he snapped and went bad, but not in an Angelus kind of way, although he did set fire to Dru and Darla. Plus there’s definitely been some odd stuff floating around the past while about him and Darla, but I never could get a handle on that area. So you wanna confirm or deny? Enquiring minds want to know, especially if it gives me some ammunition.

   “So, this problem you have with other vampires is…?”

   “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “You did come to us for help.”

  “Who’s us, exactly? How did you choose the name of the company?”  Aha. Another uneasy shift.

   “Well, there’s myself, of course…”

   “How did you get into this, anyway?” Last time I was here, you weren’t around, Angel was large and in charge, there was that belligerent little leprechaun, and I didn’t have a chip in my head. And if Angel still has the Gem of Amarra, I’m in deep shit, he suddenly thought.

   “I’m a former Watcher.”

   Spike started to laugh, and turned it into a cough. Angel had a Watcher on the payroll!  At that, the former Watcher ---who was he kidding?  The Council of Watchers thought they were like the bloody Marines, once a Watcher, always a Watcher-----frowned and glanced at his watch. Then he looked at the vampire thoughtfully, and after a brief hesitation, continued. “Well, you know, aside from my experience as a Watcher, I have of course an extensive knowledge of ancient texts and languages, plus many years of training with weapons and tactics. All of the staff members have---“

   All of the staff members? There’d been a grand total of three the last time. Then at that thought he perked up. They were making a go of it. Got to be some money somewhere.  Then he thought: More obstacles to get around. “How many staff members?” He asked weakly.

   “Well, as I said, there’s myself; there’s Cordelia Chase, who has the gift of the Sight;  there’s Charles Gunn, who is a very fine investigator, Winifred Lewis, another fine investigator, and there’s Angel himself, who is the founder of the company..”

    “But…”

   “What?”

   “He’s the founder of the company?” Spike gestured to the nameplate on Wesley’s desk that said, “Wesley Wyndham-Price, Director.”

    “Ah, yes, well, family concerns,” Wesley said with a shrug.

   Such as setting your offspring and mother on fire, Spike thought, but brushed it aside.  Then there had been something about lawyers, but he hadn’t been able to make sense of what Dru had been babbling by that point, bless her heart. If it upset her, he could only imagine. 

   “Now, really, what is it I can help you with?”

   Spike swallowed. Bloody hell, he’d managed to hold him off this long. He looked into the Watcher’s eyes and wondered how one became a ‘former Watcher.’

   “Who was your Slayer?” He blurted out.

   “I beg your pardon?”

   “Your Slayer? Who was she?”

  Wesley glanced down at the desk. “It was a young woman named Faith. Why do you ask?”

   “Just curious.”

   “I suppose every vampire has some sort of curiosity about the Slayer, but, still, that’s not why you’re here, is it?  I realize this must be difficult for a vampire to do, but what is it that you’ve come to us for help with?”

   Spike looked up at the man and wondered again what had brought a former Watcher to the aid of the Vampire With a Soul.   How did he deal with it everyday, the brooding, the noble self-sacrifice, the heroic jaw-clenching---oh, wait, that was the Industrial Size Ken Doll.  He saw someone who was younger than he had been when he was turned, but far, far, wearier, saw sorrow lines where there should have been smile lines, and wondered if it had been his Slayer that Dru had offed. Giles had had irritation lines on his face, surprisingly rigid lines that said, “I actually do know how to operate a chain saw, thank you.”

     Why had he decided to walk into the office, anyway? Case the place? Get the lay of the land? Criticize the décor?

   “I’m in love.”

   He couldn’t figure out who’d said that, and glanced away, as if looking for the culprit. Wesley looked down at the desk for a long moment. 

   “She doesn’t love you back?” He asked quietly.

  “No, it’s not that, well, really, it’s just a matter of time….”

   “But not just yet?”  Wesley flinched, and took off his glasses. In a gesture eerily like Giles’ he wiped the lenses with the tail of his shirt, and then breathed on them and scrubbed them again.  He sat up straight, and looked out the window over his desk. Spike got the distinct feeling that he was uncomfortable, and it was not with him.  This he became absolutely certain of when Wesley sighed deeply and swallowed what was obviously a frog in his throat.  “I don’t know that there’s anything we can do for you, sir. There’s nothing more impossible than being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.”

   “Well, I know she feels something for me….”

    “Has she told you that?“

   “It’s not like that.”

   “But she has to love you back herself of her own accord. “ He continued in a low voice. “Otherwise, it’s nothing. You may think you want anything from her, but if you really think about it, you’ll realize that casting a spell to make her love you isn’t enough, because actually, she’ll just love the magic. Not you. It’s not you she loves; it’s no good.  For her or for you. You just can’t force it.”

    They looked at each other across the desk, for precisely one second too long.  It occurred to Spike that there were a lot of things that a man could think when presented with a lovesick vampire who had a fading black eye. A rival perhaps? But instead he’d leapt to the truth.  Just my luck, Spike thought.  It really does take one to know one.  Finally, he asked, in his talking-to-Dawn voice:  ”Who was she?”

    Wesley froze, then licked his lips nervously, and with a great show of Giles-like calm,  replaced his immaculate glasses on his nose. The effect would have been better if his hand hadn’t shaken.   “What? Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, it’s a subject we see often here, so we’ve developed a policy on it.   I’ve gotten quite used to the lovesick.”

   No witches on retainer, Spike thought. Sure.

    “It’s, ah, William.” He said quietly.

   “Uh, look at the time,” Wesley said suddenly. He had the slightest flush across his face, just like a schoolboy, Spike thought. “You know, my forte is really weapons and research, perhaps I could refer you to…”

     If that s true, it explains a lot, Spike thought, not unkindly.

  “Could I make an appointment for a more time?” He asked. “Perhaps tomorrow?  This company has come so highly recommended….”

   “Ah, Mr.---“ Again, Spike noticed. Twitchy  much?

  “William.”

  “William. I just don’t think we can do anything for you.”

   “You don’t know what it is I want done.” Spike pointed out. “I’m afraid I do go on and on. But I can’t help talking about it. And you’re such a sympathetic listener; most people don’t listen to vampires.”

   Wesley looked down at that. “Ah, well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll consult with the staff, and see what they think.”

  “At the very least, you need all the particulars of my case.”

  “Yes, that.  Mr., uh, well,  our rates, I must tell you…”

   “Oh, I quite understand.” Spike said. “And once you hear all about it, you can tell me then whether you can help me or not.” They’re charging an arm and a leg!  He thought. I can do this!

   Something about the vampire’s visit disturbed Wes mightily, but in such a soft, intermittent way that it was like having a word constantly on the tip of his tongue. A vampire in love! When he had trained to be a Watcher, such a thought had been the subject of jokes, frowned on officially of course, but nevertheless, good fun. There’d been jokes about sexual practices, fashions, and just what an advantage it was that vampires didn’t need to breathe---even though many of them seemed to like it. He paused in the door to his office, taking it in; the nice cherry wood mission-style desk; the impressive brass plate on his desk that clearly indicated he was the Big Cheese, and the banker’s lamps that gave no indication he’d found them in junk stores. Looking at it all, his cozy little environment, he shook his head, almost amused, picturing how he’d explain his job at the next reunion of his class at the Watchers’ Academy.

    Or at home.

    It suddenly deflated for him, then, the cozy little office, even the door he could close between himself and the sight of Fred, all glowing eyes and coltish eagerness.  He wanted to get angry over something, anything, but there was nobody to be angry at.  Fred? Charles? Fred brought out a side of Gunn he’d never suspected, and more importantly, Gunn wasn’t at all embarrassed by it, either. He wondered at the alchemy between souls, wondering what he could have brought out in Fred if he’d had a chance.  Not like he hadn’t dreamed about it, waking and sleeping, for weeks. 

    It just wasn’t going to happen. He was slowly acclimating to that notion, like adjusting to a new climate. It seemed that since he’d realized it, his whole temperament, like the temperature in a greenhouse, had been thrown off, and he clung to the notion that he just had to ride it out, and then the pain would be over.

    He closed the door behind him, crossing the lobby to the big old registration desk.  Vampires in love, he thought. Two years ago, he’d have been scoffing at it. Before Cordelia, before Angel, before that awful poisonous incident.  Once he’d wrapped himself in cozy suppositions, like blankets, to protect himself from the buffeting of the gray winds that whipped other people around.  He had been certain, resolute, decided.   He’d laughed at the jokes about vampires, especially the ones circulating about Angelus, the worst of them all.  It made it easier to kill them.  

    Now, though, now….He’d read somewhere the burn victims were greatly at risk from infections, until they received skin grafts, because with their skin burnt away, they were vulnerable to every germ out there.  Their nerve endings had no protection from the world. Now, he knew what that felt like.

    Ever since he’d experienced that---incident ----he’d felt that way.  He felt as if all those protective layers of reaction and distance had been stripped away and worse yet, the skin beneath them as well. Stuff he hadn’t noticed before now seemed vivid and painful, as if his emotional skin had been burnt away and he’d been left exposed to what felt like every molecule he’d ever missed. 

   He could have killed her; worse yet, he’d wanted to.  Oh, the memory of the joy of that thought. He still remembered how good it had felt to finally have the upper hand, to know she was scared of him, to know she’d do whatever it took to placate him.   He didn’t have to wonder what, if anything, she actually felt about him; he didn’t care. All that had mattered was what he felt about her.

    He grimly found his dictionary and opened it, finding the papers he’d tucked inside. They were very old, very fragile; it had been very irresponsible of him to do that. What if they were destroyed? Well, then he wouldn’t be able to continue with the disturbing translation.  Then he just wouldn’t have to deal with it.

   He flipped pages back and forth across the thickness of the book, not really ready to begin translating. He retreated, thinking back to the office, the vampire who’d shook his hand, as if he were used to shaking hands---or observed a lot of it, which indicated lots of exposure to humans----and had claimed to be in love. Of course, he probably thought he was in love. But that was just impossible.  It wasn’t possible unless you had a soul; that wasn’t one of the Council’s stupid pronouncements, that just made sense.  If you had a soul…

   “Hey, Wesley.” Angel peeked through the door, hanging off the doorjamb like a teenager.   “Anything interesting?” Then he ducked back out of the door for a minute, returning with Connor clutched to his chest.  He was making googly eyes at the baby as Cordelia brought up the rear, swinging a car seat from one hand.  Wes had picked it up and found it rather heavy and unwieldy, but then again, he wasn’t half demon.  Smiling at him, she plunked it down on the counter and headed for the coffee machine with the tip of her tongue sticking out in anticipation. Angel looked up as she brushed by him, his eyes still and unreadable for a moment, then softening as he returned his gaze to the baby’s face. Gently, he settled the child in the seat, wiggling the little body around to make sure no blankets were lumped uncomfortably against the baby’s back. Then he lifted up the shirt and blew air against the child’s belly, producing a startlingly vulgar farting sound.  Wes sighed and winced just a bit. 

    Angel noted that reaction and did it again; Wes pretty much repeated his reaction as well. Angel raised his head and looked at him. “I saw that.”

    “Then you’ll stop?”

   “Why? He liked it.”

   “He doesn’t sign your paycheck.” Wesley said, but softened it with a smile.

   “You don’t, ah, actually, pay me.”

   “Well, I change more of those diapers than you do.”

   “Do not.”

   Wesley sighed and eyed the ceiling.   “Do too. Don’t pretend, Angel, I’ve seen you running away.”

   “Vampires have a more acute sense of smell than humans. And—“ he sounded injured, “I don’t run.” 

   “Then how come—“Cordelia returned with coffee for herself, and blood for Angel, ---“I always see you sneaking in the opposite direction when there’s a diaper to be changed.”  She nodded

   “I don’t sneak.” Angel sounded worried, swinging around to look at Cordy as she casually clicked her way through the computer menu. “Cordy?” He looked at her plaintively.

   “Yes. You. Do.” Cordy said. Then she stuck out her tongue at him.  Wes sighed and blinked from one to the other.  He clearly needed to talk to Angel about it; on the one hand, they could always use the money; on the other hand, who could really say what that vampire had been up to? 

    He felt invisible for a moment, as Angel took the baby up to his room for changing, Cordelia following behind, coffee cup in hand.   He shook his head, wryly; if Angel thought his feelings were more than temporarily unrequited, he was wrong. Then again, he thought, when have Angel’s feelings ever been unrequited?  When he was Angelus, he wasn’t capable of love; when he was Angel, at least till Buffy, he had been too focused on survival to love. One moment of perfect happiness, he thought.  Was it that simple? Did love just mean consummation? Until that happened, did what he felt even count? If he never got closer to Fred than her quiet co-worker, did he even matter at all?

   “Going for some strong silent record, there, my friend?”

   Wes started, his heart jumping at the sudden sound of an unexpected voice. He cautiously turned his head, warned by the sound of the demon’s voice that there might be hurtful sartorial excess.   “No, just thinking.” He took a deep slow breath, trying to calm himself. It didn’t help that Lorne, now attired in a yellow suit with a lime green shirt, looked perfectly calm and relaxed, almost debonair. If you squinted, and were colorblind, you could even sort of picture him as a sort of pastel-toned, scaly, Rick from Casablanca.

    “You could think a little less and get out a little more. Or is there a prize involved in staying indoors this long?”  He settled himself into a chair after turning it backward, and leaned over the back. “Because I think Angel’s the titleholder. I mean, if you’re that old, what else is there to do?”

    “No, just a lot of translation to do. “ Wes shrugged, and purposefully opened the book again.  This time, he smoothed the prophecies out, and regarded them sternly, before meeting Lorne’s eyes.  “I’ve just been avoiding it.”

   “No wonder. I looked at that stuff and almost died of boredom. C’mon, honey, they’re all tucked in for the night. Let’s go kick up our heels----- in my case, literally.”

   Wes’ lips twitched. “What, do you need a chaperone?”

   “No, but you do.  Somebody’s gotta make sure you have some fun.   C’mon, let’s get out of here.  You don’t have to look at any happy couples and I don’t have to get any insulin shots. We’ll be a great team.”

   “I don’t really care if they’re happy or not. I’m glad for them.”

   “Honey, you lie like a rug.  And I am proud of you. That’s the spirit. Never let them see you cry. Don’t cry out loud. I will survive. By the way, that’s the karaoke list for this evening.”

   “I still don’t understand why I have to be part of it.”

   “Well, see, honeybunch, there’s this thing called ‘fun’ that they’ve invented. It involves entertainment, laughter, and sometimes nudity. There might be catering, from what I’ve heard. I used to be pretty good at it. And you could use some practice.”

   “Practice at what? Being miserable?”

   “Not being miserable.” Lorne said, grabbing his arm in a grip that was impossible to break. “See, here’s the thing. You’re being all noble and everything, and that’s just great, but you know what? You need an audience for that.”

   “Are you implying that my behavior is…showing off?”

  “No, no, honey, calm down. It’s just that it’s such a waste. Good looking English guy like yourself, tragedy, high cheekbones, perhaps a little sympathy sex…”

   “Lorne…”

   “Look I’m not saying you don’t feel what you feel, but would it kill you to stop being so noble? Couldn’t you be a bitch for just a little bit like the rest of us? Come down off that pedestal and roll around with the rest of us. Besides, think how much fun it would be to critique your rivals. C’mon, you’re gonna tell me you really don’t think it’s nauseating the way they think they’re not noticeable? Oh, hello, I can hear loud smacking noises as well as anyone, maybe better when it’s somebody lip locking. You mean you haven’t noticed Cordy cut Groo’s hair like Angel’s? You don’t think that’s beyond tacky? Plus it just doesn’t look good, Freudian issues aside.   You don’t think it’s sort of alarming that Gunn looks like he’s going to start rapping about love one of these minutes? Is it really just me or would it be too much for Groo to assimilate and pick a name that doesn’t remind me of oatmeal? Sounds like something they serve in old folks’ homes to people who don’t have teeth. Let’s go.”

   “Shouldn’t we get Angel?”

   “Ah-ah-ah, sweetness, not a chance. Love the guy, really, really do, but the man needs to brood, plus change diapers, and who are we to possibly get nailed for nasty nappy duty? Uh uh. Love him, really, but take him to a whorehouse, and he’d induce celibacy. Now, I meant that in a good way. And, oh? By the way? You’re driving.”

   “But….”

   “I don’t have a license. On this planet. Plus I don’t think I can stand the thought of Groo dancing. Just sounds bad, doesn’t it? The tequila is calling us…”

    Lorne yanked Wesley up the stairs, giving him only enough wiggle room to grab a jacket.  “Jeez, did your mother tell you to always bring a jacket in case it got cold? C’mon already, there’s bitching to do…..”

      “Yes, for God’s sake, I did leave a note, would you relax? We have drinking to do!”

      Spike had to look up as an unusual pair made its way into the bar. With a scowl he recognized the former Watcher and the still-Green Demon from his frustrating observations at Chez Angel. Of all the demon bars in all the cities in all the world, these two nitwits had to stumble into the one he was drinking dry.  Plus, he wondered if his cover had been blown. Then he wondered if he even had a cover. That was all he had time for before they noticed him.

   “Ah.” Wesley said. Some vestige of laboriously-learned English manners re-asserted itself, and Spike nodded politely in acknowledgement. Unfortunately, Lorne beamed at the exchange, and poked Wesley in the ribs so that he winced.  Without further ado, the demon shoved his companion at Spike’s table.  Which, he realized, just a tad too late, was the only one in the joint without at least two occupants. Bugger all.

   Lorne artfully paused to assess the room, then strolled over and offered him an enormous green paw to shake, which Spike did, rather sullenly, before sliding further down on the bench.  Wes was not as confident as his green companion.  “Uh, yes, uh, you have friends with you, we’ll only stay a minute.”  As he said this, he eyed the beer bottles on the table with apprehension.

    “Relax.” Spike said. “Just me.”

    “Well.” Lorne said primly, eyeing the bottles. “What was it, honey? A big

 bad break up?”

    Spike glared at him, but Lorne just waited. “My oh my, what a big pair of bright blue eyes.  Who could resist those?”

   “Someone can.” Spike said sourly.

   “Oh, really?” Lorne leaned forward eagerly, putting his chin in his hands, all ears. “Who is she? Was she?”

   “Lorne,” Wes said uncomfortably. “Perhaps---“

   “Ever loved somebody who didn’t love you back?” Spike said tightly.

   Lorne smiled, his expression shifting subtly from gleeful chattiness to contemplation. “Who hasn’t?”

   “That doesn’t exactly answer my question, does it, mate?”

   Lorne nodded at the vampire while looking at Wes.  “He’s got a better accent than you do.”

   “That doesn’t cut it, either.”

   “You two, huh? Both broken-hearted, and neither one of you wants to admit it. Huh. I know the perfect medication for that kind of stubbornness.” He gestured to the waitress, a rather hard-looking young woman with surprisingly soft eyes, and when she’d reached their table, asked her, “What’s good for a broken heart?”  She gave it some thought, resting her hip against the edge of the table, and eyeing the beer bottles.

   “Well, that does depend on what type of person you are.”  She nodded at Spike. “Beer is not the right thing for you.”

   “And that would be why?”

  “You’re into punk and all that, right? You should really do something dramatic and serious and rebellious. Not beer. Besides, you’re broken-hearted, you want something that’s going to fit your character and let it loose.  For a punker, I’d suggest tequila, because you can do shots, and there’s the worm thing. For you---“ Now it was Lorne’s turn, “Martinis, definitely. And for you,” she gave Wes a glance through her eyelashes, “it would have to be whiskey, because you look like you’d hold it all in.” 

      “Sounds good.” Lorne said. “Then let’s get started.”

     Wes shrugged apologetically at Spike, and Spike just shrugged. He swigged the last of his beer, then asked, “Hard day at the office?”

    Buffy, all soft and warm against him, the covers around them like a nest.

    “Moderately so,” Wes said.

     “Gah! No shop talk!” Lorne exclaimed. “Am I right in assuming there’s someone on your mind, Mr. Big Bad Vampire?”

   “Huh?” Spike leaned back against the leather seat, somewhat discomfited by the full blast of the personality.  He glanced at Wes, as if he were about to disclose something professional. “Yes. There is.”

     “Well, good.  Then you two can talk about it. Nothing worse than being miserable separately.”

    Wes now looked as if he wished he were anywhere else. He nodded at Lorne while keeping eye contact with Spike and mouthed, ‘sorry’ but Spike found he was rather amused by now. When was the last time he’d had a social visit---with humans, no less! ---- that had to do with something other than losing kittens?  They’d drink, they’d bitch about women, and then he’d somehow figure out what in hell he was doing.   “I’m still waiting to find out your story, there—“ He nodded at Lorne.

    “Oh, Lorne,” said the demon, blithely waving away the introduction. “But I haven’t heard about your tale of woe.”

    “What’s to tell? Vampire in love with the S--- a human,” he added quickly. “Oldest story in the book.”  He thought perhaps Wes had raised one eyebrow at that, but he wasn’t sure.

    In fact, Wes hadn’t. He looked up, considering first the demon, then the vampire, and wondered when things had gotten so weird.  After all, once he’d wanted to be an accountant. Safe things, numbers. Quantifiable. So refreshing.   “Were there vampires before there were humans?”

    “Some people think so,” Spike shrugged. “There’s some that say that the world was originally populated by demons and vampires, and human came later.”

   “What do you think?” Wes asked.

   “Beats me,” Spike said. “I never really cared to find out. Besides, as long as there’s lawyers, the demons haven’t truly left.”  He could just see the conversation descending into a long, boring, Giles-type lecture.  “And you, sir, what about you? Ever been disappointed in love?”

   It was on the tip of Wes’ tongue to blurt out, ‘All the time,’ but he stopped himself just in time.  His dignified avoidance of the topic was, however, completely spoiled by Lorne, who clapped him on the back, and said, “Oh, come on, Wesley, share. It’ll make you feel better.”

   “No, it won’t.”

    “Yes, it will.”

    “No, it won’t.”

    “Well, how about if it makes us feel better?”

    “Trust me, it won’t.” Wes insisted, glancing with pleading eyes at the approaching waitress.  If she’d only get here faster, she could save him from revealing his secrets. “Ah, look who’s back. Here we are.”  Tremendously relieved at the sight of an interruption, he grabbed his drink and slammed it back rather impressively.  Even Spike goggled a bit at the sight of the bespectacled accountant-wannabe knocking down something decidedly stronger than sherry.  Rather defensively, he then tossed back his own, and then they both expectantly looked at Lorne.  His head swiveled from one to the other, and then he carefully pulled the olive out of his martini and gulped it down. Spike and Wes exchanged glances. Lorne sighed, then lifted the martini to his lips and methodically gulped it down. It was very measured.  He sighed, wiped his lips delicately with his napkin, and signaled the waitress again.  “Another, but a cosmopolitan for me this time.”

     “And, uh, for me, some Scotch.” Spike put in. “You’re paying, right?”

     Lorne rolled his eyes and gave an explosive sigh.  “This round, I suppose.”

   Wes shook his head at the offer of another drink, but it was too late; the girl, sensing drunken tipping, was already gone. He decided it was his jacket bothering him, not the alcohol, and shrugged it off, but he still felt hot.  He looked around the bar. Pool table, dartboard, video games in an alcove.  All of a sudden he felt rather mellow.  Fred’s face swam before him, all luminous skin and huge eyes, and he swallowed at the way he’d rejected her attempt to set him up earlier that day.  Why did this one hurt so bad, so sharply, when none of the others had caused this much pain this fast?

   They’d gotten along, she and him.  She wasn’t a glamour girl, like Cordelia, or some research wonk, like Petunia. Only Virginia had made him feel like that. He’d felt as comfortable with her as it was possible for him to feel, which wasn’t, truthfully, much, but there it was. Maybe he should get used to it. Where had his successes been?

    He looked up at the vampire, who was slouched in the corner of the booth, staring at his refilled glass without seeing it. Supernatural being, centuries dead, and still a victim to the whims of women.  In an odd way, it was almost comforting. 

   He lifted his glass and eyed his companions. “Shall we?”

    “Whaaaaa?!” Lorne said.
   “Yes, what?”

   “To women.”  Wes said solemnly. All three looked around somberly, unwilling to meet anyone else’s eyes. Lorne was the one to break the silence with a sigh.

    “What?” Wes demanded.

   “Oh, my dear, if you only knew.’

   “Well, if I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked, would I? What’s wrong?”

   “Well, look at us, guys.” He pointed out. “All of us miserable, but what are we doing? A toast! Really, we should do a curse or something.”

    Both Spike and Wes raised their eyebrows at that. They looked at each other, then shrugged, then looked at Lorne, who had the grace to look sheepish. “Just trying to help.” He said. Wes brightened at that. “William….You never did get around to describing much about your case. Perhaps now’s a good time.”

   “Uh….” Quite frankly, he hadn’t thought much beyond: Get inside. Angel. Money. Leave. Okay, some gloating as well, perhaps some taunting, but not so much he wouldn’t be back in Buffy’s bed by dawn tomorrow. 

    “Talking always helps.” Lorne said helpfully.

    “Yeah, right.”

    “You did come to us for help,” Wes pointed out.

    “So I did.” Spike looked at the table.  Maybe he could dance around it a bit. Maybe get them drunk, then lift the keys, look around.  What a plan, he thought proudly, ignoring the fact that plans generally were formed more than two seconds before their execution.

 But where to start?

     “Well,” He said quietly. “She’s human.”

    “How did you two meet?”  Wes asked.

   “Was it love at first sight?” Lorne perched his chin in his hand and waited expectantly, causing Spike to eye him. 

    “No.” He thought about it for a minute. “It was hate at first sight. Well, okay, I was trying to kill her…..”  He swallowed.  How on earth could he explain this? Where to begin? And where to end? “You know the drill, vampire, blah blah blah, but there was a sort of affinity there, even when I hated her guts. And vice versa, no matter what she says. Horrible taste in men, she had, till she met me.”

   “You mean vampires?” Wes asked. “Were you the first vampire she…?”

   “No. I wasn’t. First true love, blah blah blah. Then a couple humans for her. Me, always dated other vamps. Just a matter of who you’re around. Wasn’t around a lot of humans.”

    “And?”  Wes looked very serious now, very interested. Spike was vaguely flattered and wondered what the Watcher would think once he’d found out his little tête a tête had been with William the Bloody. 

    “Well…” Here was the tricky part. Certainly everyone must know about William the Bloody’s mishap with the chip, right? God knows, all the demons he’d killed, that had to be common knowledge. Certainly old Ripper must’ve written it up, which meant that Wesley must have stumbled over the account somewhere.  “Injuries, mate.” He said mournfully. “Really can’t hurt humans now. Must be getting old. Happens to the best of us. Terrible shame, it is.  Such an adjustment.   So…..I started hanging around humans more often. Shoulda remembered, never play with your food. Mum always was right about that.”

   “Was your mother a vampire?” Wesley inquired curiously. 

   “Hm? Oh, no.” Spike waved the idea away. “No, but there are certain things that are timeless. Aside from myself, you know. Never play with your food. Always wear clean underwear in case of an accident. Never run with a stake in your hand. You know? That sort of thing.”

   “ So, this woman, this girl.  Does she even know how you feel?”

   “Yeah. Long story, blurted it out one day, okay, after I kidnapped her and knocked her unconscious.” Two startled faces stared back at him. “Uh, waitress? Another round, please….?” He stared at the table, tracing a finger along the rim of his glass, over and over. Stick as much to the truth as you can, he thought. Stick to the truth.  “And, well, my ex did show up and threaten to eat her, but that’s hardly worth having a grudge, is it?”

   “Of course not,” Wes said with a tiny smile. “But, you know, William….if you just keep hanging around this girl and she never so much as…”

   “Oh, but she does.” Spike said. He looked down at his glass again, surprised to find it empty. “She and I, well, she and I---“He looked up from one to the other. “She can sleep with me.” He said. “But she won’t tell her friends about us, and she won’t say she loves me.”

   “What makes you think…?”

   “Hm?”

   “Well, what, exactly, makes you think that she feels something for you?”

   Spike shook his head at that. “We’re sleeping together.” He said flatly. “And she’s not that sort of girl at all.”  And it’s not just sleeping together. No. Don’t leave me. 

    I’ll never leave you.

    Her body, descending on his, enclosing him, the one thing he never dreamed of, her eyes huge with shock…

   “Um, what?”  He looked up suddenly. 

   Wes and Lorne were both staring at him, and there was more than a little pity on both their faces. “A vampire in love.” Wes said softly.

   “Not that unusual, mate.” Spike said defensively.

   “Well, it’s unusual in the Chronicles…” Wes said in his patented Pedantic Voice. Spike eyed him with amazement. 

   “D’ya really think they’d report it?” He shook his head in disbelief.  “Do you really think so? I can just see it now: “Council of Watchers discovers vampires capable of love, what else can they feel that we prefer they not? Because if you can love, what aren’t you capable of then?”

   “But vampires kill people…?”

    “Do I have a choice?” Spike snapped. “Didn’t ask to get turned, did I? Lovely for you, though; never once to think about what you’re killing.”

    “Do you?” Wes asked.

    “What?” Spike’s indignation sputtered to a halt.

   “How long since you were turned?”

   “One hundred twenty two years. Why?”

   “How many people have you killed, William? Do they bother you?”

    He cocked his head in bewilderment, genuinely puzzled. Did he regret being what he was? He tried not to think about it at all.  Did he regret surviving? No. Did he regret surviving at others’ expense? He’d have to drink a lot more before he’d tackle that particular question.  “No.” He said quietly. “They don’t bother me. Because otherwise, I’d be dead. “

   “You already are dead.” Wes pointed out. 

    “You know what I mean!”

    “Uh, waitress, could we have another round?” Lorne asked nervously. The girl promptly appeared, and eyed the man and the vampire curiously. They were both leaning forward, elbows on the table, just one statement away from jumping to their feet and finger-pointing to the chest. She looked from one to the other.

    “The same?” 

   “Got any more suggestions?” Lorne asked, just as Wes opened his mouth to speak.

   “Uh, how about Shirley Temples?” The two opponents, still glaring at one another, slowly sank to their seats.

   “Seriously, what else have you got in the way of inspiration?”

   “Uh---“She looked at Wesley. “How about a nice port?”

   “Oh, uh, lovely.” Wesley said.

    “Yeah?” Spike looked up at her.

   “Bourbon?”  She suggested.

   “That’ll work.” Spike said sullenly. Across from him, and facing the door, Lorne stiffened suddenly, causing the other two to slowly turn around.

    “And what about him?” Lorne inquired dryly, as the light from the door way was blotted out by a large shadow. Angel’s shadow.

    “Definitely cognac.” The waitress said. “Definitely something with a high alcohol content.”

    Angel stood on the top step forever, first blinking while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then slowly stiffening as he recognized Spike. He lowered his head, just like a bull, Spike thought, and carefully, ominously stared in disbelief for several minutes. Quite the effect, he noted.  Pity he didn’t have a pad and paper, he could take notes on Making An Entrance101.   Finally, he shook his head disgustedly, and stalked across the floor to the table, never once taking his eyes off Spike. “Why are you here?”

    Spike gestured at the bottles. “Drowning my sorrows, what does it look like?”

    “When are you leaving?”

   “Soon’s I get what I want.”

   “Who’s the torturer this time? Found another Gem of Amarra? What is it?”

   Spike didn’t allow himself the indulgence of anger. He wanted Angel off balance, knowing full well if he told him the truth, he’d never be believed, and probably get staked anyway.  “It’s a long story, Grandpa.”  Struck by inspiration, he beamed up at his grandsire’s bulk. “But if you give me an advance on my allowance, I’ll leave right now.”

   Spike waited eagerly to see if Angel had added to any of the Tactics of Doom. Really, he was wasted as a vampire: he would have made the most wonderful of repressing fathers, the sort that produced vehemently rebellious children.

    First there was the Loom. This was what Angel was doing now, looming over the table, and the detritus of their drinks. The waitress hadn’t cleared the glasses yet because Angel had given her Tactic of Doom #2; a deeply annoyed Angel look, which almost but not quite verged on Angelus. Angelus never looked so patient when he was irritated.  Soon to come would be the Thoughtful Look, where Angel considered what to do, and how to make himself look sensitive while doing it. Then there would the Rhetorical Question, which was Angel asking something unnecessary, something so superfluous he knew it wouldn’t get answered, but he tried anyway. Then, let’s see what came after that?

    Wes was looking at Spike with a certain disappointment. “You’re Spike? Hm.”

   “What does that mean?” Spike demanded.

   “Well, I did think you’d be taller. Hm. How interesting. I’ll have to call Rupert.”

   “Yeah, you can do that tomorrow. After Spike leaves. Which will be now.” Ah! Another one! The Empty Threat! He’d forgotten about that one.

   “Now, now, Grandpa, is that any way to greet—URK!” Angel’s hand slashed across the table and grabbed the front of Spike’s duster, shirt, and tee shirt, and yanked him to his feet just like Darth Vader. “Let me go.” Okay, not so empty threat…

   “Why should I, Spike? So you can actually kill me this time?”

   “I didn’t come down here to kill you, Peaches. I’ve got other business here.”

   “Why did you make up that story about being in love with a human?”  Wes asked.  Angel dropped him, then, startled, and Spike, huffily straightening his clothes, at first didn’t notice anything.  Then he took a closer look. Angel was eyeing him with wary, curious eyes. Spike looked at the others. Lorne was watching the interplay the way he might watch a football game, his head swiveling back and forth, and Wes had reverted to staring at the ketchup bottle diffidently.  Angel had backed up a step, and jammed his hands in his pockets, gazing at Spike’s throat. Hm. Not his eyes.  Interesting, that.  Helpful, too.   It gave Spike a moment to think.

     They wouldn’t believe him, and why should they?  Him? Make up a story? Well, maybe. But not about love. Never about that.

   They wouldn’t believe him about Buffy, though. About the two of them.  Interesting question, though. Suppose he did tell them, and the inevitable phone call ensued. What would she say? Spike shuddered at the thought. But he seriously doubted they’d even give a moment’s thought to dismissing whatever he had to say as being lies. He glanced all around. The humiliation of it, not being believed. Of course the Slayer would never have anything to do with him, they’d say.   For a brief and vivid moment, he pictured the laughter. Like he was an infection, afflicting her with his disease.

     Then he pictured the lies he’d have to tell them. They must know about the chip; he wasn’t the Big Bad any more.  But he was worse, he realized. in their eyes; not scary, just a reminder of things past. Maybe a little pathetic.  No, they’d not believe for a minute anything he had to say about Buffy. They’d resent it, too, if he tried to explain it. He wondered if he even could. She makes me feel alive, and I never knew I missed it.  It occurred to him, abruptly, that they were all now looking at him, and he’d been silent the whole time, thinking about Buffy, and how her reputation amongst them would suffer if he so much as suggested….
      “It wasn’t a lie, was it,” Wes said quietly. Angel sighed, a very good Angel sigh ---Spike gave it a 5.8 for execution, and 5.6 for creativity, plus another 6.0 thrown in for the hell of it because the bastard irritated him like no one else.  “Was it?”

   “No. None of it.” He was almost embarrassed to be telling the truth. Hell, he was embarrassed, but when it came to Buffy, the truth was difficult enough. “’s true. She doesn’t love me.”

   “And she’s human.” Wes said.

   “Well, it was great catching up,” Angel said suddenly. “So sorry to hear you’re going.” He reached out, but Lorne batted his arm out of the way.

   “Sing, Sweet William.”

   “What the…?  You’re not going to set me on fire, mate, did that once already. Enough’s enough, you frustrated… tutu groupie!”

   At this outburst, pretty much everyone rolled their eyes in tandem.  It looked positively synchronized. Spike wondered if they practiced.

   Angel looked at Lorne thoughtfully, then glared at Spike. “You heard him, William.”  Bastard knew how much he hated that name. “Sing.”

   “Only if you tap dance, Peaches.”  Angel made another grab for him, then, but Spike was on his feet, and dodged out of the way easily. At that point, however, the waitress popped up, holding a glass of what smelled like very good cognac. Spike was tempted to take it himself, because fun was against Angel’s religion. And, indeed, Angel waved it off. Spike grinned at him defiantly, and grabbed at it.   Which, of course, irritated Angel even more, and he again slashed out that lightning fast hand, and plucked the glass off the tray and downed it. He downed it all in one swallow, licked his lips, and nodded to the waitress in dismissal.  Spike’s smile spread slowly over his face in response. “Well, that was fast, Grandpa. Talk about efficient. Seems I’d heard someone else say that about you, too. Who was it?”

   “Sing, or scream, you decide.” Angel growled.

   “What is it with the musical comedy?” Spike demanded in bewilderment.” Already did that. Don’t want to burst into flame, thanks. It’s been real. Oh, wouldja look at the time?”

   Lorne suddenly snapped his fingers. “That damned Sweet, was he…? Oh, of course.” He looked immensely amused. “That guy is such a kidder, you have no idea. I remember this one time…”

   Spike glared at him. “Guy set people on fire, mate.” He winced at the memory of singing to an exasperated Buffy, but that led to thinking about her falling on top of him in the coffin, kissing him…”Oh, what, sorry? Were you done?”  

   “Not that sort of demon, my friend. so relax.” Spike eyed the green demon’s ensemble with visible skepticism. “What? Well, you obviously are not a spring, you have no idea what your true color scheme is.”  He adjusted his artfully-loosened tie just a tad. “I’m not one of those demons. I just need you to sing.”

  “Not gonna set me on fire?”

  “No, sweetness, not unless you put more peroxide on that head than even I speculated.”

   “So….” Spike examined his nail polish.  “What’s it gonna do?”

   “It will reveal the truth.” Lorne said quietly.

   “Bloody hell.” Spike backed away, forgot they were in a booth, and sat down abruptly when his legs hit the edge of the bench. “You’ll just tell Angel, won’t you?”

   “Only if you have something dishonorable in mind.” An acerbic glance at the other vampire. “God knows, that’ll happen some time soon.”

   “Shut up, Lorne.”

   “So nice to know PMS affects vampires, too.”

   “Would you like me to leave you two alone?” Spike enquired solicitously. “Because I could always get a room.”

    “All we need,” Lorne said,” is for you to sing.”

    “Yeah, and then what?”

   “No fire, no destruction.” Lorne assured him.

   “What if I don’t believe you?” Spike eyed Angel as he said this.

   “Believe me.” Lorne ordered him. “Oh, him? Just ignore that. He does that at breakfast, too.” Angel groaned, rolled his eyes, and sank to the bench beside Wes. Great dismount, Spike thought. Definitely 5.9 material there. “Just sing something. Anything.”

   “Why don’t I make recommendations, and you get the CD?”

  “ I need you to sing. You. Any song. Just a syllable. That’s all. Nothing’s going to happen to you, but I have to hear you. C’mon. Aren’t you the scourge of Europe?”

   Spike, happily remembering an evening spent torturing a rich double-dipping doctor, nodded agreement. Ah, the good old days.  Then he remembered his present location and looked around. He licked his lips. “I died, many years ago, and…”

   Lorne’s face changed the way sand changes on a beach at high tide, the waves washing formation away, and smoothing all the variations. His face crumpled, grimaced, smoothed over, and started all over again.  He looked at Spike with wonder.  “I thought it was just Angel.”

   “What?!”

   “I thought it was just Angel.” Lorne mused. “A vampire in love, who’d have guessed? These things just don’t happen.”

   “Well, I wish…” Spike stopped himself, but it was too late. There was a violent flash of light, a loud crunch, and a demon appeared before them. It was, undeniably, Halfrek. She looked around expectantly, then blinked. “Oh. Gee. Sorry. You’re all….men. I just hate this on-call system. Sorry.” She popped out of existence, but on the breeze of her passing, they heard a whisper: ‘Hey! That was…… William?!’ Spike looked around suspiciously, expecting another appearance, but the smoke was already clearing.

    Lorne was looking at him curiously.” C’mon, mi amigo. We have some talking to do.”

   At the booth, Angel had started to stand, but Lorne shook his head at him.  “Just he and I.” He pulled Spike outside in the cool night air, and watched while Spike lit a cigarette, shielding the cigarette behind the lee of the club’s open door.  “So? The Slayer, no less. How’d that happen?”

    “Like I said, except this time just add the title.”  Spike rubbed his forehead. “You going to tell him?”

   “He’s not my boss, Blue Eyes, till he gives me a pay check. Sure, he may give me a place to lay my head, but as many diapers as I change, he’s the one who’s in debt here.”

   ‘Diaper?’ Spike thought, but kept it to himself. Why in the hell would Angel be helping Cordy with her brat?

   “Besides, if I wanted him to know, would we be here?” Spike smiled a bit at that, and looked at him.

   “So, tell me, ah, Lorne, what is it that I’m supposed to do?”

   “She really doesn’t love you?”

   “Don’t think so. Hope so, though. Every day. We….” He looked away. “It’s like we can barely look at each other without…wanting to…..”He took a deep, ragged breath.

   “You got it bad, my friend. And, I take it, so does she?”

   Spike shrugged again.  “She wants me. Not the same.”

   “And the rest?”

   The rest being his purpose in coming here. “She’s dying.” He said. “Her friends pulled her out of heaven, and now she’s working for people not good enough to eat, much less serve, and she’s doing it for sixteen hours a day, just about every day. Her bloody friends don’t help out at all, and her sister is acting up something awful.”

    “What can we do about it?”

   “Well, I figured if Angel’s fists could be pried open and some money felt out…”

   Lorne just looked at him. “You want money?”

   “Yes.”

   “And you came here to get it from Angel? Who hates you very enthusiastically, I might add.”

   “Yes, and I realize that. I’m not exactly president of his fan club either.”

   “And if he found out that you and Buffy were….?”

   “I’d be a pile of dust.”

    “But nevertheless, here you are.” Lorne looked at him for several uncomfortable minutes, face fixed and hard, no humor left at all. “For this human, this Slayer, who doesn’t love you, but shags you senseless every chance she gets, while you pine for her.”

   “I don’t pine for her,” Spike pointed out. “I just…I just…”

   “Oh, really? Do you find yourself thinking about her at all hours? Missing her? Worrying about her? Written any bad poetry? Gotten drunk lately? Taken any strange road trips with impossible goals in mind that could at the very least expose you to death or embarrassment?” He leaned forward, poked his long, green finger in Spike’s chest. Spike noted that the nail was manicured. ”Found yourself suddenly caring about people and places just because they have some connection with her? Oh, yeah, baby, you have it bad.”

    “Well, so?”  Spike blew a long stream of smoke in the demon’s face. “I don’t have a soul like Angel. What’s he done with his? Dru told me some stuff, but I got the feeling she didn’t tell me everything.  There’s some things even Dru feels a bit twitchy about. Why is it so weird for me to love her? Why can’t she love me? Bloody Harris and the ex vengeance demon don’t get the crap I’ve put up with, and she was a demon ten times longer than I was.”

   “Anyanka? Oh, she was very good in her day.”  Lorne thoughtfully consulted some inner list, while Spike observed with interest.  “Very…thorough.” Something about the way he said, ‘thorough’ made Spike give a bit of a shudder, not as a vampire, but as a man. “Very original.”

   “Good thing Angel can’t call down a demon on me.”  Spike said. “Because if he finds about Buffy and I, he’ll kill me and then he’ll race off to Sunnydale and be so sensitive and caring it’ll cause a whole series of suicides. And he’ll make her feel terrible, I can predict that. I can just see it now. “ He threw his cigarette away with a snap. “If I tell him what it’s for, and who, he’d do it. Bastard. But I can’t do that because he’d have it out of her hide. Look what a wonderful thing I did, have I mentioned it in the last five seconds? Show me some gratitude so I can wallow in noble sexual frustration for a while. Hey, have I mentioned I did this really nice thing?” He looked at Lorne, suddenly alarmed. “You won’t ever tell him, will you?” He drew himself up to his full height, a good six inches shorter than the tall green demon, so why was it that Lorne found himself taking a step back. A muscle twitched in Spike’s jaw, and his hands clenched into fists. “Angel never finds out. Never. He’ll make her miserable, and—and----“

   “I won’t tell.” Lorne said. He punched the vampire’s shoulder as if they were drinking buddies or something. “But I’ll help.”

 Angel eyed Spike and Lorne as they came walking back in the bar. Suspicious. Very suspicious. So Spike was in love with some human. Who was it, Willow? Typical of him, to A) fall in love with a human; B) fall in love with a lesbian; C) fall in love with someone who had nothing but bad memories of him trying to kill her and her friends over and over again and D) actually believe he was in love. Probably embarrassed by it, rightly so. What a pretense that was.

    Absolutely impossible to love without a soul.  He glanced at Wesley, as if Wes’s orderly presence would confirm his belief. Wes, the former Watcher, would understand the folly of believing that any but a select few vampires were capable of the higher emotions. He nudged him. “So, Wes, what do you think’s going on?”

   Wes shrugged. “He’s in love. He’s desperate.”

   Angel swiveled and looked at him. “You don’t really believe him, do you? Spike is the biggest bullshitter in the world. In any world.”

   “Oh, of course….” Wes trailed off. “But I have read the Chronicles, you know, Angel.”

   “You’ve read them?” Angel said sarcastically. “I lived them.’

   Wes looked at the back of the vampire’s head. “Indeed.”  He looked around for the waitress, while Angel continued to eye Spike suspiciously.

    Spike was doing a little checking out on his own. “We gotta get him drunk.”

   “With what? He’s a vampire. And he’s a lot bigger than you, kemosabe.”

   “Hah.” Spike said, spotting their waitress. “Say, love, can you do me a favor? I’ve a really special request….” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, while Lorne, amused, chuckled over the pretense of clandestine drink requests. Something about the vampire’s attempt at discretion touched him. They were in a dive that served vampires, demons, and God knows what else, including politicians, and Spike was whispering in the girl’s ear so as to avoid attention. The platinum optimist.  He sidled closer and nudged. “What did you order?”

   “Angel always used to drink absinthe.” Spike muttered. “Really strong stuff, mix of opium and vodka.  Not legal here in the States, but it shouldn’t be hard to whip up a batch.”

   “And then…?”

   “And then, well, see if we get lucky….Why are you helping me, anyway?”

   “I saw you, remember?” Lorne looked over at the booth and assayed a little wave, very much like British royalty: low-key, discreet, and hinting at inbreeding. “Maybe it’s just the romantic in me. You crazy kid—er, vampire, you. That took guts, my friend, coming down here, and I appreciate that. Besides, your aura was eloquent. There was a nice bouquet of passion and desperation there. There were touches of loneliness. There was an undertone of, well, call it…karma. 

      “You know, sometimes when I read someone their feelings about someone else can give me some sort of reading on someone important in their life. I got a very strong feeling about your Buffy. Very strong.”

   Spike stared at him. “Strong? Strong? In what way? Why didn’t you say so?”

   “I’m saying so now, William. It really is William, isn’t it?”

   Spike grumbled something and looked away. “What else did you see?”

   “Be careful what you wish for, my friend. That’s all.” Lorne said, not unkindly. “And that’s just for now, though. Things change. If you came to me in a week, I’d get a different reading.  You won’t stay as you were forever.”

   “Be careful what you wish for? What the hell does that mean?” Spike’s voice was loud enough that both Wes and Angel looked up.

    “The way you two are now is tearing you up, my friend. Have you ever considered what it would be like if you got your wish?”

   “How could that possibly be bad?”

   “How many women have you loved, William?”

   Spike drew himself up and looked him in the eye. “Physically? Or…?”

  “Oh, don’t get all macho on me now. You can try that on Angel, and I’ll sell tickets, sweetness.”

   “Two.” Spike muttered.

  “Two.”

   At that moment, the waitress came up to them and with a flourish, presented a tray with what looked like four cognac glasses brimming with a green liquid. In a little dish on the side were sugar cubes and what Dru had always referred to as a ‘sugar tweezers’.  “Oh---I only wanted the one.” Spike pointed out.

   She fixed him with a hairy eyeball. “There is no way just one guy is drinking this stuff, okay? What, you’re going to sit there and watch him get silly?”

   Spike was momentarily entertained by precisely this idea, but Lorne sighed in a very Ward Cleaver kind of way and spoiled it. “She does have a point there, sweetie pie.” He patted the sulking vampire on the back. “Maybe it’ll be fun.”

   Angel took one look at the glasses and then sighed again. “Why?” 

  “You used to drink it before,” Spike said, sliding into the booth.

  “Yeah, I used to drink blood, too—“

  “Children, children….” Lorne said. Then he picked up one of the glasses, and gulped its contents back. This was promptly followed by choking noises, crossed eyes, and much hand waving. “Would you just relax and loosen up? Oh, my. Sweetheart…” He called to the waitress. “More, please, that was scrumptious. And I want the recipe.”

   Spike picked up his glass with his index finger and middle finger, and took a sip. Always had been more of Angel’s drink than his, but it wasn’t bad. The waitress had been right; he was definitely more the tequila type of guy.  Still, it wasn’t bad; had quite the floral undertone, but it wasn’t enough to choke back the bitter flavor of the anise. Therefore, the sugar. He tweezed up a couple of cubes, and dropped them into his already half-empty glass. Angel looked on with quite a disapproving stare, arms crossed and face stony. Oh, wait. Spike thought. That’s his normal expression. Hate to see him in the midst of an orgasm. Probably look like he was having a root canal….He took another gulp, and looked around. The colors in the bar were flowing around him, and the décor had ceased to be irritating. Even the demon across from him had stopped looking like a demonic refugee from an Irish Spring commercial and had become a Demon of a Different Color.

    Wes picked up his own glass, intrigued by the exotic bouquet of the drink. “I’d thought that this went out of style.”

   “It did.” Angel said. He was still glaring at Spike distrustfully, which, suddenly, became too much for Spike’s happy mood.

  “Good God, would you cheer up?!” He reached across the table, and poked Angel in the chest. “I don’t want to kill you or torture you---well, at least not right now----or anything really painful. Why can’t you relax? Drink up.” He finished off his glass with a flourish, just in time to see Wes swirl the glowing liquid around in his glass. “You, too, bookworm. Take your mind off things.”

    Wes smiled just a little uncertainly. Absinthe carried with it great dangers, but great allure. It was said to be the drink of artists, poets---and madmen----and inspired as many hallucinations as it did works of art. There was a glamour to it, an aura of tortured bohemians soothing away their torment with the liquor and the visions it inspired. It smelled of short, passionate lives, and works of art snatched from the demons of madness. It was the temptation of oblivion. He took a swallow.

   It really didn’t taste very good, and he realized he’d missed the sugar. With the tongs, he unsteadily dropped a cube in and watched it dissolve. He almost believed that when he looked up he would find himself in a bar near Montmartre, surrounded by women in long skirts, and men wearing evening dress and ink smudges. French would swirl around him, and in the corner Toulouse Lautrec would sketch Wes’ face with inspired hands. Certainly he deserved a painting or two.  Even a vampire could find love, and with a human, no less. Wasn’t that against the rules? He’d fall in love with anyone at this point, so long as they loved him back.

   Angel glared sullenly around and gulped his drink down. His eyes widened as it burned its way down his throat, and Lorne leaned over and belted him on the back a few times. Good God, but that was strong. He’d forgotten how strong it was, how bitter. The last time he’d drunk had been in Paris just before the turn of the century, when women still wore silk stockings—so fun to tie them up, with----and frothy lace things that he couldn’t even name. He glanced around disapprovingly at the bar jackets and jeans. People had no idea how to dress any more. It was deplorable.  He traced a finger around the rim of his glass, wondering if there was more, but hoping otherwise. After all, he had to stay in control. Who knew why Spike really was here? His visits never brought good news, and in fact, very often involved sharp pointed objects.

   Like the drink itself, looking at Spike brought up memories, but he wasn’t sure he liked these. Buffy; Sunnydale, exile, the first year in LA, Doyle, oh, and the bleakness that had been the previous year. The inexorable fall into darkness, without Buffy at the end of it. The whole painful experience with Darla.  Why did Spike seem so damned happy? It just wasn’t fair, it wasn’t.

   “Why are you so happy?” He demanded.

   Spike was nodding his head in time to the song on the jukebox and didn’t hear it at first. “What?”

    “You’re so happy. And you’re evil. Why is that, Spike? You want to explain?”

   “Uh, well,” Lorne said thoughtfully. “Not sure if that’s entirely accurate.”

   “What do you know?” Angel said scornfully. “Why are you happy? I’m not.”

   “Maybe it’s that damned hair.” Spike snapped. Inside, he groaned.

    The waitress deposited another tray of ammunition in front of them and scurried away. Angel took another glass and gulped it down straight. Even Spike was awed; the stuff had to be about sixty proof, and humans who drank it typically didn’t finish a liqueur glass full of it. With vampires, three was absolute tops, and Spike didn’t think he’d ever seen even Angel go that far. And there he was, two thirds of the way there. “Maybe,” Angel said judiciously, “it’s because you’re evil.”

   Spike was startled.  “Evil? Me? Huh. Haven’t really devoted a lot of effort to it, mate.” Kind of hard to, as well, when all you could think of was a girl with a thousand-mile look in her eyes, whose kisses made him shiver. Couldn’t exactly pull off a caper when all you wanted to do was crawl in her bed and lodge yourself forever between those legs, in her warmth, and just dissolve. 

    “Love does that to people,” Lorne pointed out helpfully.

   “You don’t believe that, do you?” Angel said scornfully. “He’s a vampire.”

   “What are you, Peaches?” Spike asked, but there was more wonder than anger in Spike’s voice. “Oh!” He exclaimed. “I get it now. I’m a vampire---and you’re not. You’re special.  You’re the vampire with a soul, and there are rules only for you. You’re the only vampire who can love, is it? Think so? You sound just like a Watcher, trying to get some sleep at night. Trying to think we’re all just wolves who need putting down.” He pushed aside all thought of his hobby of demon-killing for the sheer joy of it, plunged on ahead. His head was light and fizzy, and he practically bounced in his seat at the thought of unloading some very old baggage. “Make you feel different, does it? Is it worth a hundred years of celibacy?”

   “You just proved my point, Spike.” Angel said quietly. “Is it just sex to you?”  Even as he said it, he knew it was unfair. Spike had been far more loyal to Dru than he himself had.  Nevertheless, Spike was evil. He didn’t deserve credit for whatever good things he might have done accidentally.

   Saving the world, for example.

   Not my fault. Wasn’t me. Angelus did that. Tried to do that. Not me.

   Spike was staring at him. “Is it just sex, Angel?  For me or for you?  Is that why you left Buffy? Because you couldn’t have sex with her? Was that perfect happiness to you? You came?  God, if you jerk off, we’re all in danger then. How will you try and destroy the world then? Kind of running out of options, aren’t you, mate?”  He jumped to his feet, swaying as the absinthe hit him all at once. “You and that soul, still hasn’t changed much of the Liam within, has it?”

   “Yeah, you’re Chip boy. Whatever you’ve done, or not done, is just because of the chip.”

   Spike knew he should have been deeply angered at this, but he just couldn’t figure out why. The chip didn’t make him love Buffy or Dawn or miss Joyce’s cocoa. And the soul hadn’t changed Angel into less of a bastard. It had just made him feel sorry for himself.

   “Does it bother you, mate?” He asked quietly.

   “What? Having a soul?”

    No—having that hair, Spike thought, but he manfully bit his tongue. “All the things you did.”

   “Yes.” Angel said firmly, and with a great burst of relief, Spike convinced himself that his grandsire was lying. He hadn’t been much exposed to the soul-having angel---too inconvenient to have those barf bags always jammed in one’s pockets-----but he knew right then and there that Buffy felt more guilt for driving badly than Angel did for all his kills. And as for Dru and Darla, well, he wouldn’t toss them a glance. 

   “And you, Spike?”

   “Me? Hm.” Spike thought about it. “Good question. Hadn’t really thought about it.” Actually he had. There were some kills he relished, occasionally hauling out the memory when he was bored, or just drifting off to sleep. There were the party guests after he’d gotten turned, for example; there were certain individuals in Prague, for another, but the rest?  Why pretend? He looked at his sire thoughtfully. “Can’t say I do.”

   “See?” Angel demanded triumphantly. “Proves my point.”

   “That I’m evil? This isn’t exactly late-breaking news.”

   “Why did you come here, Spike? I’m curious.”

   “Money.”

   “What?”

   “Money.”

   “Kittens?”

   “Actual money,  and I know you have pots of it.”

   “Why do you need money for?”

   “Same reason you do. Make my way in the world.”

   “Why come to me? Why not just---“

  “Can’t.” Spike shrugged. Buffy would definitely not be pleased if he robbed Sunnydale Federated. For one thing, it would be hard to overlook. “You have money, and besides, it’s not all that much.”

    “How much?”

    Spike shrugged, trying to keep his excitement from showing. “Couple of grand.”

    Angel thought about it for a minute, then smiled. It was not a pleasant or angelic smile. He looked quite close to Angeles there.

    “I’ll give it to you on two conditions.”

   “Which are?”

   “You never come back to Los Angeles, ever.”

   Big deal. Like the guy had psychic friends network, keeping him informed. Spike shrugged.

   “Well, so?” Angel demanded.

   “Yeah, okay, I guess.  He looked up nervously. “What’s the second condition?”

    Angel smiled that smile again. “Your coat.”