The Offering

By Esmeralda

Part One

Xander had a problem; a small problem about the size of a child's fist, with two glinting black eyes and sludge-green skin. It came with an annoyingly chirpy croak and the ability to materialize and dematerialize, apparently at whim. His troubles started when they went to a Museum to tackle a group of cultists intent on raising an ancient Egyptian mummy. During the resulting scuffle Xander had been sent crashing into a display cabinet; the glass had broken and the items inside scattered about the room. It had also triggered an internal alarm system, and everyone standing had run.

The frog in his pocket had been a surprise, but he hadn't thought much about it while he was fleeing a potential crime scene. He'd tipped it out and hurried to catch the others. The second frog had been slightly more unnerving, as it crawled out from underneath his pillow. The third was positively worrisome, since by then Xander was convinced that they had a leak from the sewer and rats would be the next things he encountered. However, the next thing he encountered was another frog - which hopped and landed in his cereal bowl.

Xander had freaked. Not because he was particularly scared of frogs, but because small green amphibians were not supposed to turn up unannounced at breakfast. After escorting the frog to the sewer, he'd gone out to buy a newspaper. The Newspaper declared the museum break-in to be the work of vandals, since nothing had been taken and several artifacts had been damaged. It ran an additional story on the suspects found unconscious at the scene, who had spoken of yellow-eyed creatures with superhuman strength and agility apparently guarding the museum's artifacts, leading to a lot of speculation about curses. Xander read the story with a growing sense of unease. Supposedly one of the damaged artifacts - a Canopic jar - carried a cursed.

"Chirrup."

Xander dropped the paper with a startled yelp. Recovering, he got down on his knees to eye the little frog crawling across it. "O-kay. Now this is weird." This time instead of evicting the hoppity intruder, Xander gingerly picked the frog up and placed it in the sink. He watched it intently. After five minutes he was starting to feel slightly foolish. It seemed that the frog was just a frog. Suddenly it croaked, hopped and vanished. That decided it.

"Spiiiiiiiike!" Xander ran into the bedroom waving the newspaper. He thrust the article in front of his sleep-befuddled lover. "I think we have a problem."

****************

"So is it the same little guy over and over, or are there lots of froggies queuing up somewhere, waiting their turn?" asked Xander, peering over Doyle's shoulder at the computer screen. They'd found the museum site and were tracking down details on the artifact. Angel and Spike were going through Angel's books checking for facts surrounding curses.

"Couldn't say for sure. My guess is mebbe it was supposed to be a plague," said Doyle. "A sort of Moses-style retribution." He shrugged. "Either the curse got distilled over time, or the guy doin' it fell down on the job."

"Great," said Xander. "I'm being stalked by a Biblical cliché." A small green frog hopped across the desk with a happy chirrup. Xander sighed and nudged it away from the keyboard. "So what does it say about breaking the curse?"

"It doesn't," said Doyle. He scrolled down the screen. "There's everything here: what it's made of. Dimensions. Colour photos of all the pictographs. Where it was found, when it was found, who found it. But they treat the story of the curse as an interestin' footnote. There's just a few lines about how one of the drawings on the thing mentions a warning, relating to a curse."

"I don't get it." Xander was confused. "Why aren't the museum guys being followed round by little hoppy frogs? Didn't they trigger the curse?"

Doyle shook his head. "It was only transferred from a private collection a few months ago. Some Rockefeller type donated it. Apparently, he never broke the seal. The newspaper articles I found said there was some controversy when the museum got their hands on it because they wanted to crack it open. There's been a bit of a debate goin' on. So up to now all they've done is take x-rays and study the exterior. They're probably rubbin' their hands seen as how you've ended the need for any further discussion."

"Glad to be of service," said Xander dryly. "I don't suppose they'd be interested in the frogs too?"

Doyle cast a sympathetic look at his friend. "I'm sure we can break it. It's just a question of finding out the specifics. Like who placed it an' why, an' if it was dedicated to anyone in particular. Sometimes a curse was laid down with a specific somebody in mind. Anyone invoking the curse would have to make good to that somebody to have it lifted."

"Make good?"

"Atonement." Doyle explained.

"Atonement?" Xander's voice rose nervously. "You mean like walking 'round in a hair shirt?"

"It can take any form," said Angel, entering the office followed by a subdued Spike. "We need to know all the details."

"Or you could end up with something worse," said Spike grimly.

"Worse? You mean the whole enchilada. Thousands of froggies?"

Judging by the look on everyone's faces, it could get a lot worse than that.

Part Two

Since the museum web site only provided generalities, they decided to engage the services of an expert to tell them more about the pictographs. Angel took them to meet a guy, who sent them to see another guy, who sent them to another guy, and so it went on. Xander's frog turned up at sporadic intervals. It simply materialized from the air around him; sometimes literally appearing in mid air, plopping into a startled Xander's lap. At other times it crawled out from a pocket, or from under a seat cushion: always in the vicinity of Xander. It invariably hopped about happily for a bit, before disappearing again.

The four entered the latest apartment building they'd been sent to. It was tired and run down, with cracked paintwork and faded wallpaper, badly peeling in places. Though in comparison to the others, this one was at least relatively clean and orderly. There were no broken windows, graffiti on the walls, or used syringes littering the entrance. They climbed the staircase, looking for apartment 4B.

"This guy better deliver the goods," Spike snarled. "Or I'm gonna loop his intestines 'round his neck."

Angel seized Spike by his collar and held onto him; ignoring the fit of swearing the action induced. "We'll wait here," he told Xander and Doyle. "Go and see if this guy can help." Doyle and Xander moved off down the corridor. Angel and Spike remained within sight by the staircase. Spike twisted and cursed until Angel shook him. "Behave," Angel warned. "This guy isn't going to feel like helping if we go in mob-handed." Spike glowered but went still. Angel waited a moment and then let him go.

Doyle and Xander stopped outside apartment 4B. "What do you think?" Xander asked. "Human?"

Doyle shrugged uncertainly. "Mebbe." He raised his hand and knocked. There were sounds of someone moving about inside. Someone approached the door but it didn't open. A slightly muffled voice called out to them.

"Yes?"

"Er, hi," Doyle began. "Some guy called Ed at Felgards Bookshop sent us. He said mebbe you could help us out with a translation?" There was the rattling chink of a door chain being put on. The door opened a few inches and part of a face peered out. From what Doyle could tell it was a human male, a handful of years or so older than himself, with dark hair and glasses. He stared at Doyle suspiciously.

"Who are you?"

"Me? Doyle. I'm…uh…a private investigator, I guess." Doyle had never really given much thought to a job description before. It wasn't as though it was something that came up very often.

"And what do you need transla- Good, Lord. Xander Harris." The English accent was more pronounced as the man caught sight of the youth standing to the side of Doyle.

Xander peered past Doyle to stare through the door gap. "Wesley?!"

Chains rattled hurriedly as the door opened to reveal a slender young man dressed in perfectly creased chinos and a cream linen shirt. His wire-rimmed spectacles lent him a bookish air. He seemed utterly astounded to see Xander on his doorstep. "What?-Why are you here? Is it Buffy?"

"Buffy?" Doyle had already drawn the obvious conclusion that these two were old acquaintances. But how did Buffy figure into this?

Xander shook his head. "No. It's not Buffy. She's fine; still with the Slaying. Giles is fine; still with the non-official watching. This is kind of a personal problem. Can we come in?" Wesley looked uncertain. Xander sighed and moved past Doyle. "If it helps. I don't need you to invite me in."

Wesley pursed his lips and gave a hesitant nod. "Very well." He stepped aside and picked something up as they entered. It was a loaded crossbow. He pointed it at them. "You'll pardon me, I hope, if this seems overly cautious."

"Whatever," said Xander. Totally blasé, he walked past the crossbow-wielding Wesley to sit on the sofa. "Just do us both a favour, yeah. And don't shoot yourself in the foot."

Wesley stiffened; the sarcasm not lost on him. "I assure you there is absolutely no likelihood of that event occurring. I am extremely proficient in this weapons use. I received extensive tutelage as part of my overall training."

"Training?" Doyle inquired softly. He remained standing just inside the doorway. Crossbows made him nervous.

"He's a Watcher," said Xander, in a tone that could just as easily have said 'he's a mailman.'

Wesley looked appropriately aghast at Xander's lack of reverence. "Please. That is not a title to be bandied about in unenlightened company." His gaze darted meaningfully toward Doyle.

"Hey," Doyle objected. "I'm enlightened. "So you're a Watcher too huh?" He looked Wesley up and down. "Yeah, that fits."

Wesley tightened his grip on his crossbow. "As it happens I am no longer a Watcher. The Council and I parted ways some months ago."

"Give you the push did they?" said a voice from outside the open door.

"No, they most certainly did not-" Halfway through the indignant tirade, Wesley's gaze shifted to the doorway. Where the speaker stood, unwilling or unable to enter. For a moment Wesley stared blankly at Spike; however the vampire's distinctive appearance must have filtered down through the Watcher network after Sunnydale. Wesley's eyes suddenly widened in recognition and he swung the crossbow toward Spike. Someone blocked his shot. "A-Angel?" Wesley was clearly bewildered. Nevertheless, he was quick to notice the obvious lack of animosity between the pair. "Angelus," he hissed and prepared to fire. A hand plucked the cross bolt out before he could work the firing mechanism. Doyle stepped back, gripping the cross bolt tightly.

"Not Angelus," said Xander, rising from the sofa. "And we'd appreciate it if you didn't shoot the boss."

"Boss," Wesley repeated faintly. Xander held out a business card. It read 'Angel Investigations' above an unidentifiable squiggle. Wesley read the fine print and then looked around the room at them all. "You're private investigators?" His tone implied a certain amount of disbelief.

"Yeah," said Spike, elbowing Angel out of the way so he could look through the doorway. "We're helpin' the hopeless."

"Helpless," Angel corrected.

Spike shrugged in a 'whatever' manner.

Wesley looked pale. "I think perhaps I need to sit down," he announced to no one in particular. Xander took his sleeve and guided him onto the sofa.

"Listen, we really do need you help. That's why we came here," said Xander. "We need a translation."

Wesley didn't say anything. Setting aside his useless crossbow, he carefully removed his glasses and began to gently polish them with a tissue. After a few moments - visibly less rattled - he replaced his glasses and spoke: "May I ask what part he plays in all of this? That is, if I am correct in my assumption that he is one William the Bloody, also known as Spike. Sired by Angelus. And the killer of two Slayers."

Xander tried to hide a wince. He didn't think that now was a good time to tell Wesley that he and Spike were an item. "He helps too," he offered lamely.

"He helps?" Wesley was clearly believing none of it. "In what capacity?"

"In the demon-arse kicking capacity," Spike growled from the doorway. "Now are you gonna fuckin' let us in or what."

"I rather think not," said Wesley. "For unlike Mr. Harris here. I have not taken total leave of my senses." Wesley stood and went over to the doorway. Doyle and Xander watched him closely. Wesley stared hard at Spike. "You are an evil soulless, merciless, undead killer. I don't know what line you have used upon them to inveigle your way into their good graces, but I warn you now, it will not work on me." He drew himself up stiffly.

"Boo," said Spike leaning forward; smiling when Wesley jumped and stumbled back slightly. "Yeah, you're the big, bad, brave Watcher." He snorted in disgust.

Wesley recovered quickly. "I told you. I'm not a Watcher."

"Oh, yeah. They gave you the ol'heave-ho." Spike sounded amused.

"No. It was a mutual-" Wesley stopped and his expression suddenly turned crestfallen. "Actually, yes. Yes, all right. Your assumption is correct. I was dismissed." He sighed heavily, then his expression turned steely. "Not that I see its any concern of yours."

"Oh, I ain't concerned, mate."

"Stop it," Angel cut in irritably. "Enough, both of you. We didn't come here to snipe or gloat."

"Speak for yourself," Spike muttered.

Angel pushed Spike to one side, so he stood facing Wesley. "Xander's telling you the truth. We came because someone told us you might be able to help us with a translation." Angel reached inside his coat and took out a rolled up bundle of computer printouts.

"I don't see why you need my help," said Wesley. "It's my understanding that you are quite well-versed with demonic languages."

"This isn't demonic," said Angel.

"It's Egyptian," Xander supplied.

"We need it to break a curse." Doyle filled in the rest.

"A curse?" Wesley visibly perked up. "You mean an actual-"

"Yeah," Xander cut in. "You should be meeting the product of it any time now."

"I don't understand," said Wesley, sliding his glasses back up his nose as he turned to face Xander.

"Frogs," said Xander.

"Pardon?"

"He said frogs. Are you fuckin' deaf."

"Spike." Angel's tone reduced Spike's outburst to a bout of sullen muttering.

"See, I kind of accidentally broke something," Xander explained unhappily. "And now I'm being followed around by frogs. Or a frog anyways. "

"Hmm," said Wesley. In a manner that one usually reserves for the dangerously delusional. "This is a dream isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"I'm actually asleep over there." Wesley pointed to a desk and a flickering computer screen. He began to mumble to himself. "I really shouldn't have chanced eating that yogurt. It was several days past its recommended date. This is no doubt some food-poisoning induced nightmare."

"He's lost it," said Spike, glancing at the ex-Watcher past Angel's shoulder.

"Wesley," said Angel patiently. "You aren't having a nightmare. You're not hallucinating. We're here and we need your help. Now will you help us or not?"

"Chirrup."

"Good, Lord."

"Not quite. Wesley, meet Kermit. Kermit. Wesley."

Wesley stared hard at the little green frog nestling in Xander's hand. "Is it real?"

"As far as we can figure it's real enough," said Doyle. "It hangs about for a few, then vanishes."

"Remarkable." Wesley glanced at the pair waiting in the hallway. "But I'm afraid I'm still not persuaded to invite you in." He pointedly ignored a comment from Spike relating to his parents' matrimonial status at the time of his birth. "However, if you can provide me with the relevant details I'll see what I can do to assist."

That was good enough. Xander took the papers from Angel and gave them to Wesley, who unfurled them and perused them in silence for several minutes. When he eventually spoke he sounded quite excited. "Well, I can tell you that these aren't your standard Egyptian hieroglyphics. Where were they taken from?"

"A jar," said Xander.

"A Canopic Jar?"

Xander nodded, and Wesley frowned in consternation. "That wouldn't be the same Canopic jar mentioned in today's press?" He looked pointedly at the doorway. "Yellow-eyed demons?"

"They were going to raise a mummy," Angel defended awkwardly.

"I see," said Wesley dryly. "Well, I suppose that makes all the difference."

"Too bloody right it does. Unless you want some mouldering corpse stumblin' about the place trailin' bodies and bandages. These gits aren't known for wakin' up in a good mood. Usually they just go on a killin' spree 'til someone takes a torch to 'em."

"You couldn't have just warned the museum?" Wesley argued. "The artifacts you destroyed were irreplaceable."

"There's a call I'd love to make," said Xander. He held his hand to his ear to mimic a phone. "Hey, sorry to trouble you, but did you know that a bunch of wannabe mummy worshippers are planning on raiding your place tonight to wake up one of the old guys." Spike sniggered and Xander continued scornfully. "Yeah, they'd just lap that one up. And to make a point here: we didn't destroy anything. Except maybe a display cabinet well past its use-buy date. All that pot got was a few cracks. They wanted the thing open anyway."

"Oh well, that makes everything all right then," Wesley sniped back, some of his old animosity for Xander coming to the fore. He hadn't forgotten how the teenager had taken every possible opportunity to get a rise out of him during his inadvisable courtship of the lovely Cordelia Chase. "A priceless artifact irredeemably ruined, but it's all in a good cause so we'll just forget about it."

"Look, it's over an' done with," said Doyle. "So the who, the why, an' the how are hardly the point here. Can we just get back to the glyphs? You said they're not the normal kind. Why? What's different about 'em?"

Wesley lips remained tight with disapproval as he answered. "They only partially conform to recognized formations. I can only imagine the stir they must have caused when they came into the museum's possession. I very much doubt that they will have been able to identify the variations. I think that some of this is Elpfargic."

"Elpfargic." Four voices echoed; though only three held any understanding.

Xander just looked confused. "What's Elpfargic?"

"Demon lingo, Pet."

Wesley didn't appear to notice the use of the affectionate title. "I'm going to need several texts to cross-reference the regional variations." He began to scribble notes down on a scrap of paper. "This first volume should be available from Felgards, but I'm afraid I've no idea where you might find the other two." He held up the note. Doyle took it - read it - shrugged and passed it to Angel.

"I can get hold of a copy of Zsatrat's Lexicon. Are you sure you need this other one?" Angel handed the note to Spike.

Wesley nodded. "The regional dialects of Elpfargic are extremely diverse. I will need all three to make the necessary comparisons."

Spike shook his head and passed the note back to Angel. "Never 'eard of it." He narrowed his eyes at Wesley. "You're sure the bleedin' thing exists?"

"Of course," said Wesley indignantly.

"Then we'll find it," said Angel.

"I can start work on these." Wesley shuffled through the printouts. "I may need to enlarge the images."

"I can give you a hand with that if you want," Doyle offered. His overall opinion of Watchers wasn't that great and he wanted to keep an eye on this one. The suggestion was met with an unhappy look from Angel, whichDoyle noticed. "I'll be fine," he assured his lover. "Why don't you an' Spike go get the books. Me and Xander'll keep Wes company."

"It's Wesley."

"Hey," Xander objected. "I don't want to hang with the dork."

Spike growled, giving his opinion of the idea.

Wesley sputtered.

Doyle tried to soothe things over. "He might need to run some things by us, we can answer any questions he has about the curse, yeah?" He looked pointedly at his friend, trying to get across the message that he didn't want to leave Wesley alone with this. He seemed to succeed when Xander reluctantly conceded.

"I guess."

"Oi!" Spike didn't get the opportunity to voice his objections; Angel cut him off.

"-All right. We'll be back in a few hours." Doyle moved closer; Angel spoke softly to him. "Listen, Wesley's okay, but he tends to go by-the-book. He wears blinkers for the grey areas. So be careful."

"We'll be okay. You take care too, yeah." Doyle stood away.

Angel beckoned Xander forward and discreetly indicated that it might be an idea for him to have a word with a quietly seething Spike. Xander carefully set down his frog and stepped out into the hallway. Spike was slouched against the wall trying to appear indifferent to the goings on; the gold ringing dark blue irises gave him away. Xander leaned against the wall facing him.

"Hey."

Spike didn't bother returning the greeting. "I don't want you hangin' around that sod."

"Yeah well, hanging out with Wesley isn't on my list of things to do either." Xander sidled closer, slipping a hand inside the battered duster to play with his lover's t-shirted chest. He felt around for a nipple, dragging his thumbnail across it until it hardened. "But I think Doyle wants us to keep an eye on him. Don't you?"

"If he tries anything-"

"What's he going to try? As far as he's concerned I'm still the same old Xander Harris: Slayerette and bitter teen. And I can't believe I'm defending the guy, but he is a white-hat. He's not going to do anything to hurt me. Human - remember?"

Spike shook his head and kissed Xander. "Not quite human, Pet. Remember?"

"I know. But it's not like he's gonna notice the difference. Not in the time I'm gonna be here." Xander gave Spike's nipple one last playful pinch, then took his hand back and gave Spike a little push. "Now go help Angel with the books. I'm fed up being Frog-boy."

Spike reluctantly turned and walked back toward the staircase. He called over his shoulder without looking. "Come on, Peaches. Get your fat arse in gear."

Angel spared Xander a grateful nod and took off after Spike. Xander watched them leave and then went back inside.

Part Three

Wesley scanned the printouts into his computer, isolating and enlarging the glyphs. He kept one eye on his guests at all times, watching the pair with varying degrees of mistrust and curiosity. He'd briefly considered calling Mr. Giles to ascertain the real reason for Xander Harris' presence, but was reluctant to disturb his erstwhile colleague. The idea that the teen could truly be working for a paranormal detective agency was particularly irksome. Devastated by his dismissal from the Watchers, Wesley had come to L.A. with ideas along a similar line of employment. Unfortunately, it had proven much harder than he had anticipated. Hunting demons was considerably more difficult when one was not predisposed to detect them.

He told himself that it was only a matter of time before things picked up. He told himself that life was far better now that he wasn't forced to live by the Council's archaic rules. No longer duty bound to try and meet their exacting standards. He could not in all good conscience have remained within the order anyway; the guilt of his personal failures weighted with what he had begun to see as the Council's gross self-absorption and rigid conformity. Their treatment of the Slayers under their care spoke to him of callous neglect; their blank refusal to even consider researching a poison antidote for Angel, one in a long line of errors. When even he could see that Angel was no ordinary vampire.

Unfortunately, since he no longer had his comfortable Watcher's living allowance, until things did pick up he was subsisting on his rapidly dwindling savings. He supplemented his meager funds by doing the odd piece of translation, transcribing documents - that sort of thing. He spent a fair amount of his spare time (of which he had an abundance) browsing the shelves at Felgards. The bookshop specialized in rare and old works, and included a fairly extensive demonology section.

Wesley had succumbed to the lure of several fascinating volumes, forgoing other luxuries - such as food and heat - in order to purchase them. Though usually he had to content himself with simply looking. This had eventually led to several interesting conversations with Ed, the shop owner; who in time began to put work his way.

Wesley should have been happy. He loved books; he made no secret of that. Instead, he remained frustrated and disheartened. He didn't want to hide out in his apartment, pouring over dusty old texts. He wanted more in the way of action; wasn't that what he'd trained for all his adult life? To be a Slayer's companion: to share in the responsibility, the excitement, and the dangers. Now he was being forced to draw the bitter conclusion that this irritating boy had succeeded where he continued to fail. Xander Harris was working the preternatural L.A. scene, helping the helpless, while Wesley Wyndham-Pryce sat alone in a low-rent apartment with his books.

A deeply disgruntled Wesley allowed Doyle to assist with the hieroglyphs, and while they were waiting for it to finish printing out the revised images, Wesley took the opportunity to make a closer observation of Xander. This was quite clearly a very different Xander Harris to the obnoxious teen who had so irritated him during his stay in Sunnydale. The initial changes were quite obvious. This Xander had a leaner, harder appearance: the softness of youth almost entirely shorn away. The top half of the young man's body was concealed beneath a loose shirt and a leather jacket, but the jeans were fitted enough that Wesley could see the implied strength of trim muscle.

The other physical change Wesley noted was slightly more worrying. Xander was much paler than the last time they had met, perhaps not your undead pallor, but sufficient to imply that he hadn't been spending a lot of time in the sun lately. His expression was different too. There was something about his eyes and his manner - again it was harder, cooler, more confident. Wesley's overall impression was that this was young man comfortable in his own skin. Was it simply a case of youth shedding the awkward teenage years? Or were there more sinister implications?

Wesley turned his assessing gaze to Xander's companion. He concluded that Doyle was Xander's senior by six or seven years: he placed Doyle in his mid to late twenties. Like Xander, Doyle was very pale, but unlike Xander, he also appeared somewhat tired and drawn. There were noticeable dark shadows under his eyes. He was shorter and more slightly built than Xander. He was also very fast. Even distracted as he had been by Spike and Angel, Wesley had concluded that Doyle must have demonstrated an impressive turn of speed to close the gap between them and remove the cross bolt - all without him catching any sign of motion from the corner of his eye.

All of Wesley's observations only increased his sense of unease. He moved away from the computer and took a turn about the room; trying to appear nonchalant as he palmed a small bottle of holy water from a shelf. He kept it hidden as he approached Xander. "May I see your hand please?" he asked politely. Xander gave him a bemused look.

"What? You want to check I've been cleaning the dirt out from under my nails?" Xander adopted a mock serious expression. "Yes, mother. I have. And I scrubbed my neck and changed my underwear too." He put his hand over his heart in pretence of a sudden shock. "No wait let me guess. You want to see if I've taken to wearing black nail polish. Relax, Wesley. I'm not a vampire groupie."

"If I might just see your hand," Wesley repeated. His polite tone only slightly strained.

"Funny, you never struck me as the touchy-feely sort. But sure, go ahead. Knock yourself out." Xander held out his hand.

Wesley tried to ignore the heated flush that stole across his cheekbones. He bypassed Xander's proffered hand, reaching instead for the youth's wrist. He encircled it with his thumb and forefinger, feeling for a pulse. To his relief it was there: strong and steady, if a little slow.

Xander chuckled softly as Wesley let go and he took his hand back. "The fact that I'm breathing not good enough for you, Wes?"

"Vampires have been know to imitate breathing patterns," said Wesley stiffly. "You can hardly blame me for being suspicious under the circumstances."

Xander shrugged. "I don't."

Hating himself for asking, but compelled by curiosity, Wesley put forward a question that had been gnawing at him. "What exactly is it that you do in your work for Angel? You'll forgive me if I don't see you in the role of research assistant or hired muscle." Actually, that last part wasn't quite true. Even while just loosely holding Xander's wrist, Wesley had received an overall impression of sureness and strength. Xander didn't respond to his question. The young man was moving to Doyle's side as Doyle suddenly collapsed. Wesley watched with considerable consternation as Doyle jerked and shuddered; as though in the throws of a severe fit. He reached for the phone.

"Don't." Something in Xander's tone stopped Wesley in the process of dialing 911. "Give him a minute. He'll be fine."

Wesley hesitated, then set the receiver back in its cradle and moved to kneel beside Xander. "Are you quite sure? He looks bad. Does this happen often?" Even as he spoke, Wesley cursed himself for the inanity of his questions. He felt useless. Something he hated. To his surprise Xander gave a little 'chuff' of laughter, though there was an underlining sadness to his words when he spoke.

"Often enough, yeah."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Xander shook his head tersely. He held his friend with what appeared to be practiced ease: cushioning thrashing limbs and whispering reassurances. After what was probably no more than a minute, Doyle stopped. He lay briefly in Xander's arms, dazed and slightly breathless. When he began to struggle to get up Xander tried to gently restrain his friend. "Easy. Take a breath first, okay?"

"No time," Doyle gasped. He rubbed at his forehead, grimacing. "We hafta move now."

"Now?" For the first time since his arrival, Xander's youthfulness showed - uncertainty colouring his words. "Shouldn't we wait?"

Doyle got to his feet with Xander's help. "She's runnin' from 'em. We hafta get to her first."

Wesley was utterly baffled. "Who's running? Wait for who?" Doyle looked at him, and the depth of that steady green gaze suddenly struck Wesley. He was certain in that instant that this was no ordinary young man.

"Do you have a car?"

"What…er…no. I have a bike."

Doyle looked dismayed. "A bicycle?"

"No," Wesley snapped. Annoyed by the assumption. "A motorcycle. Quite a powerful machine actually."

"That'll do," said Doyle. "Xander, we're headin' to that place where we killed the Mushchaa demon. Remember it?"

Xander nodded worriedly. "Listen, I really think we should wait. Angel will be on his way back-"

"-And you can fill him in when he gets here," Doyle finished.

"Me?"

"What Mushchaa demon? Will somebody tell me what you're talking about?" Wesley demanded. They ignored him.

"You hafta stay here," Doyle explained. "Unless you can control Wes' machine?"

"That would be a no," said Xander.

"You're not hijacking my bike," Wesley protested.

"No one's hijacking anything," said Doyle. "You're drivin'."

"Driving?" Wesley echoed, utterly lost. "Where? Why? I'm not going anywhere until one of you tells me what's going on." Doyle was trying to usher him toward the door. Wesley resisted.

Doyle sighed. "All right. You want to know?"

"If it's not too much trouble." Wesley didn't bother to hide his peevishness.

"That little fallin' down display was me getting' a message. Someone's in trouble: a kid. So we're gonna jump on your bike and charge to the rescue. Now. Before it's too late."

Wesley was stunned to say the least. "A message? You mean like a prophetic warning?"

"A vision, yes." Doyle sounded weary. "From the Powers That Be," he intoned. "Now can we just go?"

Wesley retrieved his keys from the desk drawer and picked up his helmet. He looked at Doyle apologetically. "I'm afraid I only have the one."

"I'll be fine," Doyle assured him. He turned to Xander. "Tell Angel to watch himself. Tell him the boys in green from Sunnydale have come to pay a visit."

Wesley didn't understand the reference.

Xander clearly did. Emotions flitted across the young man's face in rapid succession - foremostly shock; then anger and some fear. "Angel's gonna have my liver," he muttered darkly. He surprised Wesley by pulling Doyle into a quick hug; whispering something Wesley couldn't catch.

Doyle nodded in response then drew away and turned back to face Wesley. "Are you comin'?"

Wesley still had no idea what was going on. Did he want to help? - Most definitely yes. He politely waved a hand toward the door. "After you." Doyle grinned and opened it. Wesley caught a last glimpse of Xander's worried face as they left, and wondered what he was getting into.

Part Four

Doyle directed them to a warehouse district close to the docks; where they left the motorcycle and continued on foot. It was close to 10.00pm and the area was deserted. Or so Wesley assumed, until Doyle nudged his arm and led his gaze upwards, to the warehouse roof opposite. Wesley scanned the flat roof, staring into the darkness. He caught a glint of something - a reflection from glass or metal - and his eyes were drawn to a shadowy form. Doyle nudged his arm again, this time pointing Wesley's gaze to an open window. A figure caught briefly in the glare of a security light; a man dressed in army-style fatigues.

"Who are they?" Wesley whispered.

Doyle grimaced. "The Government's answer to demon control: a secret military group. They call themselves 'The Initiative'. They hunt down demons using fancy gadgetry and then let their scientists loose on them."

Wesley couldn't believe what he was hearing. The Government: involved in capturing demons? Did they know the nature of the creatures they were imprisoning? How long had this been going on? Was the Council aware? Nothing had ever been mentioned in his presence, but then he reflected bitterly, it wouldn't have been the first time they'd neglected to inform him of something. He couldn't imagine the Council tolerating Government interference; then again how could they prevent it? His thoughts were in turmoil as Doyle walked on, indicating Wesley should follow.

They kept to the shadows, avoiding the security lighting. Wesley found the going somewhat difficult. Doyle appeared untroubled by the darkness; occasionally pointing out an obstacle Wesley had failed to spot. Eventually, they came to a warehouse with a pile of empty crates and metal drums piled up against the outer wall.

"She's here somewhere," Doyle muttered.

Wesley looked, but couldn't see anyone.

Doyle went to one end of the pile - knelt - and peered between the crates. His expression softened into a smile. "Hi there."

Wesley crouched down and followed Doyle's line of sight. From deep amongst the crates, two silvery eyes shone. As he watched they seemed to edge away.

Doyle frowned. "Can you go back a bit? I think you're scaring her."

Wesley was indignant. Why him specifically? However, at Doyle's insistence he moved back.

Doyle continued to speak in a low, soothing voice. "Listen, I know you're scared, but I need you to trust me. My name's Doyle. This is Wesley. We're not with the guys chasin' you. We've been sent to help. Can you understand me?" Despite the coaxing tone and reassuring words, the girl showed no indication of leaving her bolthole. Either she didn't understand, or she was simply unwilling to chance trusting them.

Wesley was about to suggest that he take a turn, when Doyle glanced nervously at him.

"Look, I'm gonna try something. Just don't start shoutin' or anything, okay?"

Wesley nodded. The transformation was swift. The pale skin and green eyes were gone; in there place twin crimson orbs glittered from a green face littered with tiny blue spines. Wesley's mouth dropped open. He was amazed. He was also disgusted - with himself. Wonderful, apparently he couldn't recognize a demon even when he was standing less than three feet away from one. Some rogue demon hunter he was turning out to be. Perhaps it was time to reconsider his career choice. Biting back a sigh, he waited to see how Doyle was going to handle this.

Doyle spoke again, holding out his hand. "See, I'm like you. An' we're both gonna be in a world of trouble if they catch us. So let's go, yeah? Quick, before they find us."

Silence. Then there was sound of scuffling feet as the girl emerged from the crates. Had she been a human child, going by her height and build, Wesley would have placed her as six or seven years old. However, she was definitely not human. She had intense, pale blue eyes with narrow pupils. Her skin was virtually white and had a slightly iridescent sheen to it. Something akin to fish scales shimmered around her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. She had delicate features and slender limbs. What at first glance appeared to be an elaborate hairstyle was in fact not hair at all - they were quills. Long and yellow; they rattled like beads when she moved her head. She was clothed like a human child, in battered sneakers, a maroon jumper, and a navy corduroy skirt.

Doyle smiled gently at her. Wesley remembered himself and managed a smile too. The girl stared at them in solemn silence, and then cocked her head as though listening for something. She poised, tense: ready to run or flee back into her hiding place. Wesley couldn't hear anything. Doyle apparently could.

"We gotta go." Doyle held his hand out to the girl. "Comin'?" She hesitated, and then took his hand. They ran back to the bike; speed now taking precedence over caution. When they reached it, Doyle took of his jacket and bundled it around the girl, seating her on the machine between them. He shifted back into human form as Wesley kicked the motorcycle into life and they took off.

********************

High on a rooftop, a young man wearing night vision goggles spoke into a radio: "All units, hostile is leaving the vicinity. Repeat, hostile has vacated grid 14. I've still got a visual. Two adult males have joined it: possibly humans. Heading south on a motorcycle, license plate 190587. Over."

"This is unit 3. Running the plate now. We have the owner: Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. British National." He read out Wesley's address.

"Roger that. All units converge and prepare to head out."

Part Five

Angel turned the car around as soon as he felt it - the familiar twinges that heralded the start of another vision. The pain was no longer debilitating; the fierce agony tamed to a dull ache. While Doyle suffered as he had prior to Wolfram & Hart's involvement, with no further loss of consciousness and no repeat of the spontaneous injuries. As the Cadillac performed a screeching u-turn, Spike rolled his eyes and muttered something about Tonto needing to work on his timing.

They arrived back at Wesley's apartment block and headed up the stairs; even before they reached the fourth floor, Angel knew Doyle wasn't going to be there. Xander was waiting for them in the hallway. They were greeted with a look of intense relief. "Finally. Okay, let's go. He's at that warehouse place where we took out that Mushy thing."

"Mushy thing?" Angel tried to work out what Xander meant as they raced back to the stairwell. "The Mushchaa demon?"

"Yeah. I told him to wait but he said we couldn't chance it. There's a kid, a girl, being chased by someone." Xander took a breath. "He said it was The Initiative." Angel stopped so quickly Xander nearly got whiplash trying to maintain eye contact.

"The Initiative? Here? In L.A.?"

Xander nodded unhappily. "He told me to tell you to watch yourself. He said that the boys in green from Sunnydale are paying us a visit."

Spike swore violently and punched the wall; his hand left a fist-sized hole in the plasterboard.

"He knew it was them and he went alone?" Angel was trying very hard not to get angry. He didn't want to blame Xander. He certainly wouldn't have felt any better if Xander had gone too.

Xander looked even more miserable. "No, Wesley's with him. They took Wesley's motorcycle."

Angel knew what it must have cost Xander to stay behind. He trailed his finger down the young's man cheek. "Come on," he told him softly. Spike finished shaking plaster debris from his hand as they continued down the stairs. They climbed into the Cadillac and were about to drive off when Wesley's motorcycle pulled up. Angel immediately killed the engine and was waiting on the sidewalk before Wesley's foot touched the ground.

The Bond told him Doyle was unhurt but Angel needed to satisfy his own eyes. As Doyle scrambled off the motorcycle, he frantically searched his lover for any sign of injury. He was struggling to hold back - mindful of Wesley's presence. However, his restraint was crumbling. He wanted to touch his lover, hold him---shake him until his teeth rattled. What had Doyle been thinking? Angel had been working on what Doyle called his white knight persona. But he'd be the first to admit that he had his limits. To have his lover go up against The Initiative - alone - was so far past those limits, Angel couldn't even see where he'd drawn the line.

Angel was close to losing it when he felt a hand settle against the small of his back, the gentle pressure grounding him. He knew at once without turning around that it was Spike, and the unexpected show of comfort almost undid him anyway.

Wesley removed his helmet. He appeared flushed and buoyant with the apparent success of their venture. By contrast, Doyle looked pale and unsettled; though he was able to summon up a smile for his lover. It faltered slightly as he realized that Angel was one seriously unhappy vamp. Not about to let himself be condemned for his recklessness, Doyle let a little of his own irritation show. "Look, can we go in? Only the kid's terrified an' we ain't helpin' none, standing out here, glarin' at one another."

For the first time Angel allowed his gaze to travel downward, to the small figure standing slightly behind Doyle. A pair of pale blue eyes stared fearfully back at him. Even bundled up in Doyle's coat she was clearly a demon. Angel looked back up, at Doyle's faintly challenging expression. "She's the girl from your vision?"

"Yeah."

"I think she's a Quix demon," said Wesley. That's the only species I can think of that has both the facial scales and the quills. As he spoke he waved a hand toward the girl. He drew it back again quickly when the girl growled and bared her teeth, the quills on her head rattling in a definite warning.

Spike smirked. "I like her."

"Yes, well." said a slightly flustered Wesley. "We had better get her inside." He directed a hesitant look toward Angel and Spike and gave a sigh. "All of us."

They followed Wesley up the stairs; the girl firmly fixed to Doyle's side. Opening the door of his apartment, Wesley heaved another dramatic sigh as he invited Angel and Spike inside, muttering something about a head examination. Angel offered Wesley a faint smile. Spike simply swaggered in and made himself at home on the sofa, tugging Xander down to sit next to him.

Angel's anger was abating now that Doyle had returned unharmed. He watched his lover lead the girl to a chair. She refused to sit in it, instead clinging to Doyle's arm, trying to hide behind him. She grew increasingly agitated until Doyle gave in and stood holding her hand. Angel noticed the girl seemed particularly nervous around Spike and him; and he wondered if she knew that they were vampires. Since the vision was linked to her, Angel wanted to know what they were supposed to do next. Were they supposed to return her to her family? Had The Initiative had already captured them?

It would be too easy to dismiss The Initiative as clueless Government goons, meddling with things they could never comprehend. The truth was The Initiative was a well-armed, well-trained military unit, too numerous to challenge head on. Angel didn't relish the thought of going up against them again. They'd been lucky the last time; someone or something else had muddied the battlefield. In the resulting confusion they'd been forced into an uneasy truce. Angel didn't foresee any such occurrence aiding them this time.

"You said she's a Quix demon?" Angel asked Wesley.

Wesley was leafing through a book he'd pulled out from a pile on the desk. "Hmm, what? Oh. Yes. They're not native to these shores. They were originally of Icelandic origin. They were quite renowned as storytellers and bards. I have some examples of their work somewhere here. They -"

Angel interrupted before Wesley could give them the full history. "Do you speak Quix?"

"Quixon," Wesley corrected.

"Quixon," said Angel with forced patience. He turned to Doyle. "You're sure she can't understand?"

Doyle shrugged. "She could be fakin' it, but I don't think so."

Spike sat forward. The girl ducked further behind Doyle. Spike smiled and looked around Doyle to speak to her. "Hello, nibblet. I think you know what I am, but I reckon he's right, and you haven't got a clue what I'm sayin'. So, if I say that I'm gonna have myself a tasty little morsel, snacking on your hot sticky, little innards…." The girl didn't react until Spike let his smile shift into something crueler; then she drew back with a gasp.

Doyle glared at Spike. "You made your point. Now leave her alone."

Spike adopted a disinterested expression and sat back. He whispered something to Xander; who'd been observing the performance with a vaguely troubled look. Xander's unease immediately vanished; replaced by a fond smile. He nodded and gave the girl a small wave. She peered at him from behind Doyle's legs.

Angel continued to interrogate Wesley. "Can you ask her what happened? Who is she? Where's she from? Does she have any family here? Where are they?"

Wesley held up his hand to forestall the stream of questions. "I'll try," he agreed. He approached Doyle and crouched down so that he was level with the girl. "Meskaa (Hello)." She looked at him, eyes widening slightly. "Chu sav ir Wesley. Buse ir Doyle, Angel, Xander tua Spike." He pointed to each of the others in turn.

The girl's mouth twitched in very tiny smile. "Spik?"

"Spike," Wesley corrected gently.

"Spik ir liskaa." The girl giggled.

Spike frowned. "Oi. What's she sayin'?" At the sound of his voice the girl shrank back, her expression fearful.

"Please," said Wesley, frustrated by Spike's interruption. "I'm trying to persuade her that we mean her no harm. I was performing introductions in the hope that she might return the favour. It would appear that in her language, Spike, or Spik as she pronounces it, is a kind of fish."

Xander hurriedly turned a laugh into a cough as his lover pinned him with a glare.

"Forget the polite chat," said Spike. "Find out what she's doin' here."

Wesley sent Spike a cold look before returning his attention to the girl, adopting a kindly expression. "Benta ir daa sav?" (What is your name?)

The girl hesitated. "Shekaa."

Wesley smiled. "Meskaa, Shekaa. Pal da schen kiv bisa kaftt humans chenn hannikan da?" (Hello, Shekaa. Do you know why those other humans were chasing you?)

She nodded. "Rek."

"Kiv?"

"Ve juba bu-e esceel. Dav chenn metueruv. Dav hannikas ju." (We came on a ship. They were waiting. They chased us.)

"Kasch puur ans fua loota liikad." (That must have been very frightening.)

"Rek," said the girl in a small wavering voice. She was close to tears as she remembered.

"Luffa, bent'aa kel chen." (Well, you're safe now.) Wesley again pointed to the others in the room. "Zu all ca pin schap da." (No one here will hurt you.)

The girl managed a wobbly smile and Wesley continued to gently question her. He had a flair for languages, but felt more confident with the written word. Nevertheless, he made a valiant attempt to wrap his tongue around Quixon. The girl giggled at his occasional mispronunciations and instructed him how to pronounce the word correctly. She gradually emerged from behind Doyle, having apparently decided to claim Wesley as her new protector.

With the girl clinging to him, Wesley relayed the information he'd discovered. The girl's name was Shekaa, and she was an illegal immigrant. She had arrived in the country by boat, along with her family and several others. The Initiative had been waiting for them as soon as the boat docked. Everyone else had been chased down and rounded up. She had been small and quick enough to slip away. They'd been hunting her since then. She had no idea where they'd taken her family - her mother, father, brother and grandmother.

"I'm guessing Quixon are pretty harmless?" asked a subdued Xander.

"Yes," said Wesley quietly. "They're completely non-violent. In fact they often face hostile attacks from other demons."

"Including vampires." Angel guessed.

"Well, yes," Wesley admitted awkwardly. "But I've explained about your soul, and how because of it you want to help others now." He added: "I had to tell her that Spike has one too."

"What?" Spike sounded outraged.

"I didn't know how else to explain your presence in a manner that would make her feel less afraid." Wesley pushed his glasses back up his nose, regaling Spike with a haughty look. "Especially since I am still having trouble explaining that part to myself."

"Yes!" said Xander suddenly, startling everyone in the room. They frowned at him. "Sorry," he mumbled. "But I've been waiting for him to show up."

"Who?" Doyle asked.

"Kermit," said Xander. Holding out his hand to reveal the little frog, which gave a happy chirrup.

"You're glad to see him?" Doyle seemed concerned for Xander's sanity.

Xander shrugged. "Not exactly. Spike just thought the little guy might entertain Shekaa."

Three incredulous stares switched to Spike. "What?" he snapped. "Little kids like that kind of thing. I just thought it would help keep the nibblet quiet." He snatched the Frog from Xander with a gruff: "Here, give us that." He held it surprisingly gently, setting it down on the coffee table. It hopped along it chirruping. The girl stared at it in wonder. When the frog reached one end of the table, Spike carefully picked it up and put it back in the middle. After watching it for a moment or two, the girl slowly unwound herself from Wesley and crouched down on the floor. She reached out to touch the frog, giggling when it hopped away from her.

"Tell her to be gentle with it," Spike instructed Wesley.

Wesley stared at him.

"Go on," said Spike irritably. "Tell her."

Blinking in astonishment, Wesley did. The little girl cocked her head to one side, listening to him closely; then she said something. Wesley addressed Spike in a faint tone. "She..ah…wants you to show her how to pick it up. Without hurting it." He sounded like he couldn't quite believe what he was saying.

Spike dropped down to sit cross-legged on the floor, carefully arranging the folds of his duster. "Like this," he told the girl, and demonstrated how to gently lift the frog up, cradling it in his hand, secure so it couldn't fall. "Tell her not to lift it too high, in case it gets free and hops it."

Wesley relayed what Spike had said. The girl nodded solemnly and held her hand out for the frog. Spike carefully placed the little frog in her hand, gently taking her other hand and cupping it over the top, closing the frog in. She giggled as tiny feet tickled her skin, then glanced warily at Spike. "Daa pensh ir brizav jip huta'j, mes caav ila teushaa. Ja senka inn's pall sveel."

Spike frowned. "What's she sayin' now?"

Wesley looked like he was trying to choke back a smile of his own. "She, ahm says that your skin is cold like his, but not so slimey. She thinks it's quite nice."

"The frog?"

"Your skin."

Spike frowned and stared at the girl. She smiled back at him shyly. "Yeah. Well. Tell her thanks," he muttered, getting up. Xander slung an arm loosely around his shoulders.

"I guess maybe we should start calling you frog boy."

Spike didn't bother responding to the jibe, at least not verbally. However, the look he sent Xander's way had Wesley willing himself not to take a step back. Xander merely grinned, apparently unfazed by the unspoken threats of bodily harm.

"So what's next?" Doyle asked.

"I guess we have to get her family back," said Angel.

"From The Initiative?" Xander's grin faded rapidly. "I don't mean to diss the idea. I just don't see how we're gonna do it. We don't even know where they are."

"We can ask around," Doyle suggested. "Mebbe someone else has heard something."

"I have a few contacts that I could try," Wesley offered. They looked at him. "Well, not many," he admitted. "But the owner of Felgards is somewhat of a gossip, and he has contacts in the demon as well as the human communities. I might be able to get something out of him."

Angel nodded. "It's worth a try."

"Since when did the ponce start workin' with us?" Spike growled.

Wesley's face fell.

Xander smacked Spike on the arm. "Not nice. Wes is trying to help. Give the guy a break."

It was hard to say what had Wesley looking more surprised - Xander leaping to his defense, or Spike apparently listening to Xander and leaving him alone.

"What about Lorne?" Xander suggested. "Maybe he could give us something. She could sing for him."

"You want to take a little girl to a nightclub?" Spike wore a look of mock horror. "That poor little kid and all those evil, drunken-"

"Doofus," said Xander, smacking Spike again. This time however, Spike responded with startling swiftness. Tugging Xander under his arm and rapping his knuckles against the young man's head. "Ouch," Xander yelped.

The girl picked up her frog and scurried back over to Wesley. "Messa pisha?"

"No, they're not fighting," said Wesley in amazement, forgetting that she wouldn't understand. "I actually think that they're friends." He glanced down when she tugged his sleeve and remembered to repeat the phrase in Quixon. She relaxed at once.

Angel supposed that from an outsider's point of view, a friendship between the pair was highly unlikely. He didn't want Wesley thinking too hard about just how unlikely it was. "Okay, Wesley can try the bookshop, the rest of us can ask around, and we'll keep Lorne in mind if nothing else turns up. We can always visit him out of hours."

Spike suddenly crossed the room and stood beside the door. He tilted his head toward it, listening intently. "We've got company."

Angel listened. He could detect four heartbeats in the corridor.

"Is it them?" Xander asked.

Spike waved him silent; then turned and nodded to Angel.

Angel didn't question his Childe's judgment. "Let's go." He went to the window.

Doyle cursed, grabbing the computer printouts before joining Angel. "Fuck. They must have seen the bike."

"Who?" Wesley was bewildered. "What are you doing?" he asked Angel; who was opening the window.

Doyle explained. "The soldier boys are comin' to visit. Time for us to make a hasty exit."

Spike held out his hand to the girl. "Come on, Nibblet." She hesitated, then scooped up the frog and took hold of Spike's hand, glancing back nervously at Wesley.

"How do you know it's them?" said Wesley. No one bothered answering him. Doyle and Xander were already standing on the ledge outside. Spike went next and Angel scooped up the little girl and handed her out to him. "I've got a perfectly legitimate reason to be here," Wesley continued. "This is my apartment. Why on earth should I recklessly endanger myself climbing out of windows and crawling around on ledges? I refuse to act like a fugitive. I'm not wanted for anything." Wesley paused in his diatribe to glance around his apartment. His eyes lit upon the shelves, with their copious texts on demonology. "Oh, dear," he mumbled.

"Come on," said Angel. "They won't believe you had nothing to do with helping a hostile."

"A hostile?"

"The girl," Angel explained. "Now, come on."

Wesley picked up a small rucksack and reluctantly joined Angel at the window. He balked momentarily as he stepped out onto the ledge, looking down four floors to the sidewalk. Angel came last. Not a moment too soon. The door of the apartment was kicked open and a gas canister was hurled into the room.

"Go, go," Angel hissed, urging the others along the ledge. "Don't look down." That advice was intended for Wesley. They edged their way along - Spike carrying the girl - until they faced the fire escape of the apartment block next door. "Wait," Angel called out softly. "We'll go across."

"Across?" Wesley repeated faintly.

Angel directed his attention to the metal fire escape some twenty feet or so away. "That way."


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