Part 33:

Wes had actually been looking forward to Sunnydale. First off, there was the drive itself, two peaceful hours of contemplation free of interruption, during which he could start to get some perspective. Then there was Sunnydale itself, scene of several humiliations. He rather liked the idea of putting those bad memories to rest, coming to terms with them. Not being loved in return might not hurt quite so much if he didn’t lump it onto the pile of everything else he’d fucked up, along with that handy mental list of flaws he kept at the back of his mind. Even the thought of seeing Buffy again had a certain piquancy. The idea that she might be pleasantly surprised at the Wes he had become seemed to release a lot of his pressure, and perhaps they might even have an educational session of catching up. It would be good to discuss Watching, recent developments on the Hellmouth, new regulations in Slayerdom.

Finally, well, there was Spike. The idea of chatting up a vampire would have been an alien one two years ago, something he once wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. He had to wonder, now, how many things he’d once never questioned were holding him back. Besides, he needed to talk to a kindred soul. He couldn’t discuss lost love with Angel, seeing as how Angel regarded himself as the touchstone for the subject. Angel had never loved someone without reciprocation; how could he talk about it? Truth was, the friendship there had undergone some troubling sea change not helped by the last several months. Much as he hated to drag his friends down with his feelings, he also couldn’t help but think that they might have displayed some tact in the way they acted around him. Young love was difficult enough to take when one had loved and been rejected; when the object of one’s affections then joyously took up with someone else beneath one’s nose and on one’s payroll, well, there was something to make a sober man contemplate alcohol.

Talking to Spike had been a curious experience, something he wanted to see if he could recreate sans alcohol. He wanted to talk about how much he loved Fred, how lonely he felt when he saw her with Gunn. He’d not only lost his love, but his best friend, hell, his only friend; maybe only another soul who loved heedlessly could understand that.

And then, too, how ironic to think of Spike in those terms.

All in all, it had been a pleasant plan, sort of like a mental process of packing, and he had found it immensely soothing.

Unfortunately, things had worked out rather different.

Instead of driving Angel’s convertible, top down and wind in his hair, he was driving, well, Angel’s convertible with the top up and blankets across the windows. Instead of the wind in his hair, he had air conditioning in his face, and he suspected it would give him a cold. Finally, there was the matter of two hours of thoughtful contemplation of life. It was just a tad difficult to think about life when one had a hungover vampire in the back seat, alternately moaning, and groaning, “Pull over,” so he could throw up by the side of the road. He’d pulled over so many times that they had probably left a quite clear trail of, well, clues, behind them, and if he lost his roadmap, unlike Hansel and Gretel, he’d be able to find his way back, thanks to Angel.

He just wasn’t sure of his feelings toward Angel right now, and the fact that Angel was sicker than a dog---well, a dead dog----didn’t make that easy to admit. In fact, he wanted to be able to resent Angel tremendously, and it somehow seemed desperately unfair to do so while his putative employee curled up in the backseat and moaned in heartrending tones.

He was rather pleased that he remembered the way to Buffy’s house; rather startled at the destruction of the high school. That was worth a second look, so he pulled up in front of the corpse of the building, and looked at it with a shiver. He got out of the car, crossing around the front, and leaning against the passenger side door to cross his arms and stare up at what was left of the building he’d once thought of as Hellmouth High. The class that had given Buffy her Class Protector Award. The library where he’d kissed Cordelia---or tried to. Faith, all bravado and torment, now long jailed. He felt the familiar twinge at the thought of her, the loss of potential, the waste. Looking up at the building, he thought perhaps it was a good thing they’d let the burned-out hull remain. It was a good thing to remember one’s mistakes, to remember the consequences…and the rewards. He was no longer a Watcher, and he was troubled by what was going on with his friends, but at least he had friends. No posing as something he wasn’t. He ran one hand over his chin, feeling the beard he’d not bothered to shave, and wondered where the old Wesley had gone.

There was a groan from the car. He winced at the sound, as much as at the reminder as the actual noise itself, then squared his shoulders and headed back to his duties.

Warren zipped down the sidewalk at a faster clip than he’d ever attained in Phys Ed. The keys in his pockets jingled annoyingly, the change bounced out of his pockets, and his hair looked about ready to jump ship on its own power. Dignity be damned. Who knew those fucking demons could look so human they’d fool you? Sure, vampires and all, but a drunken woman being a vampire…! It just wasn’t fair. It altered the natural order of the fucking universe. Damn. He dwindled down into a limping trot, then fell into an unsteady stagger, and doubled over, breathing like a two pack a day man suddenly embracing fitness. He coughed, hands braced on knees, and wondered how he could blame this on the Slayer. Not that he really needed a reason. That blonde bitch had it coming, just for the smug way she wouldn’t fucking get out of the way. Her continued evasion of his revenge was almost enough to make him turn around and figure out how to use the demon against her. Fucking women, he thought, with all the bitterness of a college geek who’d had a grand total of two girlfriends, one of which had required recharging. It never occurred to him that while he’d sneer at a girl with a vibrator, constructing a girlfriend who had her own voltage adaptor might indicate certain frailties in his own logic.

He straightened up gradually, taking a deep breath that hurt his lungs. What in hell was he supposed to do now? There had to be a better way to get girls. First there had been the unfortunate malfunction with Katrina, now this, but the device was the best way they had of getting some. Maybe there was something to be said for those drugs, after all. Maybe once they took control of Sunnydale, they could lay in a supply of those pills and just bag the babes that way.

Hell, at this point, it had been so long for him that he…He turned thoughtfully, to look back at the way he’d come, and in doing so glanced across the front porch of the house he was stopped in front of. He stiffened.

Jonathon, sitting in a glider, sipping a shake, was looking at him calmly, no doubt filing the sight of him gasping for breath after his hundred-yard dash away for future blackmail purposes. “Hey, Warren.” Jonathon said uncomfortably.

“Jonathon.” They eyed each other carefully, Jonathon trying to look unsuspicious, and Warren trying to avoid letting his contempt show. Then he realized that if he looked scornful, it would be normal, and Jonathon wouldn’t have any reason to think he’d been fleeing in terror from a feminist demon who no doubt wanted his balls. And not in the good way, either.

They sized each other up. Why did I say something first? Jonathon thought. Why? I should’ve waited, made him squirm, made him wonder what I was thinking. What would Obi-Wan do? Which he promptly forgot, because he was so wigged out by Warren’s frazzled appearance. Frazzled on Warren meant only one thing, and that was bad. Frazzled meant Warren was pissed, therefore Jonathon would soon be the butt of something.

“So, Warren,” Jonathon asked softly, “Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m out for a jog, you dwarf.” With a visible effort, Warren shook it off and glanced away, trying not to show too much contempt. After all, the demon had been pissed off at him. Who knew if it would be pissed off at Jonathon? Did anyone ever really get pissed off at him? How could they maintain their ire in the face of the soft voice, the boyish mop of hair, the virginal brown eyes? Even if they did, did it last long? How long could a demon hold a grudge? She had been really drunk, maybe she’d have passed out again by now. That could be kind of fun if she had. Maybe he could find stronger rope. He’d never had a demon. Well, actually, except for Katrina, he’d never had a human, but it could be time to branch out to other species.

They stared at each other, Warren calculating, Jonathon puzzled. “I’ve got a new thing to try out.” Warren said finally. He actually hadn’t planned on sharing with Jonathon, useless little twerp that he was, but hey, he could adapt now.

“What sort of thing?” Jonathon asked warily.

“A new thing for getting girls.”

Jonathon felt his stomach drop several stories. Great. Just great. What would Obi-Wan do? He thought. Well, for sure, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be pandering to this budding Ted Bundy. This was definitely Darth territory. His stomach dropped several more stories. A new thing. Who now? He carefully brushed aside thoughts of the twins he himself had bewitched, and focused on Warren’s beady eyes. Warren definitely had beady eyes, therefore he was in no way shape or form a good villain. Jonathon knew from long contemplation of his mirror that he had big brown puppy dog eyes, and was therefore not a bad guy, but maybe a Tortured Anti-Hero, like Heathcliff from the sort of chick flick he secretly watched when the other two weren’t in the lair.

“What sort of thing?”

“Oh, I still need to get some ingredients.” Warren said casually. “Figured I’d go see what I could find. It’s really rough.”

“Uh…”

Too casual, Jonathon thought. Something here he wasn’t talking about. Knowing Warren, that meant there was something he had that he didn’t want him to know about. The bad stuff, like disposing of bodies, he’d dump on Jonathon just fine. But the fun stuff? That was definitely for Warren and Warren alone.

“Oh, what kind of ingredients does it need?”

“Oh, just the usual stuff…” Warren looked off into the distance. “I gotta go get some, you know, stuff. Why don’t you come by later?”

“How much later?”

“Oh, much later.” Warren said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to get intimidated by my expertise or anything. So I gotta go now, John-boy. See ya later, right?” He turned to walk away. “Much later, okay? Don’t screw up this time. I don’t want any interruptions. I’m going to make this special. You know how chicks like that. Even sex slaves. Especially sex slaves.” He gave Jonathon a wave, sighed like a man who’s done a job very well indeed, and ambled off as if he didn’t have a pissed-off demon plus an unconscious minion in his lair.

Jonathon stared at his back. It didn’t occur to him that Warren turned at the wrong corner to go downtown; it didn’t occur to him that Warren had turned in exactly the wrong direction to go downtown, and it didn’t occur to him that Warren might be pulling Jedi mind games on him while he was wondering what Obi-Wan would do. There’s a girl there. The bastard already got a girl. The bastard’s going to…He stared at the corner Warren had taken, unaware that his erstwhile buddy was peering at him through the hedge. Bastard, he thought. Of course, once again, the whole twin affair was overlooked. Somehow it just seemed so different when he had done it.

That’s it, this is really it, he thought. I’ll rescue her. And it will really piss Warren off. All of a sudden, he felt all Jedi-like. Actually, it was the first time he’d felt all Jedi-like since the whole super villain thing had begun. Maybe she’ll be grateful, he thought. Maybe we can watch Star Wars together, on that pirated DVD I downloaded off the Internet. Oh, boy, maybe he kidnapped a cheerleader.

Warren watched as Jonathon whirled around like a startled cat and dashed back into the house. Delegate, delegate, delegate, he thought. The secret to good management and successful world domination.

Xander knew it was serious when Anya rang up a hundred dollar sale and didn’t step into the back room to do the Dance of Capitalist Superiority. He knew it was worse when someone tried to break a twenty for a cup of tea, and she didn’t even snap at the luckless fool for depleting the precious change that was meant for better customers. And when Dawn came in with Willow and Tara, Anya did not bodily separate her from the merchandise. But when Willow came in and Anya didn’t do the subconscious Willow face, he realized how very bad it was.

“An,” he sidled up behind her and whispered in her ear.”Wanna talk?”

She was sadly fondling the money, stroking the big bills with a gentle finger. Only big bills for my girl, he thought fondly, then saw it for what it was; she was trying to console herself. Willow and Dawn were giggling over something in the corner, and Anya didn’t so much as even glance up. Ever since the whole, “Willow’s a demon” thing, there had been a certain tension between the two, because Willow had not liked being called a demon, and Anya had not liked that Willow had not liked it. Women, he thought. It used to be simple to insult a woman. Tell her she wears combat boots, and it’s all over. Now accuse her of belonging to a different species, and not only might it be true, but the recipient of the remark might very well regard it as a compliment. Who knew?

“I haven’t heard from Hallie.” Anya said softly. “She didn’t call.”

“Maybe, she, ah, forgot.”

“She could only do that for a bit.” Anya said softly. “It becomes a part of you after a while. You feel naked without it. She should have noticed by now.”

They looked at each other, and when Willow giggled in the background, Anya didn’t even so much as flinch. “We’ll call Buffy.” Xander said cheerfully. “Look! Problem solved.”

Wes didn’t feel nervous till he pulled over in front of the house, and turned off the engine. Angel snored in the backseat, something that once would have made him flee, but compared with the nausea-o-rama the trip had been, was a delight in comparison. He did get out of the car rather fast, though.

Buffy had to be home; there was an old DeSoto parked in front of the house, but as he looked closer at the car, he realized it only meant that perhaps Spike was home. The vehicle looked like the one he’d seen parked in front of the hotel; and it had blacked-out windows. Either it was a vampire’s car, and they weren’t really known for possessing them, or it belonged to an albino with a Sid Vicious fixation, if the bumper stickers were any indication. He stepped close to the car cautiously, as if the rust would infect him. Definitely Spike’s car. He glanced up at the house. Had Spike come directly here after returning? Hm. All of a sudden, he wondered if he should really go knock on the door. Maybe he’d be interrupting something. Shoving his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t wave around like they always did when he was nervous, he tried the passenger door, and pulled it open.

Hm again. It was surprisingly neat. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he hadn’t ever devoted a thought to the car-cleaning habits of soulless demons. No beer bottles, for example, no body parts, no smell, except, perhaps, of cigarettes. He glanced in the back seat and froze. Lorne, sacked out and peaceful, a pleasant smile on his lips, lay stretched out on the back seat. His shoes were on the back window shelf, and the windows at his head and feet were slightly cracked. His ankles were peacefully crossed, and he was wearing the most amazingly colorful socks. He looked as composed as Sleeping Beauty herself, except for the green skin and the horns. Wes shook his head in amusement. God, how do you wake up a demon? He cleared his throat in preparation for making aloud remark.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I could blackmail you with the fact that you have a secret addiction to Patsy Kensit, and the only thing keeping you from plastering her eyebrowless face all over your apartment is the fear you might die suddenly.” Lorne grimaced at him. “Oh, my back.”

“Buffy didn’t let you sleep on the couch?”

“The couch was occupied.”

“Ah.” Spike, Wes thought. Ah, well. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. Vampire, vampire slayer, but still, how boring was it if birds of a feather…? He pulled himself back to reality at the look on Lorne’s face. The green demon eyed him patiently.

“You’re doing it again.”

“What? I am not.”

“You’re thinking of that Kensit person. Or Emma Thompson. Don’t even look at me like that, babycakes. If I said the words, “Much Ado About Nothing” in the lobby in front of a crowd of people, you’d blush like a schoolgirl.” Lorne sighed, and pulled himself up. “My mouth feels like the floor of this car.” He shook his head a bit, cracked his neck, rubbed his neck. “And I need a shower, so be warned. This wasn’t just a social call, was it?”

“No, we came up here for you.”

Lorne sighed happily at the prospect of home and shower, then focused abruptly on Wes. “We?”

“Angel and I.”

“Where is he?”

“In the car.”

“In what car?”

“Angel’s car.” Wes gestured at the black convertible behind Spike’s, and then watched as Lorne’s jaw dropped in horror.

“And what sort of mood is he in?”

“He’s not in a mood.” Wes said dryly. “He’s in a condition.”

“Well, he’ll be in another condition if he gets out of that car.” Lorne shoved the door open and jumped out. “Let’s go.” He glanced down, grimaced, then snatched his shoes and shoved them off his feet.

Wes fidgeted.

Lorne jumped to the side door of Angel’s car and looked in through the crack on the shady side of the car. Sure enough, there he was, and he was so much paler than he usually was. If he got any whiter, he’d be see-through. “How nice to bring him with. Why did you bring him with?”

“I can hear you, you know.” Angel mumbled irritably.

“Great.” Lorne said. “Let’s whisper.” He yanked Wes down the sidewalk. “Just how good are vampire ears?”

“As good as any predator’s, I suppose.” Wes shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I’m sure he can hear quite easily into different rooms if he wants to.”

“Even while he’s drunk?”

“Actually, I suppose then it would be rather a disadvantage, wouldn’t it?” Wes said thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s going to be a disadvantage now unless we get moving, Wesley baby, so what do you say we go?”

Behind them, Angel blearily pulled himself up into a seated position in the back seat of the car. There was a fraught moment during which various internal organs tried to rearrange themselves and escape, but he won that battle and managed to focus his eyes. “Hey, that’s Buffy’s house.” He was, Wesley saw, at one of those weird pockets of bonhomie that sometimes interrupted really monumental hangovers. The vampire’s eyes peered unsteadily at the vehicle in front of him. “Hey, that’s Spike’s car.” He swiveled back to the house as if to confirm its presence. This was followed by the unsteady return on his gaze to the car. “You’d think he’d trade it in for a decent model.” He stared through the windshield and then his eyes slowly, steadily cleared. The fog departed, and the blank expression on his face gradually resolved itself to curiosity, and then bewilderment. “Why is Spike’s car here?” He looked at Wes, all goofiness gone. “Something weird is going on.” He gestured at them furtively. Cautiously, so as to avoid the alcohol fumes, they edged closer. Angel nodded encouragement, and beckoned them to come nearer.

Glancing nervously at one another, they tiptoed forward. Angel shook his head impatiently and reached out and grabbed. “I have an idea.”

That was quite an accomplishment in his condition. “What’s that?” Wes asked, dreading the answer.

“Let’s steal it.”

Part 34:

Andrew found himself looking at ceilings tiles and struts. This made no sense at all because he’d been dreaming about some universe where he got to wear a tight black uniform and play with all sorts of cool weapons. Also, his head hurt, and it was becoming apparent that there were going to be repercussions unless he could crawl upstairs to the bathroom. He closed his eyes to see if that lessoned the pain. No such luck. Cautiously, he turned his head; there was the entertainment center. He turned it the other way, feeling the cool concrete oddly soothing. In the other direction was a gurney-like thing that Warren had set up and…Oh, shit! He yelped and sat up, scooting backward on his butt away from the woman on the table. “Don’t hurt me,” he quavered.

Hallie was not feeling good. She, too, had a distinct premonition of oncoming digestive difficulties, and the idea of what that would be like while tied to a table made her forget that she was tied up. If she had felt better, the knots wouldn’t have been a problem. The biggest item on her radar was her hangover, and Andrew was just an annoying noise that she’d slap away as soon as she felt better. If I ever feel good enough to get revenge on anyone again, it’s Jack Daniels I’m going after, she thought. Her mouth felt like the bottom of an coal miner’s laundry hamper. She turned her head just slightly. Strange. Ratboy was gone. In his place was some boy she knew she should have some vague memory of, but really couldn’t bother to waste the energy on. She tried to focus on this one, who skittered away from her as soon as he saw her looking at him. He looked like he was going to cry. She just hated that. A surprising number of these sleazeballs did all kinds of crap-murder, rape, whatever---and burst into tears when she so much as threatened their golf handicap. She’d told OJ Simpson she was going to curse him with girlfriends who were as beautiful as he was innocent, and he’d promptly displayed more acting ability then than she’d ever seen in his movies. Of course, D’Hoffryn just loved OJ’s movies, so she’d seen the damned things numerous times. Shame, really, that there was no category of artistic revenge….She drifted pleasantly for a few minutes, occupied by thoughts of making N’Sync pay for their crimes, when she realized she was still tied up. Damn. This reality was so unpleasant. Next time she was definitely going to pop out before the hangover arrived. She concentrated her brain cells and focused on breaking the ropes. Nothing. Not even a fizzle. What the hell was going on…?Then she remembered. Her pendant. Anya had her pendant. She stared at the ceiling resentfully for a while. Then she licked her lips and tried to figure out which of the two boys she saw actually existed. “You.”

“What?”

God, how pathetic, she thought. Human. “Untie me.”

“You’ll hurt me.”

Well, duh, you fool. Then she realized, mournfully, that minus her pendant, and severely hungover, she might not even be capable of that. Unless, of course, she could scare the little bugger. She turned her head the other way and tried to morph into demon face, but the hangover was rapidly getting worse, and all she could manage was a really bad case of acne. She sighed and turned back. “I won’t hurt you.” She paused. “If you untie me.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Andrew said tremulously. “Warren will be so….” His eyes widened at the way she glared at him. Hm. Think like a Supervillain! He thought. She was tied up. Warren was not. Warren might come back. Besides, how many people could boast they’d caught a demon? However, in order to get away, he had to get by the table to the stairs. Hm. How pissed would Warren be? Hm. He looked at where her hands were tied to the table; there were several thicknesses of rope around each wrist, and he knew her ankles were just as securely tied. She wasn’t going anywhere, at least as long as she was tied up. Tied up, she was just another woman, just another experiment. He smiled slightly to himself, relieved. His favorite solution to every problem was simple; do nothing and wait for Warren. Here was a perfect opportunity.

Hallie cleared her throat. “Well?”

“Well, I don’t think I should.”

A scraping noise on the stairs made them both turn. Jonathon stood on the stairway, wearing his Superman Tee-shirt, jaw agape. His expression of astonishment gradually faded into one of disappointment as he realized that Halfrek in no way, shape or form resembled a cheerleader. She hadn’t bothered to morph out of the demon face she’d managed, so she had a rather severe skin condition as well. “Oh,” Jonathon said faintly. No cheerleader. No gratitude. Rescuing her no longer seemed interesting; disposing of her seemed to be the problem now. He grimaced. Supervillains or superheroes were supposed to get all the cool girls; what was going on here?

“Uh,” Jonathon said. She was conscious, too, which meant he was about to experience conversational awfulness that no doubt would eclipse whatever torments had he’d survived in high school. How did you make polite conversation with someone your evil genius buddy had kidnapped for purposes he’d forced himself not to think about? Crap. He’d wanted to rescue a cheerleader. This person just wasn’t pretty enough to rescue. He sank down onto the steps and sighed.

Hallie looked at him, then waited for five seconds before looking again. He was still sitting there, pouting, and she wondered if she’d inadvertently turned him to stone. She looked at the ceiling supports for a while, then glanced back. Nothing. Was he just going to sit there? “You.” She said. “Untie me.”

“Uh,” Jonathon said, nervously standing up. It occurred to him he would have untied her if she’d been unconscious, but he just couldn’t do it while she was looking at him. He hesitated, completely flummoxed by something he hadn’t expected. “Uh. It’s …the phone.” He said faintly.

Inspiration dawned on Andrew’s face. “Yeah, I’m expecting a call.”

“No, it’s for me!” Jonathon said. “I’M expecting a call!”

“No, I am.” Andrew snapped, jumping to his feet.

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“Are not!”

“Am too!”

Jonathon leaped and whirled up the stairs, Andrew at his heels. Out of Hallie’s sight, there was a thump, and a scuffle, muttered threats and insults, and then a door slamming. Her sigh reached only the ceiling.

She looked around again. No phone. No company. No pendant. No way to get a hold of anyone. She was hungover, sick, and not likely to improve if she didn’t get some aspirin. Plus, she just was not in fighting shape, and if those three twits came back, she’d have a great excuse for revenge, but not a lot of opportunity.

Oh, God, this is going to look so bad on my quarterly review, she thought. She closed her eyes and began chanting, softly and uncertainly. Before she’d gotten far, there was a roar, a puff of smoke that did her stomach no good at all, and an irritable-sounding cough. She tried to spot anything in the green smoke. There were tentative footsteps on the concrete, and the smoke swirled as someone waved irritably at it. Horns emerged from the soupy fog, and D’Hoffryn peered at her, only his head and face visible. “Hallie?!” He looked over her predicament. “What happened?”

For the first time, Hallie let herself get good and joyously angry. “You know that rule about us getting revenge on our own?”

“Yes?”

“Well, we need to talk about changing that.”

God, the phone again. Buffy jerked awake and glared at the thing. She was curled up against Spike’s back, her arms looped bonelessly around his middle, his hand curled back around one of her thighs. She groaned in a very un-Slayer like way, and rolled over to grab the phone, vowing to turn the ringer off when she was done.

“Hello?”

“Buffy?”

“Xander, don’t take this the wrong way, but if it’s another missing demon, your birthday present is in serious jeopardy.”

There was an interesting pause. He was calling from the Magic Box; she could hear the noise of the cash register behind him. Behind her, she heard and felt Spike move, rolling over onto his back as she had, then beside her. She glanced down and Spike was stretched thoughtfully out on his side next to her, cheek propped on one hand.

“Well, does it count if it’s the same demon?” Xander asked.

“Tell me again why I should care?”

Anya was saying something in the background, her voice alternatively buzzing and clearing in the earpiece. She sounded like a giant bug. “Anya says Hallie left, then Spike…” He let that phrase dangle suggestively in the air.

“What are you talking about?” Buffy demanded.

“Well, evidently there was some sort of history there between Anya’s friend and…Spike. I know you’ve been all buddy-buddy with him lately, but…”

Buffy’s mood slid from irritated to outright pissed in one second flat.

“Why don’t you just spit it out, Xander? What are you trying to say?”

“Well, like I said, you know, Hallie broke his heart when he still had a heart, so who knows what he’d do if he had the opportunity?”

Buffy thought rapidly, frowning, trying to figure out something she knew she was missing. Spike reached out with one finger and traced her thigh, distracting her from whatever it was that she was trying to remember. “This was Anya’s little vengeance demon friend?”

“Well, yeah.” Xander said cautiously.

“So if she broke his heart, how come she’s a vengeance demon?” Buffy demanded triumphantly. “He didn’t kill her then, why would he do it now?”

More muttering buzzing sounds just a bit too far away to hear. Buffy glanced down at Spike, sensing impending distractions. Actually, she was actively hoping for them. “Anya said Hallie left first, then Spike took off.”

“So?” Buffy said. She had the perfect defense, right in front of her, and she couldn’t use it. He was here with me, all night.

“Jeez, Buffy, what is it? You’re sticking up for him.”

“Somebody’s got to.” Buffy snapped. “You just automatically blame him for everything.” Something like shock slipped over Spike’s face, and he looked up at her with wary eyes. “ Dawn was telling me about this summer, Xander.”

There was a tense silence, and when Xander finally broke it, his voice was tight. “Yeah, so what does that mean?”

“He fought alongside you all summer, and you might be able to forget that, but Dawn and I can’t. And Glory tortured him.”

“That’s what he says.” Xander said scornfully.

“You saw him, Xander. Do you think he did that to himself?”

“He’s always getting into fights.” Xander said contemptuously. “He’s always got bruises and stuff all over. Look at that shiner he had at your party, and he didn’t even bring you a present, did you?”

“Xander, you have whatever opinion you want.” Buffy said. “But I have an opinion, too, and at least I change mine when the person it’s about changes. I’ll ask around about Anya’s friend. “ She slammed the phone down, hard, then picked it up and ripped the cord out of the base. Spike watched this with unreadable eyes.

“Talkin’ about me, were you.” It was not a question.

Buffy flopped down next to him. The day was at that perfect time of afternoon, not too hot, not too bright, not too dark, not yet cooling off into desert chill. Except Xander had spoiled it. “He talked, I just…”

“You were sticking up for me.”

She turned and looked at him, giving him a fierce look. “I’d do that no matter what, you know? I change my mind! You’ve changed, you’ve done things, and Xander just doesn’t change…” She glanced away sullenly as he brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“You talked to Dawn about more than boys, didn’t you?”

“Well, let’s face it, boys…” Buffy’s shrug encompassed the entire gender. “Not a big subject.”

“Oh, really, Little Miss-I-Change-My-Mind?”

“Living or dead.” She amended with a smirk.

“Well, thanks.” He was looking at her again, far beyond serious now, and she simply couldn’t look at him. She had stuck up for him to Xander, it was true. She wanted to believe she would have done that no matter what, but she really wasn’t sure. Desperately, she clung to the belief of Fair Buffy, able to change her mind, able to grow. “So what did Dawn have to say?”

It was her turn to reach out and brush his face, not because his hair was anywhere long enough to obstruct her view, but because she had to touch him. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Well, what did Xander say?”

“He said that that friend of Hallie’s was still missing.”

“So?”

“He thought that you…”

“Ah….” Spike shook his head and dropped his head back to the pillow. “And Anya said that?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I’m psychic.” Spike said sarcastically.

The phone rang. Buffy jumped, staring in surprise at the phone she’d disconnected, then realizing it was the one downstairs. She jumped up, grabbing her robe, and dashing down the stairs. Spike got out of bed and stretched, noticing that all the blinds were drawn. He looked around, startled. She’d closed all the blinds so the sun wouldn’t shine on him? No, probably just a coincidence. He ambled his way across the floor, tripping over his clothes, then kicking them out of the way. He scrounged in his pockets for smokes, pausing as he encountered the big roll of bills. God, he had to talk to Dawn, and who knew when that would be? He leaned in the hallway door, trying to catch bits of the conversation downstairs. All he could catch was a series of “Oh? Ew. Oh, no. Crap. Uh. Huh.” Then the sound of the phone being hung up rather more enthusiastically than was necessary. After a moment broken by the sound of stomping feet, Buffy appeared at the base of the stairs, not looking happy. She started up about the time he started down, and they met in the middle. He turned her sideways till they on the same step, then turned around, so that she was a step higher.

“What?”

“Bad news.”

“And that would be?”

“Something weird is going on.”

“This is Sunnydale.” He got his hands into the pockets of her robe, and she squirmed against him, grumpy but still persuadable. He kissed her just once, hands cupping her bottom through her robe, inching her robe open. Warm skin against his, heat spreading to his bones, he leaned against the wall, kissing her again, gauging her reaction. “How weird?”

“I guess somebody turned half the chess club into newts, and the trekkies at the Trek marathon were suddenly afflicted, with, uh, toaditis.”

He pulled back and looked at her. “You are kidding, right?”

“Nope.” She leaned against him for a minute. “So now I really have to go and act all Slayer like.”

“I guess that means you have to get dressed.”

“That’s the plan.” She muttered.

“Does that mean I have to get dressed?”

“Well,” Buffy said thoughtfully. “I kind of thought, you could drive me there…”

Visions of slow twilight driving, Buffy with her head on his shoulder, suddenly appeared in Spike’s brain. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it fast, because…”

They both jumped at the sound of the knock on the door. Oh, God, Buffy thought, then remembered that the door was locked. However, there were windows, and there she was with Spike, with her robe half off, and him completely naked. “Oh, God.” Buffy said out loud. Spike rolled his eyes at the timing, and silently retreated up the stairs, giving Buffy a sarcastic look at she composed herself and her robe. All neatened up, she fixed a smile on her face, and headed toward the door. Of course, the house was so dark on the inside that whoever was outside in the bright sun couldn’t see inside anyway, but why care about reality at this point anyway?

She positioned herself carefully behind the door so as to block whoever was selling Girl Scout cookies or whatever from seeing that she was still in her bathrobe. Definitely not good. She waited for the next knock, and opened the door a fraction.

The green demon who’d come up from LA with Spike looked down at her. She stared. He stared back. “Lorne?”

“Hey, sweetie.” He looked at her, then smiled. “See you took my advice.”

“Wha..?Huh?” She looked down, realizing that it was possible to see the fuzzy sleeve of her bathrobe as she held the door open. “Oh, uh, that, I, uh..”

“Never mind, sweetie, I gave you the advice, didn’t I? You lucky thing. Uh, anyway, there’s been kind of an interesting twist. You might want to get dressed.”

“Well, I was just…” Lorne stepped aside, and Buffy stared at someone she knew she should recognize, someone who looked vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to actually place.

“Hello, Buffy.” Wesley said uncomfortably. They stared at each other, former Watcher and Slayer, Buffy staring in open astonishment. This was not prissy Wesley, not with that five o’clock shadow, wearing jeans----okay, she could imagine, in a theoretical way, Wes wearing jeans, but she figured he’d press them or something, and probably make sure they were a perfect, dorky shade of blue. But here he was, wearing faded blue jeans, his hands stuffed uncomfortably in the back pockets.

“Wes.” Buffy closed her mouth with a snap. “What brings you to Sunnydale?”

“Well, it’s kind of complicated.” Wes said uncomfortably.

I’m sleeping with my former mortal enemy, and somebody is turning geeks into amphibians, maybe kidnapping demons. So what isn’t weird around here? Buffy thought.

“Try me,” Buffy said. “It can’t get any weirder.”

“Yes it can.” Wes said grimly. “Angel just stole Spike’s car.”

Part 35:

Xander hung up the phone slowly, as if he were afraid it was going to bite him.Which, come to think of it, was pretty much what Buffy had just done. He looked at the phone as if it had betrayed him. “Something’s going on.” He said slowly.

“Do you think so?” Anya said worriedly. “Really? It’s not just me, is it?”

Xander looked up at her. She was thinking, he saw, of Hallie; he was thinking of Buffy. Buffy, his erstwhile best friend, who had just defended Spike to him. He remembered the night at the Bronze, the weird affinity in the way they always wound up together, and what had once been dismissible, suddenly seemed real. Something unpleasant tiptoed around the edges of his brain, something sinister, something he most definitely did not want to deal with or see….It was like having a word on the tip of his tongue. He knew if he pressed for it, it would disappear back into the mist at the back of his brain. Blinking at Anya, he wrenched himself back to her. “So, sweetie, what were you saying?”

“Hallie.” She said, rather miffed. Her best friend was missing, without her pendant, and what was he thinking about? Buffy, no doubt. “But go right ahead, thinking about Buffy.”

“I was not thinking about Buffy.” Technically, this was true. What he was thinking about was Spike, how the bugger always showed up…Oh, more unpleasantness there. His brain literally flinched at linking Buffy and Spike in the same sentence. Maybe we haven’t been there for her, he thought. But it’s so hard; she’s so different these days.

Dawn ambled up to the counter, looking at him. “Nervous yet?”

“You’re behind the times.” He said. “I’ve been nervous for a while. Weddings are a plot.” Anya glanced up, and he launched the punch line. “Make you totally forget the marriage afterward. That’s the part I want, but there’s no way you can have ‘marriage maid dresses’ or things like that. Defeats the whole purpose of capitalism.”

“Maybe you and Anya could start a new tradition.”

“I like that.” Xander said. “Hear that, Anya? Our own custom.”

“What would that be?” Anya demanded. Did Xander just diss capitalism?

Uh-oh, Xander thought, hurrying into the breach. “Our own capitalist custom.” He said. “Marriage…rituals, with all the appropriate---and expensive----thingies that could be trademarked and sold here. Like a sequel to the store?”

“Really?” Anya’s voice was squeaky, high-pitched, and pleased. She bustled over to give him a peck, which Dawn smiled indulgently at, as if they were two cute senior citizens. “Just like Martha Stewart.”

“Except without the demonic possession thing.” Dawn said, trying to be helpful.

Anya glared at her.”Hey! That’s mostly a myth.”

“About Martha Stewart?”

“No. About demons. Not all of us take hostages or anything.”

“Okay.” Dawn shrugged uncomfortably. Oh, goodie, something else she’d done wrong. She kept trying not to do the same stupid things again, but she kept running into new stupid things to do. How was she supposed to know they were stupid till she tried them? Sometimes you just couldn’t tell. Anya looked at her a second longer, and Dawn could practically hear what she was thinking. Must keep Dawn away from small, portable items. True, but over, she thought. Why don’t grownups ever move on? She was sorry, it was over, she’d never do it again, but Anya didn’t trust her. It was like Spike; he totally hadn’t done anything evil for ages, but evidently that concept hadn’t gotten through the grownups’ heads. She looked at Anya thoughtfully, an idea forming then, an idea so evil that her eyes popped out with it.

“Anya?”

“Here.” Anya said, thrusting a feather duster at her. “Go dust.” She paused a moment. “But only the big things. The things that make large bulges if you try to steal them.”

Dawn eyed the implement skeptically, but took it. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Are you asking me questions so you can delay paying off your debt by being forced to work?”

“No.” Dawn glared at her for a moment. “No, I just thought of something.”

“What’s that?”

“How long were you a vengeance demon?”

“Why is Angel here?” Buffy asked. The fact that she was in her bathrobe appeared to have been ignored by both Lorne and Wesley. Lorne she expected to ignore it.Wasn’t he some kind of love demon, anyway? But Wesley? Wasn’t it his job to be nosy? And disapproving? She kept turning around to glance at him suspiciously, awaiting the disapproval. She made extremely bad coffee in the hope that this would distract them from the not-so-stealthy sounds of Spike getting dressed upstairs, which at one point included a yelp and a very loud thud. This brought the painfully nervous conversation to a heart-thumping silence.

Lorne glanced with interest from be-bathrobed Slayer to scruffy former Watcher. Buffy folded her hands in her lap, and looked into her coffee cup. Shoulda listened to Mom going on about manners, she thought. There was silence upstairs. “So, uh, what brings you and Angel to Sunnydale?”

“Oh, we had to pick up Lorne.” Wes said.

There were light footsteps on the stairs, and Spike suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Oh, hi, Spike.” She said, far too enthusiastically. “Did you get your clothes in the dryer?”

Spike, never the best of liars when his heart was involved, came to a full stop, and stared at her. Her statement, and what it meant, visibly worked its way through his head till it connected with his mouth, at which point, he started to babble. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks. Slayer. Uh. Uh. All.. done. Sorry it took so long. Uh.” His eyes were the size of silver dollars. He scrubbed at his hair with both hands as if he were trying to either restrain brain cells or force them to work. “Good thing, uh, Angel didn’t see me doing laundry. Yeah! He gets all sorts of…So! Got any beer?” He finished desperately.

Everyone exchanged a look. Wes smiled slightly, and with a certain familiar touch of prissiness, put his coffee cup, practically full, back on its saucer. “You two seem to be getting along fairly well these days.” Spike gave a massive twitch, as if he’d just backed into a light socket, and Buffy froze in place.

“Uh?” Former Watcher, Buffy thought. Oh, God. “Well, you know, I was dead, and Spike..is dead, so we have a lot to talk about, and uh…”

“I think it’s good.” Wesley said firmly. He looked her right in the eye. “I think after your experience, Buffy, you desperately need someone to talk to. It’s good that you can change and grow. Some people can’t.” He took a sip of the God-awful coffee, ignoring the fact that now it was Buffy’s eyes that had gotten huge. “Look at me, for example.”

Buffy was, quite frankly, already looking, partly out of a desire to gauge how much he was swallowing her story, and partly because she still hadn’t gotten over the idea of Wes in blue jeans. Plus the stubble.

“I used to think that vampires were all the same. Animals. And now Angel’s my friend.” I hope. “What would have I missed out on if I hadn’t changed my mind about that?”

“Oh.” Buffy gulped. “That’s good.” She closed her open mouth with a snap. “Who are you? And what have you done with Wesley?”

Wesley grinned, and again, Buffy frowned with concentration. Damn. There’s got to be a mark where they cloned him and gave him a personality, she thought. Where would that be? Someplace where there’s hair. Ugh. Aside from which, she’d never seen Wes grin before. He’d always had the tight smile of some prissy dowager, afraid of showing off those facelift scars. Now he grinned, and all sorts of character lines appeared; much-traveled smiles lines at eyes and mouth, obviously often-used. She shook her head at her own astonishment. You’re shocked, little Miss I’m-Sleeping-With-My-Ex-Mortal-Enemy?

“So, um,” Buffy said. “You guys planning on sticking around?”

More glances were exchanged, except in Spike’s case; he twitched again, and looked around as if scanning the ceiling for leaks. “Well, obviously, we have to find Angel.” Wes said.

“Why did he come with?” Buffy asked curiously, ignoring yet another massive flinch from Spike.

“Well, he’s either really drunk or really hungover.” Lorne said. “I thought the Irish were supposed to be able to hold their liquor.”

“Well, it helps it they don’t drink enough to…” Spike drawled, then had a coughing attack as Buffy turned to look at him.

Buffy looked from face to face, wondering what she was missing. Coming to get Lorne, she thought. So, here he is, come get him. And Angel? Not exactly his style, but she’d never once seen him drink, either. A sharp pang cut through her, at the thought of all the things she didn’t know, all the things she hadn’t known, thanks to the curse.

She glanced at Spike. Was it fair to compare the two? Spike felt her gaze and met her eyes, and the rest of the room spun away. It wasn’t fair to compare the two, but she kept coming back to that last glimpse of Angel as he walked out of her life, the way her legs turned to water beneath her from the pain. Contrast that with Spike, beaten almost to death, and determined that she never know. Why was it that two such different memories made her feel exactly the same way? Much as she didn’t allow herself to remember that moment with Angel, she also didn’t allow herself to think about that moment in Spike’s crypt, either.

“So,” she said brightly. “I’m going to take a shower. Now. That. Spike. Is. Done. With. All. The. Water.” Spike winced again, and compensated for it by overacting.

“Oh. Sorry about that, Slayer. Just let it built up. Had to do it all at once. Laundry. Not used to. Ah. Things. Laundry.” He specified. Then they both looked around to see if anybody was buying it.

“I’m going to go take a shower.” Buffy announced again, in case anyone had missed the previous bulletin.

“Oh, hell.” Spike said.

“What?”

“Well, it’s just that it’s been a while since I got to see Angel drunk, and I’d really like to enjoy it while it lasts. But, no, go right ahead, Slayer…”

“What?!”

“No, go ahead.”

God, he would have to get all flirtatious now, she thought. She reasserted reality with a yank. “Well, maybe if somebody hadn’t almost used up all the hot water…”

“Go.”

She went, dying to know what was going to be said when she left.

Spike waited till her footsteps were all the way up the stairs before he got up and dumped his coffee in the sink. Wes groaned, and handed his across, as did Lorne, with a sigh. “Lovely girl, and I’m sure she’s wonderful as a Slayer, but really, some people should not be allowed near the coffee filter.” An examination of the coffee machine produced a groan and an additional comment. “Actually, someone should just plain introduce her to a coffee filter. What the hell was that, fertilizer?”

Spike leaned against the counter, and glanced around, anywhere but at the other two. Wes looked down at his hands. Lorne swiveled from one to the other, back and forth, like he was watching a tennis match, then finally gave an explosive sigh and spread his hands with eloquent impatience. “So? How are things?”

Spike glared at him. “Well…Ah…Things….Ah…..”

Lorne studied him, then slowly, gently, smiled. “Young love.” He said dryly.

Spike avoided his eyes. Something about discussing Buffy in her own kitchen made him cringe. “Did you two talk?”

“Yes, we did.”

Spike fidgeted, unwilling to meet the other demon’s eyes. “So..ah…?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“You can’t. You can’t? Whaddaya mean, you can’t?”

“No, I’m like a priest.”

“A priest wearing lime-green linen?” Spike blurted out.

“Besides, my friend, I don’t think there’s any doubt now.”

Something about Lorne’s obvious assumption irritated Spike, even though it happened to be true. Like talking about Buffy in her own kitchen, it just didn’t seem right. “I was doing laundry.” He lied stiffly. Worse yet, he knew he was stiff, and it made him irritable. Not a fun lie, he thought. What happened to all the fun lies?

“Isn’t that sweet?” Lorne demanded of Wes, who was once again eyeing his hands. Lorne nudged him for a response. “I said, and I quote, ‘Isn’t that sweet?”

“Yes,” Wes said quietly. “It is.”

“You’re afraid I’m going to make you say ‘sweet’, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re afraid I’m going to make you say sweet, a word that most men are pathologically incapable of saying. If you keep being gloomy, I will, no doubt about it.”

“No…I’m just concerned about Angel.”

“Yeah, maybe he’ll get a sunburn.” Spike scrubbed at his hair again.

“Well, he’s not in the best shape, admittedly, but…” Wes frowned and studied his own hands again, afraid they’d see his trepidation on his face. How to put into words his suspicion about Angel’s drunkenness, the fear it aroused in him, the memory? Long forgotten, or suppressed, came the vision of his father, drunk, calculating, putting into action while intoxicated all the spiteful things he said while sober. It was always the alcohol that was to blame, never him. And now he couldn’t help but wonder at Angel’s behavior. His insistence on coming here, his unshakeable belief that he could get information out of Buffy, made Wes wonder if in fact he could just grab Angel and get him out of Sunnydale before real trouble started.

How much did Angel remember of that incident with that actress? Wes thought, and shuddered. He realized that Lorne and Spike were both staring at him curiously. “What?”

“You’re off in Never-Never Land, Watcher.” Spike said. “Thinking of her?”

“No, Angel.” Wes said without thinking.

“Ah.” Spike stiffened at that. “First and foremost in our hearts, isn’t he?” He scrounged around in the fridge, and did, in fact, find a beer. “Gotta make sure he fulfills his destiny.”

“Well, at this point,” Wes said dryly, “I’d just be happy if he’d sober up. If he had to retain some human characteristics, it would have been nice if they’d been useful ones.”

“Oh, now that was evil.” Spike smirked at him approvingly. “Which ones are those?”

“He was sick all the way up here.”

“Bad?”

“Awful. Now, stop it, Spike, this is beneath you.” Spike was clearing his throat repeatedly in an effort not to laugh. “It was terrible.”

“For you, yes, I’m certain it was….How bad was he sick?”

“Really, no, he’s my employee, it would be terrible if I talked about my employees behind their backs.”

“Even after they committed grand theft auto?” Lorne pointed out.

“There are still standards…” Wes protested.

“Was he in pain?”

“Stop it, Spike.”

“Oh, indulge me a bit, would you? I never get to have any bloody fun at all. Well, except for the occasional demon hunt, that sort of thing…”

“Demon?” Lorne said suspiciously.

“Bad demons.” Spike amended. “Never pick on things their own size, if you ask me. Then they always whine when I take exception to it…” He took another swig of the beer, staring at his boots with ill-concealed disgust. “Once there was this time, Buffy and I, we’re patrolling and…What?” Both Lorne and Wesley were giving him puzzled looks.

Spike, Wes thought, not even aware of it. A vampire patrolling with the Slayer. How come love turned some…creatures….noble and reduced others to pettiness? And which group was he himself in?

“Yeah, what?” Buffy said from the doorway, all pink and flushed from the shower.

“Spike was just discussing your patrols with us.”

“Well, huh.” Buffy said, scrubbing at her hair with the towel. “You know, I was thinking too…..”

Just the tone of her voice made Spike nervous. I was thinking was a female code phrase, and he’d known that even as a clueless Victorian virgin. The only more-feared phrase in the English language was, “We have to talk.”

Buffy tossed the towel over the back of the chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, you know, Spike had this big errand he had to run to LA. And he wouldn’t tell me what it was. The next thing I know, you guys show up. With Angel. So what’s going on?”

Three males, if not exactly men, froze at the tone of her voice, each face startled into the immobility of fear. One of them was a green demon from another dimension, one of them was human, and one of them was a vampire, but all of them looked like they’d just been caught at the cookie jar with full hands.

Buffy eyed each face expectantly, looking for the first one to crack. She tapped her foot for an added extra dollap of suspense, and watched all three of them cringe and gulp at once. “What’s the big….?”

The phone rang.

Buffy swore under her breath, Spike suddenly breaking into a grin behind her. That’s my girl, he thought. I never even knew she knew that word. She made a disgusted sound and stomped into the dining room, while the guilty trio huddled their heads together and tried to come up with an alibi.

“What are you doing here?” Spike hissed.

“Angel noticed petty cash was missing…”

“Why didn’t you just tell him to..?”

“Because he was all hungover, I thought he was going to have an episode!”

“An episode of what?” Lorne interjected. Vampire and Watcher both glared at him.

“One of those…episodes.”

“Oh, like where he set Dru on fire? One of those little episodes?”

“Well, not exactly…”

“Well, what bloody exactly, then?”

The phone slammed down and Buffy stomped back into the kitchen. “We have to go.”

“What’s going on?” Wes tried to look as innocent as possible, but now Buffy looked rather suspicious.

“Somebody’s been watching way too much Charleton Heston.” Buffy sighed. “Frogs, toads all over the place, they’re hitting every Radioshack in town. “

Part 36:

Driving was ordinarily a good thing, but he noticed that driving in this case led to motion, and motion was bad. For several whole seconds, he’d been quite cheerful, quite pleased with himself, but then his stomach informed his head that both had been abused and revolt was necessary. Since his wastrel days, he hadn’t done much drinking, and besides, vampires more or less lost the ability to deal with solid food early on. Alcohol, therefore, was traumatic. If he’d been chugging down anti-freeze, he couldn’t have felt worse, although he very likely would not have had as bad of a hangover. Ah, the ironies of vampire existence. Although his stomach didn’t like food, it could handle just about anything and survive. Spike, once upon a time, had gone about trying all kinds of liquid experiments to find out what he could survive. Pity I stopped him that time, Angel thought. He peered through the three whirling windshields in front of him, and decided the middle one seemed like the best bet. He slowly puttered over to the side of the street, and sagged over onto the passenger side seat.

Oh, God, this is bad.

He was lying in the most twisted position possible. Not that it mattered or anything, because he was dead; it just felt like he wasn’t dead enough. It’s not as if this position was a surprise, either; he’d been doing this for quite some time now, falling over onto the seat, wanting to die, realizing he was already dead and that there wasn’t much more he could do about it. After several minutes’ recuperation, he’d be perking up in the most inexplicable way and setting off again.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this drunk; it was very possible he’d still been human at the time. Funny how this hangover felt worse. No tolerance any more, he thought, with the pride of the ex addict. No tolerance left at all.

Strangely enough, this had once been fun. So many things had been fun. Stay up all night in some club in Montmartre, watch the silly men and their sillier girls, getting drunk on fizzy champagne chosen solely on its ability to match their clothes. Hell, it had been too much fun to kill them, when you could just sip their blood a bit, sample the vintage so to speak, then stagger back home, tipsy with the excitement of it all. No hangovers then, hadn’t even been necessary to kill, not with all the pretty girls agog over his size and his build. He twisted over on his back and stared at the roof of the car. Those were the days, indeed, even better than his human days. Humanity meant hangovers and consequences.

Like sex, for example. Nothing more fun than sex. Nothing. But back in his human era, it had been actively dangerous, not to mention, well, shortcomings in the protection department. He was fairly certain he’d not have outlived his father, not with the pox. He knew for a fact Darla would have died of syphilis if the Master hadn’t have turned her. Yes, definitely an upside in getting turned.

All the drinking he’d done as a human had never done more than provide a temporary escape from his father, and all that ridiculous guilt he had felt at being such a wastrel. All the beatings from the old man, all the disapproval, and he had been the one to feel the guilt, not his father. The old bastard had never once shown him anything more than contempt, and he had had every right to try and escape with the only methods available to him. The girls he’d deflowered, the ones he’d given the diseases to, the ones he’d impregnated, those had long been forgotten. So now, two hundred years later, why did he suddenly remember?

He’d been running from guilt as a man and a vampire, and all it seemed at this moment, was as a vampire he had more strength to resist it. It wasn’t supposed to have worked out like that.

Like the whole deal with sex, for example. No consequences, no pregnancies, no diseases…but Darla had neglected to mention the bluntness of it, the numbing of the body. Something was lacking in it, and in all the centuries he’d been a vampire, he’d never gotten close to what it had been like, close to the worst sex he’d ever had, as a drunk and a man. Until Buffy. One brief moment in an innocent girl’s arms, and he’d been a man again, ever fiber of him alive, and then it had not only been gone, it had been shattered.

He swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. Should drink more often. Even with Spike as the impetus. Spike. It just wasn’t fair. Spike was his grandchild, and the bastard managed to dance circles around him when he felt like it. The fact that he seldom felt like it was another careless slap in the face, because it obviously wasn’t a challenge for the bastard. Becoming a vampire had been the latest in a long series of disappointments for him; for Spike, it had been a coup. Drunk or sober, he managed to say things Angel knew he himself could have a hope of managing only after study, cramming, and an exam. The worst of it was, he saw flashes of the dolts they had both been as human, but on Spike it became something suspiciously close to humanity, and on him, it became righteousness. He’d been a vampire more than two hundred years, and even that wasn’t enough to keep him from turning into his father.

He patted his head gingerly. More than anything, he needed a clear head to figure out what was going on, and he was still so sick he feared that wasn’t possible. He wanted to look Spike in his beady little eyes when he asked him a few questions. The questions were so absurd, though, that that shock might almost make Spike honest. He snorted at his own paranoia. Spike in love with Buffy!

He rolled over on his side, and a bolt of lightning scorched through his head. Ah, not yet, then. He chuckled at the thought of Spike in love with Buffy; it was almost as much fun as picturing him in love with one of the lesbians. Buffy could never love him. He didn’t often allow himself to remember the other night The Powers That Be had granted him with Buffy, but he kept that memory safe, like a relic. For two hundred years, even the feel of sex had been somehow muffled, and but that one night…He had never had, nor ever would again, he knew, have a night like that with any one else, and the fact that Buffy could never know it had happened made him all the more determined to protect its memory.

Grimly, he pulled himself into an upright position. Time to do something.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be getting sick.

He shoved open the passenger side door, noted that at least the car was parked in the shade of some commercial building, and miserably endured the nausea. Wondeful, just wonderful. Finished, he lay limply across the seat, and tried to figure out what building he was in front of. “THE MAG---“

Reading made his sodden brain cells hurt even worse than just thinking. He weakly shut the door and passed out.

Wes sat at the table and checked his watch while Lorne checked his nails. Both of them swore softly under their breaths. In a way, the delay was a good thing, because Spike had not yet found out the fate of his car, but in another way, it was bad, because Wes didn’t much care for frogs, and didn’t want anybody else to find that out. There was also the whole Angel dilemma, but he had been so hungover that Wes had stopped being concerned once he’d seen how sick Angel really had been. It was the Angel that lurked between intoxication and hangover that worried him, and he hoped feverently that wherever Angel was with the car, he was still terribly sick.

Although he did feel rather badly for Spike if that were the case.

Next time, go to a temp agency, he counseled himself.

Buffy had grabbed a bag and packed it full of stakes and weapons five minutes ago, then disappeared upstairs for a mysterious phone call, evidently to Willow, before vanishing into the bathroom. This had left Spike, Wes, and Lorne exchanging bewildered glances over the kitchen table, until Spike felt guilty and scrounged up two additional beers. He finished his first, then sighed manfully, and with every appearance of great reluctance, had headed up the stairs to pry Buffy out of her realm. There had been the sort of suspicious silence since then that indicted whispered conversation, and if Wes hadn’t figured out the situation before hand, the bathroom issue would have done it for him. The bathroom was the inner sanctum, and no woman allowed a man in it during any part of her toilette unless they were very intimate indeed.

He got up and tiptoed out into the hall, hoping for sounds of progress. All he heard was that suspicious silence instead. He sighed. Lorne raised one eyebrow at him. “Can’t you just go knock on the door?”

“Well, ah…” “Wesley?”

“What?”

“Have you gone through puberty?”

Wesley just gave him a very adult sigh that indicated, entirely by accident, that yes, in fact, he had gone through puberty, had gone through it very fast indeed, and had come out barely noticing. Hm. Lorne ran down a mental list of the prettiest demons he knew and wondered what he could do. Phone numbers? Accidental meetings? Lock them in a room? There was no way an adult man should be that squeamish. He pushed around Wes and cocked his ear at the stairs. “Slayer!”

There was a pause, then, that really put the nail in the coffin on the whole bathroom theory. “Yes?”

“Are you ready yet? Because evil’s afoot in Sunnydale, and I don’t need any more warts. Or to be declared Queen of the Frog Festival or something gauche like that, so could you get a move on?”

There was the sound of Buffy clearing her throat, then Spike clearing his throat, then the bathroom door opening. Both Lorne and Wes looked rather startled at the visible lack of ripped buttons and disarranged clothes. After all, Lorne thought, how are we supposed to live vicariously?

“Brushing teeth.” Buffy said sheepishly.

“Flossing.” Spike added.

“Yes.” Wes said briskly. “I’ll go get the car.” He looked from Buffy to Spike and back again. “And Lorne will come with me.”

“I will?” Lorne looked around for confirmation. “Oh. Then, I will. Here goes.”

Buffy and Spike watched the front door close, and then she smacked his stomach. “Flossing?!”

“Well, sort of.” He grinned at her. “Don’t know why you wear those things, although they are sort of cute.”

“Well, I’m not wearing one now, am I?”

He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her against him, not kissing her, just giving her one of his wicked looks, chin down, blinking up at her through his eyelashes. “Just think, Slayer,” he whispered. “Never know when, never know how…. He slid his hands down till he was cupping her bottom, lifting her against him. She wriggled to get away, but the wriggling made the seam of her jeans move around, and she finally jerked out of his grip with a gasp. He grinned at her and she summoned up her Look of Pissed-Offedness Number 17, which Spike recognized. His smirk softened all at once. This was not the pissed-off look she directed at Dawn; that was different. She had a whole repertoire of them, and this was the one reserved for male-type people who pissed her off in such a way that she had to bat her eyelashes at them furiously while sticking out her lower lip. He hooked a finger in her waistband and pulled her in for a kiss. The sound of the door opening made them both jump back. Wes shook his head for a moment and wondered why they even bothered. Buffy was clutching at the newel post with tense casualness and Spike had his hands jammed so far in his pockets he could probably pull his socks up. They both looked like they’d each just received a massive unexpected electrical shock.

“We’re ready,now. Car’s out front in the shade.”

“No offense, Watcher,” Spike said, ‘but I’ll take my own.” He pulled on his coat, and found himself facing two statues. Wes looked away at Buffy; Buffy looked at the floor. “What’s wrong with you two? Let’s go.”

“Uh, we’re going with Wesley.” Buffy said.

“No, we’re not, I’m driving my own car.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

Buffy looked from one to the other and spread her hands out. “Spike, there’s kind of a problem with your car…”

With that, he stepped to the door, and yanked it open furiously, so annoyed he forget to check the time. He had to flinch out of the way of the setting sun’s rays, and mentally blamed that momentary loss of cool on Angel, as well. Bastard. Street. Angel’s convertible parked right in front of the house, Lorne smoking a cigarette while leaning casually against the front. He maneuvered around the softening sunlight to get a look in the other direction. What was missing from this picture?

Oh, no, he thought. I did not get turned, become a vampire, suffer Angel’s yapping for a century, and endure disco in order to find out that vampires are subject to towing laws. No, absolutely not. I am a supernatural being, not some bloody frat boy with expired tags. Absolutely bloody not.

“Where,” he hissed, “is my bloody car?”

“We don’t know.” Buffy said quietly.

“Did it get towed?”

“No.”

No? She knew? “Well, then, what did happen?”

“Uh, we’re not sure.”

Abruptly something clicked in Spike’s head. “Where’s Angel?” He took another look at Angel’s car, trying to find out if from his elevated vantage point on the porch if he could see the miserable lump somewhere inside. Nothing. He rounded on them triumphantly. “He took it, didn’t he?”

Wes and Buffy exchanged looks. “Uh, we don’t know for sure.”

He turned and looked at them both almost pityingly. “Please, people. If you know someone who would kidnap Angel, let me know, because I’ve been trying to find someone to get that poofter off my hands for ages. He took my bloody car.” He shook his head, lighting a cigarette with an expert snap of his wrist. “Right, then.” He grinned sharkishly at both of them. “Then I guess I’ll have to take his, then, won’t I?”

The only thing worse than stepping unexpectedly on a frog was stepping on one unexpectedly in the dark. Willow shrieked and jumped up mid stride without ever actually touching the ground, thereby violating the laws of God and man, but at least saving another little froggie’s life. Behind her back, Tara and Dawn both rolled their eyes. Sure, the little buggers were sort of cute. Sure, they were helpless and didn’t deserve their fate. On the other hand, that had been blocks ago, and the whole, ‘frogs are cute, we can’t hurt them,’ thing in combination with the mysterious ‘I must meet my source’charade was starting to wear thin. Dawn wanted to get to Janice’s, and Tara suspected she needed to get back to the store before there were any uncomfortable silences. There’d been too much unexpected goodness today to not expect the arrival of the proverbial other shoe.

Willow stopped abruptly and held up one hand for silence. She was looking intently down an alleyway, and must’ve seen something neither of them did, because she made whirling motions with her hand, and took off stealthily down the alley.

“Ew,” Dawn said. “What’s this?”

“My source.” Willow hesitated before a recessed doorway where a shadow lurked in the darkness. “I’m here. Come on out.”

There was the sound of a throat clearing, then a muffled voice answered. “I can’t reveal my identity.”

Willow reached into the shadows and yanked out…Jonathon. He was wearing a black fedora that hung down over his ears, and a black trenchcoat that hung past his ankles and probably went around him twice. With the waist bunched up by the belt, it almost looked like some sort of bulky dress. He blinked at the three of them. “Hey!” He looked at Tara and Dawn, both of whom were wearing identical disapproving expressions, over seriously pissed-off crossed-arm body language. “You were supposed to come alone!”

“Oh, please, Deep Throat.” Willow scoffed. She eyed his outfit skeptically, but kept her comments to herself. “So what’s with all the phone calls? How come you know about this before anybody else does?”

“Well, it could be me, you know.” Jonathon said defensively. “I know a lot of these guys that got turned into frogs.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m sure you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart. Did Warren do this?”

“Not exactly.” Willow leaned over him menacingly. “Well, it’s true.”

“So…?”

“It’s a demon.” Jonathon said. “We, uh, found a demon.”

The three girls looked at each other. “And where did you put this demon?” Willow asked softly.

Jonathon snorted at her. “I’m not going to tell you where our lair is! We have all sorts of Sta---secret stuff there.”

Willow stepped forward and grabbed him by the oversized lapels. “Where is this demon, Jonathon?”

“Oh, please.” He wriggled free and Willow tried to make it look like she’d let him. “Besides, she’s not even there any more. She escaped.”

She escaped, Willow thought. Sort of made it sound like there’d been something to escape from. These three geeks capturing a demon? “She?” She said suddenly. “She? What kind of demon was it?”

“I don’t know!” He shrank back against the wall. “One minute she just looked like a girl---a woman-“He added hastily as all three glared at him, “And the next minute, she had this awful face on.” He cringed at the look all three girls gave him. “I-I have to go.”

“Yeah, tell your mom ‘hi,’ “ Willow called absently. Jonathon, coat flapping, thudded off to the sound of trenchcoat flopping around on his body.

“Do you think it could be Hallie?” Tara asked.

“Yeah, I bet it is. And she must be really pissed.” Willow thought about it for a minute. “You know, we could kill two birds with one stone here. Hallie’s really pissed at the Trio, the trio have been doing all kinds of stuff, and….”

“And,” Tara sighed. “That means we have to go back and tell Buffy.”

And Janice, Dawn thought happily.

Wearily, they turned back and headed back toward the store. “Hey, great.” Willow said. “There’s Spike’s car. Buffy’s here already.” She looked down at Dawn. “We can get to Janice’s on time after all.”

Very much relieved, they poked their heads inside the door. “Buffy?”

“She’s not here.” Anya said.

“Well, Spike’s car is here…” Tara started to explain, then watched Xander’s face tighten as the implication hit him. “So we thought they were here.”

“They’re supposed to be finding Hallie.” Anya said sullenly.
“I’m sure they’re looking.” Willow said cheerfully. “But now we have a very big clue.”

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