Open House Chapter 2. The Day
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon, WB and Mutant Enemy, and were made flesh by the actors that gave them life. I borrow them here out of reverence, with respect and for fun, not profit. Joss rocks!
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The day of the Wolfram & Hart Open House dawned and Angel cast a worried eye (as was his custom) over the banners, bunting and signage that had been strewn around the plush offices to give a welcoming feel and help direct the visitors.
Spike stood beside him looking chipper. "Reckon this is gonna be a bit o'fun today," he predicted.
It hadn't escaped Spike's attention that this might be a good chance for him to impress the ladies with his tales of daring do back in the day. He had paid special attention to his appearance, particularly his hair, slicking it back with a rather fragrant, but manly, pomade. He had decided to keep his duster on while he showed visitors around as it gave him an air of mystery and authority. It also allowed him to stride impressively without looking like a total prat or a refugee from Monty Python's 'Ministry of Funny Walks'.
Angel was very aware of Spike's sartorial efforts and found them pathetic and laughable. He, himself, sported a Versace suit with Jermyn Street bespoke shirt and silk cravat (earning him the epithet 'ponce' from Spike).
Ten o'clock arrived and the law firm's doors were thrown wide. Spike rubbed his hands with anticipated glee.
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By early evening Spike was flagging. There had been a steady flood of interested members of the public and there was no sign of the hoards abating. There was still nearly two hours to go before Wolfram & Hart closed their doors at 8.00pm and Spike cursed the bright spark who had suggested keeping open into the evening to catch people coming home from work.
The last batch he had accompanied round the offices was the largest by far and he had struggled to repeat, for the umpteenth time that day, the exciting stories of how he had single-handedly averted three apocalypses and battled with hideous other-worldly demons. Frankly, he had bored himself with the tales, never mind that his throat was parched from a day talking loud enough for 'those at the back to hear'.
He had tried sloping off around lunchtime for a quick litre of pig's blood but hadn't been able to get away from the 'vampire groupies'; women of a certain age who felt it necessary to crowd his personal space for the opportunity to touch a real 'live' vampire. ("Oi, watch it love! And actually, I am NOT 'live'. I am the UNDEAD! Get it?") He had been so unnerved by this turn of events that he had even regretted the pomade.
He felt hounded by these women; not a feeling he was accustomed to, being a vampire and all. His tormenters recalled Macbeth's witches to mind, and he found the words of the first witch running through in his head intoning incessantly and unbidden, like the unshakable refrain from an irritating tune heard over breakfast:
'I'll drain him dry as hay;
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid.
He shall live a man forbid.
Weary sev'n-nights nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine.
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tossed.'
There were times that day when, had Spike been a breathing being, he would have hyperventilated and been struck insensible by a series of panic attacks.
He had rarely found himself in a position of wanting to run from any challenge, no matter how ghastly or potentially fatal, but wealthy widows with small dogs clamped under their arms now filled him with more dread than a whole hellmouth of uber-vamps. And sharpened stakes could hardly evoke more terror in him than the sight of twin-sets and pearls.
There had been one highlight, however, that seemed to Spike to be almost sufficient compensation for the tribulations of the day. The first afternoon tour he escorted was very much like the previous, morning ones, but he noticed a striking young woman hovering towards the back of the entourage.
He become aware of her shy demeanour first, such a contrast to the directness (if not pushiness) of most of the others in the group. Spike noted with interest her beautiful soft brown eyes, looking out timidly through long black lashes. Her face was open, with fine, regular features, a pale complexion and long, deep brown hair. Her ivory silk blouse and navy kick-flared skirt showed a slender figure, but she wasn't what you might call 'thin' ('curves in all the right places', thought Spike).
Spike was aware that several times during the tour he had sneaked a glance at her, and at one point realised that, on catching sight of her in profile, he had run his tongue across his teeth in a predatory fashion.
The tour, as always, had ended in the conference room, where Spike encouraged everyone to take their time to look around the offices further and ask staff any questions they might have. As the throng started to disperse, and a weary Spike was considering if he had time to grab a quick mug of blood before the next group of non-golfers, he became suddenly aware that someone was standing beside him.
Mentally slapping his brain back into gear, Spike rose from the desk he was propped against, raised his eyes, and found himself staring into the gentle brown eyes of the young woman from the back of the tour.
"Excuse me, er, Mr, er, Mr Spike," the woman began quietly.
"Just 'Spike', love, he interrupted, with the smoothness of George Sanders.
"Spike," she repeated shyly, "would it be possible, er, I wonder if you'd mind, er, I mean, could I have your autograph please?" and she thrust a pen and a Wolfram & Hart Open Day flyer towards him for him to sign.
Spike was dumbfounded. "You want my autograph, love?" he asked incredulously and not a little flattered.
"Please, if it's not too much trouble. It would be a lovely reminder of the day I was fortunate enough to meet the famous Spike."
"Famous?" Spike's mouth dropped open and he found it difficult to gain control enough to form words again. "You've heard of me?" 'Blimey, I gotta tell Peaches,' he thought.
"Yes," said the vision in ivory and blue, "you battled for your soul back and then saved the world. We owe you so much. Thank you." She looked down at the floor.
"Oh," said Spike, uncharacteristically unable to think of a reply. He checked his heightened senses: No, she wasn't a demon or a vampire, just a regular human. How was it possible that she had heard of him?
Reading the confusion evident in Spike's face, the young woman explained, "I'm a 'sensitive'. That's kind of like a clairvoyant. I 'see' things, you know?"
Spike could only think to say, "Oh," again. He reached across the desk he was still standing against to take to a sheet of blank paper from the tray of a small printer.
"What's yer name, love?" he asked.
"Sophie," she answered.
Spike wrote on the blank page, in a neat copperplate hand: "To Sophie, I hope you will always remember our meeting, Best Wishes." He then signed it 'Spike' and added the date before handing it to Sophie.
"Sorry, love, I don't feel comfortable signing a Wolfram & Hart leaflet. I don't actually work for them," '(or even like them, he thought) "just helpin' out the CEO who's a mate o'mine." Did he really refer to Angel as a 'mate', he wondered?
Sophie had thanked Spike and made her way out of the conference room to follow the rest of her group as they ambled out to explore the remaining delights of Wolfram & Hart.
That had been nearly four hours ago and Spike was finding it increasingly difficult to stop his mind from re-playing the encounter, with certain changes; different things he could have said or done in order to have persuaded Sophie to part with her telephone number.
But for now, after eight straight hours of talking and guiding, he needed to escape from this Open House of Hell. Then, he saw a familiar face across the reception hall and he smirked to himself as a plan came to him. Pushing through the people milling around, networking, admiring the modern architecture or just looking lost, he grabbed the shoulder of the person he sought in the turtle-necked jumper and spun him around to face him.
"Hi, Kevin, isn't it?" Spike grinned.
"Er, Colin, actually," replied the fledgling vampire from Accounts.
"Yeah, like I said, Colin. How yer doing, mate?" Spike's smile broadened. Before giving the shocked fledgling time to reply, Spike continued, conspiratorially, "Couldn't do me a little favour could you Col? I mean, I wouldn't want to have to tell our illustrious CEO who's been swiping his pig's blood, would I?"
Having secured Colin's coerced agreement to meet, greet and guide the remaining batches of visitors, Spike sloped off, hoping to sneak out the tradesman's entrance at the back of the building. Striding down a corridor, he rounded a corner and came up - smack! - right into someone heading equally as quickly in the opposite direction. Such was the force and shock of the collision that both lost their footing and fell to the floor.
"Bloody Hell!" Spike went to raise himself off the ground when he looked across and found himself staring at the young woman who had asked for his autograph earlier, who was now sitting, rather inelegantly, on the floor where she had fallen. As she recognised the person she had collided with she flushed a deep shade of red.
"Hi, again, er..Sophie!" he recalled quickly (that'll score me some points here, he thought). "Sorry, love, let me help," Spike jumped up and proffered his hand to help her back on to her feet (delicate feet, with pale pink varnished toenails, in strappy, high-heeled sandals, with fine, slim ankles, Spike noted with relish).
Taking his hand and jumping quickly to her feet, Sophie smiled nervously, "I'm sorry, it's my fault, really; I should have paid more attention. I hope you're not hurt." She flicked her dark hair back from her face; Spike felt his blood warm a degree.
"Not your fault, love," Spike assured her, when he had forced his mind, and eyes, away from her body. "Should 'ave looked where I was going m'self. You ok?"
"A bit embarrassed, but that will pass. Thank you." Sophie smiled slightly.
"I know a cure for that: a mug of hot chocolate will soon set you right, I know a place that serves 'em with marshmallows." Spike figured, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and before she could politely refuse he continued, "Just finished my stint helpin' out here and was heading off for a mallow-topped hot chocolate m'self. I'd welcome some company, if you've a mind?"
In situations such as these, Spike invariably found that his accent tipped the balance in his favour, and today was no exception. They left Wolfram & Hart together in search of Spike's cure-all.
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Angel had had a hell of a day. He had lost count of the number of people he had greeted, shaken hands with, and generally fawned over.
There had been times during the day when Angel would have gladly returned to his decade of living in the gutter feeding off of rats rather than smile at one more potential client. Smiling was so not his bag. He just wanted the doors to finally close to the great LA hoards and for his employees to leave for their homes. He couldn't take much more and was looking forward to the quiet of the grave when the offices had emptied.
He was sure the day would be a complete waste of time, if not a total disaster, and the only thing that sustained him was the thought that his misgivings about this fiasco would be proved right.
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Sophie and Spike stared across their hot chocolates at one another. Spike broke the silence first. "So what made you decide to come to the Wolfram & Hart Open House today? You need a lawyer?"
Sophie shook her head gently, "No, I didn't come for the law firm, I came to see you." She lowered her eyes and blushed.
"Me? Soph' I'm flattered 'n all that, but why would you want to see me?" Spike asked her.
"Are you kidding?" Sophie's eyes widened, "You're a hero. There have been rumours flying around that you were back in LA and when I saw you would be at the Open House, I just had to go."
Spike still couldn't get his head round this. "There were rumours? About me?"
Well in certain circles, yes," Sophie explained. "I belong to a kind of underground movement. We know what's going on around us, with demons and vampires and stuff. We're not blind like the rest of the human population. Most of us are sensitives, you know, people with insight, people who can detect auras, divine energy paths, that kind of thing. Our minds aren't closed, so we are able to understand what's going on, hellmouths and the like."
"You know about the hellmouth?" Spike was flabbergasted. She seemed so normal.
"The one you closed in Sunnydale, and the one in Cleveland!" Sophie smiled at Spike's dumbfounded expression. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me!" She laughed and Spike felt his blood warm a notch again.
"I'm staggered, pet; I never thought ordinary folk were aware of the universe I inhabit." A thought suddenly occurred to Spike, "Does that mean that you know that I'm, that I'm a …"
"A vampire?" Sophie asked, her eyes creasing with a small smile. "Yes, of course. We're not so shallow as to tar everyone with the same brush. We treat everyone on their own merits and we recognise there are good vampires and bad humans. Remember we can see auras; feel a being's spirit; good or bad."
Her revelation had stunned Spike and he knew he wanted to find out more about these incredible, perceptive people, and about Sophie in particular.
"And you don't mind that you're having a mug of hot chocolate with a vampire?" he asked hesitantly.
"A good vampire! No, of course not. I told you we judge people on their spirit, and yours is admirable, even before you gained your soul. I'm honoured to be here, in fact, I kind of hoped…" She didn't finish.
Spike started laughing. "I know, pet. You forget, vampire senses here! I knew what you were up to the moment you joined the tour, though you certainly took your time, another couple o'minutes and I'd 'ave been outta there."
"You knew?" Sophie was mortified.
"You haven't cornered the market in instinct you know," he chided lightly. "I picked up you were there for some specific reason. Body language, smell, eyes avoiding me. Then of course you bash into me nearly four hours later. Four hours! I know Wolfram & Hart is big but it ain't that interesting. So, I figure you were hangin' around for a reason. Plus, you didn't take much persuading to come here with me did you?" Spike smirked at her, his head cocked enquiringly to one side.
"Ok, ok, it's a fair cop," Sophie giggled. "Yes, I did go to the Open House to meet you, and yes, I did spend hours trying to pluck up the courage to go back and speak to you again. I'd just decided to go and find you when I ran into you."
"Well, Soph, you do an old vampire's ego the power of good."
Sophie's arm was resting on the table between them and Spike reached out and gently ran his fingers down her forearm and across the back of her hand. He felt an answering tingle pulse back through his fingers. He raised a scarred eyebrow, "Fancy dinner?" he asked.
As they left for a restaurant, Spike thought to himself, 'Poor bint, doesn't know who she's playing with here. I've been doing this for more than a century; she doesn't stand a chance.'
Then he wondered when it was that he had last put clean sheets on his bed.
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