Spike was beyond freaked out. He was so freaked out that he didn't even correct Cordy when she called him Will. Bear in mind, Cordy was also freaked, but she had been able to overcome this through an innate faith that Angel always survived. Of course, Angel hadn't eaten in three days so that thought nibbled at her innate faith in him like a piranha.

When he wasn't huddled in the fetal position and rocking himself into a coma sleep, he had taken to wandering at night and not eating. Spike had become his substitute mother to even attempt to get him to feel. Not that Cordy wouldn't have if he had asked, but something about this entire situation made them both too uneasy and Spike didn't want to tip her over the edge.

Cordelia tried to speak with a hint of cheerful hope as she and Spike drank coffee and blood, respectively, in the tiny servants kitchen of the Hyperion lobby. "If Lorne were still alive, we could take Angel to see him. Maybe to try and get him to sing. I know normally he wouldn't, but in this state it seems slightly do-able."

"Angel doesn't sing," William replied adamantly, killing the idea then and there.

Cordy fished for a solution that would work. "I could try and ask the Powers whats going on?"

Spike shook his head no slowly several times. Spike had no desire to deal with the PTB at the moment; knowing there would be even more of a double-edged sword from the task. And right now, he wasn't willing to risk himself while Angel was so obviously out of commission. Angel and he needed each other.

Finally, Cordelia hit upon an idea that seemed valid. "Why don't we try the Freudian demon, Velar? Maybe he could try and coax the problem out of Angel; maybe it's like a vampiric mid-life crisis and he just broke down since he's already had the corvette."

Spike heard his Angel whimper again from his room and mutter that word; the only word he could seem to say, Anorous. The word sent a shiver of panic down Spike's side enough that he thought of letting one of the Freudian's in the hotel. At the very least, they were more neutral than hostile. "It's worth a shot. It maybe the only shot we have."

Velar was not hard to find. A friend of Anya's could really get anything in the demon world they needed. Velar came with his own bag of tricks and decidedly anti-demonic look. Cordy later described him as Mr. Peanut meets ZZ Top. Spike was so concerned about Angel that he forewent comment.

They heard his eerie limp as Velar arrived back down the hallway. Cordy had even trounced Spike on the shoulder twice to try and keep him from pacing during Velar's private consultation with the champion. Velar had one of those accents; one of those breathy, infuriating accents. So many times, Spike watched the man stroke his beard and wanted to growl heartily for him to continue on and fix his Angel. The doctor was boggled, in a slight way. Convinced as he was, he began in careful words.

"Have you ascertained the meaning of the word he speaks?"

Cordy spoke for both herself and Spike. "No doctor, we haven't been able to. I want to attribute it to a spell, a demon, something, but Angel's been cooped up in here so long there's not a soul reaver that's touched him. And they're the only thing I could think of that could hurt him like this, in such an inexplicable way."

The doctor sighed loudly and stroked his beard. "My honest opinion? There's very little anyone can do until we discover the source of the mysticism he chants."

Spike crossed his arms. "Is there any explanation you can offer?"

Cordy spoke in feverish words at the doctoring demon, who merely blinked at her. "The Angories demons were the only things he's fought in awhile, and I looked up all the information we have on them. There was nothing in the file on sorceries or any messenger spells they could carry."

Spike thought he might scream at the doctor if he stroked his beard one more time. Instead, the doctor stopped stroking his beard long enough to address him. "Have you looked into his eyes, young William the Bloody?"

The vampire was caught off-guard by the lax use of his name, but he shook it off. "I've been too busy worrying and feeding him. "

Velar shook his head. "Well, that's irresponsible of you. I can see his soul through his eyes. I believe the answer lies in them." With that, the man hobbled off.

Cordy shuddered, holding her shoulders. "Well that was unhelpful."

"I think it was more insightful than you're giving it hope for, love."

Cordelia simply shook her head. "I don't want to look into his eyes in this state, Spike!"

Spike grimaced and then went very stoic. "I'll do it then. I've known him longer and he needs to be fed anyways. I just hope there's something in there to find."

Spike gulped as he entered the room not far from the lobby. Angel looked comfy sprawled out and wearing a loose, black shirt. Spike nuzzled his temples.

"Please, sire, upon your eyes for your grandchilde."

Angel's eyes opened slowly as he tried to reach for Spike, but then they seemed to crawl away in a shiver as they tried to escape Spike's gaze. He whispered the devilish word once again in some sort of plea to Spike, which caused Spike's heart to crawl.

Spike wanted nothing more than to claw feverishly against the wall of whatever was keeping Angel in his current state. Spike straddled his thighs between Angel's middle to keep him from crawling away. Spike wasn't sure how much longer he was going to stand this without going insane. All the while, Cordy watched, holding the doorway to keep herself steady. Her short hair rested on the woodwork in a futile attempt to keep her from trying to feverishly awaken Angel.

"Look into my eyes," Spike whispered and Angel began to cry the tears he had eaten earlier. He was listless, pale, and shaking. There was a flash of brilliance and a howl from across the night sky somewhere as the innermost of Angel met the innermost of Spike. Spike searched longingly for the answer. Angel's eyes had turned a light green around the edges with a darker green center. They shook and darted while Spike's dark eyes searched. It was there somewhere amongst the panic and puke green sallow color. Angel screeched in this unnatural, primal tone and fell into a coma. There was a thunderous commotion as Spike called out for Cordelia.

Cordelia held Angel down as firmly as she could and cringed as Spike bit into his own wrist. The cooled blood began to settle quickly enough that Spike set it firmly against Angel's mouth and he began a prayer he never thought he'd say. To whatever power would listen. He wanted his Angel back. He wanted his life back; even if it meant staying in the Hyperion to the edge of eternity living with Angel's tense sniping and introspection. He didn't care any longer.

He huddled against Angel's shaking frame as he released that cursed word from his lips again and blood began to pool around Angel's chest, a small pool from whatever forced meal had come. The night passed this way in the darkened hotel. The moon began to weep in pale light for the three and for a fourth far away even farther into his own pain. Xander stared at the same moon on his latest patrol as ice had formed around his eyes in this barrier of pain and shallow hope, though he couldn't quite say why.

So they all waited; in this cycle of worry, pain, and doubt. All while a mocking figure looked forward, her hair in a terrible wave of triumph. Spike had seldom felt desperation for mysticism or for answers. But he felt desperation now, felt it in every vampiric vein and it showed. The stress created bloody bags under his darkened eyes. His game face was on constantly, but Cordelia ceased to call him on it. She had taken to not even combing 1,000 strokes into her hair every morning. William called the only person he knew who could help. He called Buffy.

She agreed to meet him in this little podunk town she lived in. It was all dusty and corn fed. This is how she's choosing to live, he thought to himself in grief. This was what she had wanted, the normal life. He grimaced as men in bad flannel exited a rundown coffee shop filled with fake fifties memorabilia. He always looked out of place, but here there was no corner to crouch in here. Spike was simply out of place.

Life moved in slow motion as she entered. She still had her fashionable swing to her hair, now waved without her little curl at the bottom. No bright, sunlit bangs. Her earrings were gone; her debonair light subdued. She walked and slid into the cushy booth; no concern stretched onto her face. "I thought I said I didn't want to be disturbed."

"Do you think I'd really disturb you unless it was important? Bloody hell, Buff, I know you well enough to know you meant it when you said you were retired. But you didn't think it would all go away, did you? I guarantee you I would not be doing this if it weren't important. You'll want to listen; it's about Angel."

Her face flickered in recognition as silent moments passed. The ancient apple pie and the coffee for Buffy arrived. "I don't think I want to know. "

"You have to listen Buffy; he's sick. It's not demons or a spell. We think it was something in his past, but we can't touch it. You have to help me." Spike was not used to pleading, but you'd bloody well believe he would do it now.

Buffy's voice was calm, not filled with hysteric speech or cryptic determination, like it always used to have been. It was flat now, annoyed more than anything. "Didn't I tell all of you I was done with all this after the Hellmouth? I have kids now, I run the PTA, and I bake pies. I can't go running off gallivanting all around the countryside because something is wrong with your grandsire."

Spike's snarling anger boiled over, remarkably without game face. "So, this is the life you want, then? Did you find someone willing to put up with your domineering?" Angel was running out of time, and Spike felt just plain sick to his stomach about her attitude.

Buffy merely crossed her arms, unimpressed by his emotion. "Hey, fangs don't bark at me because your best friend has a problem." The couple at the next table looked over, so she settled for smoldering anger in his general direction.

Spike growled low in his throat. "Look blondie, I wanted to ignore you, but time isn't quite as long as it used to be for Angel. He keeps sayin' this one word, over and over again. Anorous, please tell me if that means anything to you."

"No." Buffy stared without even taking a moment.

"Would you please even consider helping someone you loved once?"

Then Buffy's man walked in. He had that air of a prick that Spike hated before he even met the man. He hoped the sex was worth the price of her traitor hood. Love should mean not giving up or walking away-no matter what.

The prick leaned down to kiss Buffy. He had Angel's hair and body, but not the eyes. The eyes were dull and dim; no quick reflexes or burning proof of desire to live, to repent, to be something other than the status quo. Buffy had a dummy for a man; a personal scarecrow. Spike suppressed a second snarl.

"The name means nothing," Buffy coldly proclaimed before she got up and walked off. The cold soldering prick of a man looked backwards and grinned. William looked back down at his full cup of coffee just as Buffy's heels clicked his direction again.

Buffy put on a big performance with her sigh. "Look, here's Willow's number. Maybe she can help you. I hope Angelus gets better, but don't expect any future help from me."

Spike held the card closely between his palm and chest. He wanted to thank her but she merely snarled with her eyes as she walked away, and the waitress went back to her want ads. Spike and Cordelia had more than lost touch with the Amcroft Offices. Spike's mind raced a mile a minute. If there was a way to crack into the offices of the Watchers, maybe use Wesley, but then he stopped. Wesley had been killed in New Zealand on a lonely night battling alongside his angry Slayer student. No vampire would be able to waltz in any sort of catacomb and find information. Especially not for the souled version of Angelus; even with the protection of the Powers.

He turned the card around in his hands until it crinkled at the corners. He mulled it upon his return to the Hyperion; then a howl from Angel sent a pulse through his right forearm. In dread, he dialed Red. Chris' gruff voice greeted him. He was pulling phone duty that night. Spike informed him, short but as politely as he could maintain that he needed to talk to Willow or Oz.

"Why don't you want to talk to me? Don't you think I could help?" There was seriousness, but also this contemptuous wink to Chris' voice.

Oz finally came on the com link. "Hey, what can we help you with, Spike?"

There was an unsure tone in his voice, as if to ask friend or foe. Spike didn't blame the wolf for the bad blood. He had done more than his share to deserve it. But now, if at any time, he needed the old lines of rivalry to disappear. Cordelia appeared on the other side as the phone conference became a Skype conference.