Disclaimer: I thought about writing a neat little ditty for this disclaimer about how I don't own anything related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel, and then I realized I don't even own a rhyming dictionary. Sad day.
Chapter Four: The Ballad of Michael Phenargan
"Do vampires ever have to use the bathroom?"
"What?" The lesson in Slayage stopped abruptly. Faith let the stake in her hand fall to the ground. She released her stranglehold on Angel, who also fell to the ground, massaging his neck. Even Spike was taken aback. Zoë started to giggle.
"You heard me." Slightly hurt by their reactions, Linea repeated her question. "Do vampires use the bathroom?"
The older Slayer bent down and retrieved her stake. "I'm not touching this one. Boys?"
Angel got to his feet, exchanging glances awkwardly with Spike.
"I mean, you guys drink quarts of blood daily, and you never gain any weight. So it has to be going somewhere." The redhead squinted at them like they were specimens under her microscope. "Unless you sweat it all off? But you don't seem to perspire that much to me . . . Zoë?"
"Don't ask me, Bill Nye," the cheerleader gasped in between giggles. "I don't know anything about the little fangs room."
Since their slapdash introduction to the world of Slaying, Linea and Zoë had gotten far more comfortable around the vampires and the rather unorthodox methods of the halfway house. Rona was officially connected with Buffy and the rest of the Slayers, and while no one had actually said it aloud, the girls soon gathered that Faith was in the Slayer doghouse over some incognito mission gone wrong.
Weirdly enough, this translated to things being more easygoing and fun over at Faith's. Sure, when there were vamps to dust or Fyarl demons to take down, everyone worked their butts off. But when you got to practice Slaying on a pair of gorgeous vampires who'd promised not to kill you . . . they could forgive a little unorthodoxy.
Overall, Team Angel was actually adapting to the new Slayers rather well. Once Zoë got over the novelty of flirting with older guys who didn't flirt back, she was fairly irritation-free. Linea's worst quality was her tendency to notice the things everyone else glossed over and ask questions about them. Like where were the toilets in Lothlorien, and how come J.K. Rowling didn't mention baths until book four, and then only as a plot device? And why did signs say "No shirt, no shoes, no service," but never once mention pants? Spike admitted this was an excellent question, but even he didn't have an answer for her.
Now, faced with another one of Linea's doozies, the vampires struggled to come up with a decent reply that wouldn't leave Faith and Zoë rolling on the ground laughing at them. Aware of her friends' dilemma, Faith leaned back against a tombstone and smirked. They were just waiting for a couple of vamps to rise, and that could take a while, so any diversion was welcome. Unfortunately for Faith, the diversion she got wasn't the one she wanted.
The Slayer's stomach cramped, and the next second, she found herself on all fours on the soft green grass of the cemetery, projectile vomiting on some poor old married couple's headstone. Everyone jumped back away from her – nothing ruined good shoes quite so well as getting puked on.
"What the He – bleghhhh." Faith's attempt at speech was destroyed by another wave of throwing up.
"That is absolutely revolting. I can't look." Zoë turned around so she wouldn't have to watch, but she couldn't escape the sound. "Ugh. Make her stop."
"Hmm." Linea looked from Faith to the vampires. "Maybe you two are secretly blood bulimics? That would explain it."
"Right. Well, then." It was obvious that Cap'n Forehead wasn't going to be able to do anything about this; he was almost as pale as Faith. Once again, it was all up to Spike. Lovely. The blond vampire leaned forward and clocked Faith a good one on right on the back of the head, catching her just before she face-planted into a pile of vomit.
"Spike!" Angel hissed, horrified.
"She can't puke if she's unconscious, right?" Spike gathered Faith into his arms. She weighed less than he'd expected. Aha! Those leather boots were probably fake. He'd known it all along. "Right, Angel?"
As per usual, Linea's was the voice of unwelcome scientific reason. "I wouldn't count on it."
"Bloody brilliant. Well, I'll just see you all back at the house, then." He set off across the cemetery, somewhat hampered by the fact that he could not see his feet. Yes, he was leaving Peaches alone with the Twin Terrors. Peaches could deal.
"Blue! Open up! Come on, hurry!" Spike jammed his finger into the doorbell repeatedly and kicked the bottom of the door in frustration. This blasted Slayer was getting heavier with every passing second.
Finally, the door opened to an obviously annoyed Illyria. She took one look at the unconscious Faith and pursed her lips in distaste. "Are you copying your cavemen ancestors, Spike? Is this how you get women now?"
At any other time, Spike would have found that funny – or at least worthy of a sarcastic retort. Not now. He staggered inside. "A little help would be nice."
Illyria ignored the hint, and he dropped Faith on the hallway carpet. The Slayer instantly came to. She gasped, "Oh, G-d," held her hands to her mouth, and bolted for the bathroom.
"Faith is ill as well. I see now why you were carrying her. Why did you not just say so?"
"As well? Who else?"
"Andrew vomited all over the X-box ten minutes after your 'patrolling party' left," she sulked. "Gunn referred to him as Linda Blair – I do not know why – and took him to the hospital. You might call him. I do not think they have seen the doctor yet."
"I'll do that. Thanks, Blue." Spike wandered down the hallway. Knocking on the bathroom door as a matter of courtesy, the vampire went in to find Faith with her head halfway down the toilet. "You doin' okay, pet?"
Mixed in with the gurgles and gasps for air was some unmistakable profanity.
"Yeah, didn't think so. Here." He tore off a length of toilet paper and handed it to her. "Wipe your mouth. When this calms down a bit, I'll find you a bucket or something, and we'll get you into bed. All right?" Spike brushed a strand of dark brown hair out of Faith's face. "I'll be back in a minute."
Sitting in the kitchen, the vampire dialed Gunn's cell. The man picked up moments later, and Spike asked him to get double of Andrew's prescription, whatever it turned out to be. He could manage playing nursemaid for a few hours, but if Linea and Zoë caught this throw up bug and decided to stay at the house . . . Spike was definitely not prepared for that.
He ran into Illyria in the living room. "Want to help me with Faith?"
Shuddering, the ex-god king shook her head. "Absolutely not. Human illnesses are far outside my realm of experience, and after Andrew's display earlier, I would prefer for them to stay that way."
"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "Do you know where Faith put the mop bucket?"
Silently, she pointed to the cabinet beneath the sink.
"Thank you." Grabbing the bucket, he returned to the bathroom. Faith's puking had slowed down enough for her to stagger to her bedroom, her arms wrapped around the bucket, just in case. The Slayer sat down slowly on the edge of her bed and struggled out of her jacket. Spike didn't help; he could see she wanted to do this herself.
Even Faith's independence had its limits, however. "Hate to ask, but could you get my shoes? If I lean over, my intestines are going to start coming out of my ears."
"Wouldn't want that." Spike knelt down and had her boots and socks off in seconds. "Good news, luv. Your feet don't smell too bad."
Faith grinned weakly. "Considering the stuff I was tramping through last night, that is good news. Oh, no . . ." She grabbed the bucket and leaned over the side of the bed, heaving. "I'm never eating again."
Right. Spike would believe that one when he saw it. "Lay down, if you can."
"What about my bucket? I've got my priorities, you know."
"Here, how about this? I'll sit with you and hand you the bucket. In return, you don't hurl chunks all over me. Deal?"
The Slayer frowned. "Why are you being so nice to me, Spike?"
"Scoot over." Balancing the bucket precariously, the vampire wedged himself onto the bed next to Faith. "One, because I, being an adventurous bloke who likes to add a little texture to my morning cuppa AB neg, have since discovered that some things do not mix well together. Like human blood and sauerkraut. Nearly saw my own intestines that time. So that's one reason. The other is that if you drowned in your own vomit after I knocked your lights out – well, pet, it'd kinda be my fault, wouldn't it? Then I'd be an ex-ex-murderer, and I couldn't be President anymore. And with you dead, the job'd go to that sod Angel. You know we couldn't have that."
"Eugh. Gimme the bucket."
Angel, Linea, and Zoë returned from patrolling at the same time that Gunn and Andrew got back from the E.R. The girls had been teasing Angel about a potential relationship with Spike. They stopped instantly when they saw how white Andrew's face was.
"Lend a hand?" Gunn panted as he tried to keep the very unsteady Andrew on his feet.
In less than a second, Angel had an arm wrapped underneath Andrew's shoulders. Even with the extra support, however, the young man still wobbled. Gunn didn't look so hot, either. Beads of sweat dripped off the black man's forehead, and he kept clutching at his stomach with his free hand.
"Angel, man, I'm not feeling so good."
The vampire groaned silently to himself. "Linea, Zoë, help Gunn. I'll get Andrew." With a grunt of effort, Angel lifted Andrew up and carried him, bridal style. "Not a word to Spike, any of you."
Luckily for Angel, the only person they ran into was Illyria. She already knew Andrew was sick, so she didn't bother jumping to any awkward conclusions.
"What did the doctor say?" she asked Gunn, following the other five into Andrew's small bedroom, which was covered floor to ceiling in various movie posters.
"Stomach flu," he answered shortly. Disentangling himself from the teenagers' helping hands, Gunn reached inside his jacket and withdrew a packet. "Doc says it's been going around town. First comes the vomiting, then some serious weakness." He nodded at Andrew, who was only half-conscious and refusing to let go of Angel. "I told him we shared a house with a lot of roommates. He prescribed five times the normal amount."
"The normal amount of what?"
Gunn thrust the package into Zoë's hands. "Something called Phenargan, I think?"
"There once was an old man named Michael Phenargan.
He threw up all on his chinnegan.
Wiped it up and then he hurled again.
Poor old Michael Phenargan,
Begin again," sang Andrew groggily.
Angel immediately dropped him onto the bed. "Oh, no."
Exchanging glances, Linea and Zoë shook their heads at one another. "We'll take it from here."
"You obviously aren't prepared to handle this – no offense."
"So why don't you and Spike take care of the car clean up – looks like Andrew had a little accident. We ladies will tend to the injured. Right, Illyria?"
Deeply disturbed by this change in the chain of command, Illyria blinked at Zoë. "Yes. I will help you."
Zoë grinned so widely the Cheshire Cat would have been jealous. "You see, Angel, we got this. Hop along."
The vampire was almost as discomfited as Illyria. "Where's Spike?"
Linea raised one eyebrow archly. It was a talent she had been learning from Zoë. "With Faith. Where did you think?"
Working their fastest, it still took the vampires over half an hour to clean Gunn's truck out completely. Even then, the scent of vomit lingered. No matter how many air fresheners they stuck in odd places like beneath the passenger seat and dangling off all the inside door handles, Angel and Spike just could not get rid of the smell.
At half past one, Linea and Zoë came out to say that it was a school night and they absolutely had to go. Both Andrew and Faith had progressed to the weakness stage, and Gunn's vomiting seemed to be slowing. For the moment, Illyria was holding down the fort.
"You get the feeling they brought that stomach bug thing with 'em?" Spike wondered in a soft voice as they watched the girls drive away in Zoë's Camry.
Angel sighed. "Probably. Come on. Let's go check on the patients."
"Ha! Rescue Blue, you mean?"
Spike's grandsire nodded in one of their rare moments of camaraderie. "Exactly."
Faith was mostly asleep when Angel came into her room. Mostly, but not completely. She hadn't been this weak since the loss of her Slayer powers for those Trials when she turned eighteen, and there were some major flashbacks going on. It was impossible for her to totally relax and go to sleep.
"Hey," she said quietly, startling him.
Visibly miffed, Angel pretended to brood. "I thought I was being sneaky," he complained.
She shrugged. "Slayer, remember? If you sneak up on me, I get dead. How was patrolling?"
"Not bad. Taught the girls some new tricks, dusted four vamps total. Tried to convince them that Spike and I aren't secretly having a torrid love affair." Angel mimicked the Slayer's nonchalant shrug. "And then they decided to come in and play Florence Nightingale."
"Who?" Faith attempted to sit up, but her head went all woozy. She fell back against the pillows. "D-mn."
"You all right?"
"No. I can't fight, can't move, can't sleep. I hate Phenargan!" Her rant continued for fifty seconds until it devolved into swearing.
The vampire knew her well enough to just let her curse and get it all out of her system. "You okay?" he asked again when the profanity finally died away into silence.
"I'm weak." The Slayer's pained voice betrayed her fear. "What if something happens?"
"Then I'll be here." Angel sat down on the bed, unknowingly taking Spike's earlier position. "Want me to tell you a bedtime story?"
Faith looked over at him in the darkness. With anyone else, she would have wondered if they were for real, but this was Angel. He only did ridiculous stuff like this with the utmost sincerity. Besides, it was something the Mayor would have done, and that alone made it comforting. Unconsciously, she moved closer. "Okay."
"Ehem." Angel cleared his throat. If he was going to tell a story, he was would do so in style. "Once upon a time" –
"In a galaxy far, far away," picked up a smug British voice from outside the door.
"What the – "
Spike and Andrew strode into the room. The latter still looked pale. "I brought animal crackers!" he announced triumphantly. "The frosted kind, not the nasty regular ones."
"Are you going to be telling about the Fett? 'Cuz Andrew here gets a little overexcited when you're talking about the Fett."
"I do not!"
Gunn and Illyria followed them in, Gunn still clutching a bucket. "Dude, hate to break it to you, but you totally do."
"I myself have seen the nauseating adoration that this boy has for all things George Lucas."
They settled themselves on the edge of the bed. Chomping noisily on his animal crackers, Andrew stared at Angel with expectant eyes. Spike smirked and commandeered the sole unoccupied pillow.
"So… tall, dark, and forehead ... what story are you going to tell us?"
A/N: This would have been posted sooner, but we've had some huge wildfires lately, and so I spent the morning dousing the remnants of a fire by a friend's trailer. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, and any ideas for future one-shots are welcome.
Until next time,
AiH
