Dio's Notes: Well, real life likes to interfere with fun fantasy lives, as most of you are aware. This is slowly but surely being worked through and will be completed by Christmas if I have to shoot somebody to do it. Uni just hates me right now, that's all.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not IR's (though it would only be a matter of time, if she would put her mind to it). Joss Whedon's. Mutant Enemy's. Yeah.

Five by Five

Story 1x01 - Living Dead Boys

By Diocletian

Act Three

Wesley was given a clean bill of health. Absolutely perfect. Not unexpected, but a bit of a let-down after he'd been hoping the doctor would discover he was actually dead and, through some mysterious and miraculous occurrence which would be henceforth explained, walking around anyway. Or maybe that he'd somehow become a demon. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened, after all. But no. Completely human, so far as the doctor could tell, and fit as a fiddle to boot. So why was he wasting hospital resources by coming in through the emergency entrance instead of just scheduling a regular check-up with his personal physician?

If there was one thing Wesley could not stand, it was not having the answers. He had always, ALWAYS, been book-guy, the man to go to with a question, the person who could figure out any problem put before him, given sufficient time. Now, when it came to himself and his friends—family, really—he had nothing. He'd used every alley he could think of and yet he remained clueless. It was beyond frustrating.

And bad things tended to happen when he didn't have the answers. People died. They were occasionally kidnapped erroneously. Unwanted memories were returned. All in all, not generally one's idea of a fun time.

He really didn't know what he was supposed to do. He didn't know any other way of finding Angel, Gunn, Illyria and Spike. He didn't know why he wasn't dead. He didn't know what to do with himself next. Ordinarily, he would have gone looking for the answers in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, he thought as he exited the hospital and dug around in his pocket for his car keys. Perhaps he'd do that, but drinking could only take up so much of a man's time before he had to do something else.

It took several seconds for him to notice that the men in the parking lot, two fellows he'd been staring at absently, had broken into HIS car and were about to get in. He broke into a run, patting his coat pocket to confirm the presence of his handgun—just in case—and shouted at the thieving pair. "Hey! Get the hell away from my car!"

Spike grunted in exasperation when he heard it. He shoved Lindsey gracelessly into the front passenger seat and turned around to face the vehicle's unfortunate owner. He had hoped he wouldn't need to use force to get away from the place, but he was willing to dole out a good punch or two if it meant getting away from Wolfram & Hart's influence once and for all.

If his heart had been beating in the first place, the sight of the person behind him might have made it stop.

It was Spike.

Wesley's eyes went wide as he recognized the vampire who was in the middle of stealing his SUV.

The blonde jumped and let out a strangled scream, looking startled, as though he'd seen a ghost. "I thought you were supposed to be dead!" he cried. "The smurfette said so!"

Wesley bristled at that. "You're a fine one to talk. Where have you been? What happened that night in the alley behind the Hyperion? Are the others with you?"

Spike rebounded quickly, still surprised, but not willing to let it get to him and certainly not willing to admit that he'd just screamed because of Wesley. He pointed his thumb at Lindsey, who was looking very confused, over his shoulder. "Just him. I'm pretty sure the others got incinerated or something. The odds weren't exactly in our favour."

Wesley felt his heart sink. The news wasn't surprising. He'd had it mostly worked out on his own. But to hear Spike say it gave it a sense of reality he wasn't really prepared for. That the others were gone… it was just a lot to handle. He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths through his nose, calming himself down, getting a hold of his emotions.

After a minute or two, his eyes opened again. He reprocessed his current surroundings and his eyes narrowed as they focused in on Lindsey sitting in his front passenger seat. He glared at Spike. "You bastards were about to steal my car."

Spike scratched the back of his head, trying to look sheepish, but failing. "Yeah, I guess we were."

"I don't suppose you would be willing to tell me why you and our arch-enemy-cum-reluctant-ally are attempting to commit grand theft auto in the middle of a hospital's public parking lot?"

Wesley's expression was one of mere idle curiosity, but Spike wasn't fooled. The Englishman was on the verge of trying to toss both he and Lindsey out on their asses on the filthy asphalt. Spike knew he could take him, barring crosses and stakes, but he'd prefer not to. He figured he might as well make an effort to be civilized. "See, there's a real funny story about that—"

Listening, Lindsey rolled his eyes. "We're going to New York," he broke in. The other two both turned to look at him. Wesley noticed the wheelchair by the car door for the first time. "We could use a driver who doesn't burst into flame in the sun," he continued. "Wanna come?"

Wesley blinked, processing the information. "Why exactly are you going to New York?" he asked.

"There's a girl in trouble. She needs help—"

"Besides," Spike interrupted, "why not go? What is there to stay for? Everyone who mattered is dead and I sure as hell am not going back to Wolfram & bloody Hart."

Wesley gave him a funny look. "You're stealing my car to get away from Wolfram & Hart?" he asked.

Spike shrugged. "Well… yeah."

The look was still there. Saying nothing, Wesley reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pocket knife. He flipped it open, stepping past Spike, and leaned into the front seat, brushing against Lindsey. "Excuse me," he muttered to him as he wedged the blade of his knife into and under the edges of the panel covering his radio console. After a moment of struggling, he'd managed to flip the panel open a few inches. Again, he inserted the knife, this time into the circuits behind the panel and, after a few seconds, pulled out a small piece of metal, perhaps a square inch in size, with a tiny blinking red light on the top. He threw it to Spike, to let him examine it. The vampire poked at it and turned it over. It appeared to be some sort of tracking device.

"Congratulations on your spectacular choice of vehicles, then," Wesley commented sarcastically. Lindsey, who'd realized as soon as it had been revealed that it was Wesley's car that the law firm was tracking it somehow, sighed. He'd been unable to locate the transmitter in his own car back when he had worked at W&H, but he'd known there was one somewhere.

"How long have you known that was there?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Since they put it there," came the reply. Wesley closed his knife and tucked it back into his pocket.

There was an awkward silence for a few moments as they all struggled with finding something to say. None of them had really ever spoken to each other in a one on one situation before and they were finding the current circumstances more than a little awkward. Spike cleared his throat after a while and spoke. "So, uh, that the only tracker in here?" he asked. Wesley shrugged.

"So far as I know."

Spike nodded. "Alright then. Good." He shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Would you, uh, rather we found another mode of transportation? Because I guess we could understand if you'd prefer to keep your own."

The question pushed Wesley deep into thought. "You're going to New York City?" he asked after a while.

"I thought we had covered this," Lindsey said.

"Tonight?"

"Well… yeah," Spike replied.

There was a short pause while Wesley looked confused. "Can you even move your legs?" he questioned Lindsey, gesturing to the wheelchair. The Texan looked disgruntled.

"Give it a couple of weeks," he said obstinately.

"Uh huh," Wesley said. "How, exactly, were you planning to drive anywhere during the day when Spike will probably be cowering under a blanket in the back seat?"

"We'll figure something out."

Spike was clearly ruffled by the blow-off. "Fucking easy for you to say," he muttered.

Wesley ignored him. "Are you coming back at all?" he continued, looking at Lindsey.

Spike gave his inadvertent traveling companion an inquisitive look of his own, clearly asking the same thing. "You ARE Vision Boy. Can't you foretell it or something?"

Lindsey shot the vampire a glare as Wesley's brow furrowed while his overly observant brain took note of the new nickname. So much for keeping quiet about his new abilities. At the rate they were going. Lindsey was surprised that he wasn't already on Wolfram & Hart's examination table. "Haven't really planned that far ahead yet," he admitted. "We're kind of playing it by ear."

"Hmm." Wesley was silent for another minute or so, thinking again. Spike took the opportunity to study the supposedly-dead man. There was something… off about him. Something different. He smelled funny. The scent itself hadn't changed, really, but something about the way it tingled in his nose… Spike couldn't put his finger on it. It was clearly the same Wes, but there was something odd happening with him.

At last, the Englishman spoke again. "Alright. We just need to stop by my apartment for a few minutes. Then we can be on our way."

Spike frowned. "What?"

Wesley looked at him. "Well, I was invited to come along, wasn't I?"

Spike glanced at Lindsey appealingly. The other man shrugged. "It means we'd have valid vehicle registration and a daytime driver. Plus, I'm all for anything that keeps me from being alone with you for days at a time."

"We agree on one point, at least." Spike rolled his eyes, gave a long-suffering sigh and shrugged. "Whatever. Do what you want. You're the one with the car keys."

Wesley smiled tightly, though it lacked feeling. He went to fold up the wheelchair, but Spike waved him away. "I'll do it. Go start up. I want to get out of here." Wesley nodded and walked over to the driver's side. Spike tugged the back door open, shoved in the half-folded chair and leapt in behind it. He settled in the seat as the other man sat in the driver's spot and turned on the engine.

Wesley put his arm around the back of the front passenger seat to see behind them as he reversed. Lindsey simply sat there, staring blankly ahead. He was not comfortable at all in his current company. Spike was… well, Spike. And the other one…

Lindsey did not know what the deal was with Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. He'd only been aware of the man in a superficial sense back when he'd been a W&H lackey. He vaguely remembered reviewing his vitals and a brief biography, when his interest in Angel had begun to increase. Brown hair, blue eyes, prescription eyeglasses, a touch too thin to be healthy, and taller than Angel, though you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it. Father, Roger; Mother, Pamela; only child. Trained as a Watcher at the Academy in London, graduated top of his class, Head Boy. Received further education at Oxford. Specialization in linguistics.

He'd been appointed as Watcher to Buffy Summers and Faith Lehane in early 1999. Wolfram & Hart's character profilers had suggested he'd been chosen on the basis of both his intelligence and his youth, thinking that perhaps the Council believed the impetuous, admittedly disrespectful Slayers might respond better to someone closer to their own age, as opposed to a parental figure. The fact that this was a grossly incorrect assumption went without saying.

What Wesley had been up to in the months between his quiet departure from Sunnydale and his arrival in LA was uncertain, but most likely of no consequence. Lindsey could only recall having two or three direct encounters with the man before he'd left the firm. Once, when he'd come to Angel for help thwarting a blind assassin. Another time, in Caritas, shortly after he'd gotten his new hand, Wesley had complimented the song he'd been playing, despite the whole "enemy" thing. Lindsey had observed him to be a bookish sort, more suited to be a librarian than a demon hunter, with amazingly low self-esteem and the apparent survival instincts of a clinically depressed lemming.

That was not the man sitting next to him now. This man was colder, harder somehow. Lindsey had noticed it earlier, but hadn't much cared at the time. Now, however, they were going to be driving across the country together and the only other company would be Spike. Maybe, Lindsey realized reluctantly, it was time to try and play nice.