Part II: Deeper and Deeper

The first of the month:

Wes moved quietly through the empty lobby, checking his watch as he pulled a key card from his wallet. It was 7:45, a full fifteen minutes before the offices of Wolfram and Hart buzzed with assistants and paralegals rolling into parking spaces under the building. Four thick olive folders sat on his desk, reflecting slats of sunlight through the partially open venetian blinds. Flicking his wrist slightly, Wesley grabbed a thin hardcover book from a small set of similar volumes and settled into a cozy leather desk chair. Placing his hand on the cover, he mumbled a few words under his breath and opened the book to reveal words forming instantly on the pages. From a drawer near his thigh, he pulled out a demon languages reference book, and set about translating the text, making notes on a yellow pad beneath his hand.

Fred Burkle walked briskly down the hallway toward the science lab on the third floor of Wolfram and Hart, her small heels clicking on the white ceramic floor. Beneath a freshly starched white lab coat, she wore a soft brown and red plaid skirt that twirled lightly around her knees and a short sleeved brown sweater, certainly a far more dressed up variety of lab rat than was typically common. Pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, Fred withdrew a key card from her pocket to swipe through the reader when a bleached man slid up to her out of the shadows.

"Spike!" Fred squeaked, more surprised than frightened. Spike had been corporeal for nearly a week, but somehow he'd managed to seem as invisible as a ghost.

"Mornin'," Spike smirked, following Fred into the dark and quiet lab. Leaving the buzzing fluorescent lights off, Fred led Spike up into her office looking down over the equipment.

"What are you doing here?" Fred half-frowned as she sorted through her mail, trying to avoid the mischievous twinkle in the vampire's eyes.

"Up all night drinkin', didn't have nowhere to go. Sacked out on Captain Forehead's couch." Spike grinned. "Anyway, thought I'd ask if you wanted to join me for some breakfast. Coffee, muffins, blood with Wheatabix…"

"Uh, sure." Fred smiled with only slight hesitation. "What kind of muffins?"

Charles Gunn sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Papers and files were scattered on the desk and the floor, having fallen off of his chest as he rolled over during the night. Looking down the length of the sofa, he noticed that the slacks of his grey suit were wrinkled and creased, that his jacket had fallen from its hook over the door onto the floor, and that his tie was wrapped precariously around his throat. Blinking, Gunn glanced at the clock on the right side of the wall. The minute hand clicked silently from 7:49 to 7:50. It was unlikely that his assistant, Greg, had made it past security, let alone to his desk. Without a freshly pressed, presentable clothing option, Gunn reached down to sort the files on his floor.

"Boss?" Harmony called out, slipping into Angel's office. In one hand, she held out a novelty mug of warm, steaming blood, and under the other, she carried a few file folders and thin books. The office, though empty, was well-lit and tidy. Only the sofa at one of the room looked rumpled, as though it had been slept on the night before. Harmony frowned, placing the blood on the desk in case Angel had slept in. She sorted the files out beside his phone, picked up the one folder not addressed to him, and skipped back out of the room.

"Harmony," Wesley grunted, walking past her as she walked on precariously high heels back to her desk. Harmony turned quickly, her short pink skirt whirling around her waist.

"Oh! Good morning, Wesley!" She grinned a pink glittery lip gloss smile.

"Where's Angel? We have a meeting at 9:00 and I'd like him to look at this script I've been translating."

"Um. I don't think he's up yet. Anyway, this ended up in his outbox." Harmony frowned thoughtfully, holding out a folder with his name scrawled across it in black ink.

"Oh. Thanks." Wes turned back toward his office. "Let me know when he gets in!"

"Sure thing!"

Wes tossed the lightweight folder down on his desk, turning to grab a book from a second shelf on the wall near his door. From the folder, a small scrap of paper slid out and stuck firmly in the binding between the pages Wes had been translating. Curious, Wes picked up the slip, pulled off his glasses, and held it out in front of his face. Screwing up his mouth, he dropped the sheet and picked up his phone.

"Here it is," Wes grunted, setting the scrap in the middle of a rectangular plastic table at a Chinese restaurant in Venice Beach. Fred, Gunn, and Spike leaned over to read the cursive scrawl. Fred sat back first, munching thoughtfully on the end of an egg roll.

"Ooh, fried rice." Spike grinned, grabbing the bowl as a waiter brought their order to the table.

"So, what does it mean?" Gunn asked, taking a bite of sesame chicken from a large plate.

"Well, at face value, I believe it means that Angel has left." Wes replied. "After all, it does say exactly that."

"But left where? And why? And gone where?"

"And why doesn't he just leave us a real note?"

"Not a mind reader, but guessin' it's because he doesn't want anyone reading over his shoulder. Know what I mean?" Spike shoveled another forkful of rice into his mouth.

"Why are you hogging the rice? You don't even eat!" Fred pouted, taking the bowl from him and pushing a helping onto her plate.

"It's nice to have a little variety in one's diet."

"So, you think he might have left Wolfram and Hart…" Wes pondered.

"Well, it makes sense. Why else would he be so abrupt and secretive? I mean, he didn't tell anyone he was leaving. Did he?"

In unison, they shook their heads.

"Then I'd say that's exactly what happened. He left Wolfram and Hart and he didn't want anyone, but us of course, to know about it."

"So the next question is," Fred paused, chewing on a piece of cashew chicken. "Why did he leave?"

"I feel like I should say something witty," Connor smirked as he moved up to the table, standing between the shoulders of Wesley Wyndam-Price and Fred Burkle. Four pairs of eyes turned to gaze up at him, blankly for a moment and then with sudden realization. Fred's mouth fell open and a few grains of rice dropped from her lower lip onto the table. Wesley's chopsticks stopped in mid-air, holding out a morsel of scrambled egg. Gunn held a glass of water to his lips, sputtering as a swallow went down his wind pipe. Spike soured, confused by the new comer.

"Connor!" Fred squeaked suddenly, throwing back her chair and getting to her feet.

"Don't make any sudden movements, Fred!" Wes blurted, too late to stop Fred from standing up. "Or…um…"

"It's okay, really. I'm not here to hurt you guys."

"Right, and Angel's a human." Gunn growled.

"Seriously. We need to talk." Connor sighed, reaching for a wobbling plastic chair from a nearby table. "Who're you?"

"Spike," Spike replied bluntly, barely looking up as he stole Wesley's egg roll out from under his nose. "You?"

"Connor. Angel's…uh…son."

"Ah."

"So, what you're saying is, Angel left Wolfram and Hart to get back his permanent soul," Wes blinked as Connor finished.

"Right. He went to a demon dimension to complete a series of trials."

"Wanker. I always knew he was jealous of me."

"Shut up, Spike. Anyway, so he left Wolfram and Hart to get his soul, and save the world."

"Yes. And he needs you, all of you. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Where?" Fred asked, still awed.

"The slayer compound in the Scottish highlands. I've already got my passport."

"You're not coming. Angel would never forgive us if you got hurt." Gunn grumbled, pulling out a date book to check his calendar.

"I'm coming. We're all going. This is some huge thing, and hey, I'm the one getting PTB dreams, not you guys."

"I've never been to Scotland," Fred half-smiled, looking over at Spike.

"Sheep. Kilts. Rains a lot." Spike groaned, pulling a flask of whiskey from his coat pocket. "Decent booze though."