He plays the jokester now. Prat to their follies, one‑liners at the ready, and he wonders, sometimes, if he shouldn't find a way to contact Harris. Get the inside scoop from someone who'd perfected the act Spike had never once used—even though it probably would've done him a whole lot more than earnestness ever did William. He needs it now, though, 'cause the alternative isn't bearable. So he tosses out rude gags and quips at the worst possible moment, because that's usually the most intense and he's got to find some way to make himself real. Touching a glass here, a pen there isn't much, either, but he works at it.
Punching that robot‑thing that was choking Gunn felt damned nice. The nod of respect and acknowledgment after was nicer.
The disdain isn't meant to be cruel, least, not from them that aren't Angel. They don't know him, don't care to know him other than 'vampire', if a ghostly one, and they've got as tight a group as ever the Scoobies were. Less trust, though. These aren't a gaggle of kids who believe that friends mean everything. Angel's gang are adults, one and all, and know that friends come and friends go just like everything else—it's your own head you've got to be careful about, because you've gotta live there for the rest of your life. So Fred gives him pitying looks and tries her best to help him, scattered thing that she is. Lorne's got no use for him at all, which is fine, since Spike is more than happy to steer clear of a demon who spends most of his time signing. Once was damn all enough; nothing good ever comes out of a song. Gunn isn't as tightly wound as the rest, less baggage, Spike guesses, but also less depth. Not that it isn't there, mind—Spike can see the off moments when the glib lawyery bits are put to sleep and the boy who'd been a street touch peeks out and asks when the hell this had become his life. Spike likes teasing Gunn 'cause of that, but Gunn just laughs or figures out how to run Spike off, never lets anything carryover. Can respect that, Spike can, but it's not useful for what he wants, so he never lingers long.
Spike spends most of his time flitting between the Englishman and the bloke from Galway, only heading off to Fred when he needs a dose of comfort or youthful enthusiasm. She's a tumble of all his girls combined, and a bloody breath of fresh air in the gloom and doom of a law firm. But she's ultimately shallow, just like Gunn and Lorne, so he takes her grin and comfort and holds onto it like a shield, a bloody touchstone to keep him safe from the ones he does want. He thinks the blue‑eyed one is catching on, and doesn't know if that's good or bad. Spike can't hurt Fred, not even if he wanted to, and he knows for a fact that some discreet phone calls have been made—Dawn may still hate him, but her memories of trusting him run deep and untainted. Wes lets one too many things drop, and who says Spike can't do some checking of his own? Turns out she doesn't hate him so much, anymore, and it takes a damned amount of work not to blubber when he talks with her.
Wes finds out about that, too, not that Spike bothers keeping it secret. It's a lure, of sorts, and it works as it's supposed to. He's invited for a pint in Wes' quarters and even though Spike can't drink it, can't even smell the dark tang of hops, he can see Wes's enjoyment and, ever the good vampire, he drains each hint of satisfaction into himself. They talk, and Spike's allowed to drop the pretense fairly early on. Wes wants to know what he feels like, what a vampire who wants a soul thinks about, and Spike doesn't hold anything back. Well, he holds some things back, but not as much as usual. Starts asking some questions, without pursuing that fool line of 'well, I killed my mum, too', and gets some answers. Wes' relationship with his da—his real da—is about as cheery as Spike's was, and it gives them a bit of common ground. Night grows long, stretching into the day Spike no longer fears quite so much, and they're still talking. Wes isn't quite drunk, but he's looser than Spike's ever seen him—probably more to do with having a proper person to talk to than the alcohol. Spike's been imitating Rupert all night, something that's surprisingly easy since it's so close to who he is and was, and he wonders why he's ever played the idiot—until they start talking about Angel.
Oh, he remembers right enough. Angel doesn't believe in Spike's soul, not really, and any contributions Spike makes are instantly suspect. Angel's colder, harder, than Wes has ever seen him, and even if Wes never says it, Spike knows something's off. Knows Wes knows it too, wisp of thought just brushing over your nose, annoying and distracting and happening often enough that maybe it's not just a stray lash or bit of dust in the air. Spike's feeling it too, something that's not quite scent, not quite touch laying heavy on all of Angel's—but not Angel himself—and it's good to know his ghostly senses aren't completely useless. He never comes out and says it, either, but that's part and parcel of speech for a good, well‑trained Englishman and Spike leaves thinking that maybe he's made an impression.
Finds out he has, when he's invited over for more nights, beer turning to sherry or port, books cracked and Spike can't understand why he's sharing his love of poetry, but Wes is going out of his way to find volumes Spike wants, so maybe it's just to see the lanky human dance to his tune. Maybe it's cause he missed the stuff, but he doesn't think about that. It's all going swimmingly, but Wes. . . Wes may be the bigger fish, the one that'll keep Spike from going nutters in the end, but he's not the fish he wants. Wes is a stepping stone, in a way, since the late night meetings are gaining attention and dark eyes are following as they disappear up the elevator, a combination of hatred and jealousy Spike knows better than anyone—and a hint of pride and gratitude that he's only starting to get the hang of.
He wonders when Angel will stop seeing the fool. It's getting damn‑all hard to maintain.