Disclaimer: Not mine, they're Joss Whedon's. We know this, so I'll move on.
Author's Notes: This is the first chapter in a little story series; each chapter will probably stand on its own. It takes place a few months post-"Not Fade Away," but I don't deal with how they won the battle or how Illyria got back her powers, Wes, Fred, etc. It's not important to this particular kind of story. Angel and Lorne lived, too, but I don't know if they'll be making appearances yet or not.
That's Entertainment?!
Chapter 1: Where an Old One Can Be a Kid!
"We've got a big, big problem," Charles Gunn announced to his companions, staring at the smoldering wreck of smashed metal behind him—and, more importantly, at the demon who stood gloating over the handiwork. "Wes, you plannin' on stepping in here?"
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce met Gunn's concern with a hint of an amused smile. "I really don't think this is my arena anymore," he replied, amusement full-blown. "Perhaps we'd better ask Spike."
"Spike is outside," the demon spoke in a flat, superior voice—her usual voice, in fact. "There was a sign on the door of this establishment which read 'No Pets,' so I was forced to stow him in our vehicle until I could determine for his safety." The demoness Illyria looked vaguely displeased by it all, then turned her gaze onto a more satisfactory sight—the still-smoking remains of a Whack-A-Mole game. The battered mallet, snapped loose from its cord, dangled from one gloved hand.
Wesley choked back a snicker and didn't correct her; he only quietly motioned for Gunn to retrieve Spike. Ever since Illyria had managed to restore him to life and voluntarily bring back Fred in the process, she had seemed to expect virtual back flips of gratitude from all involved. It had made her nearly impossible to live with, only magnified by the fact that she'd regained all her powers and saved their tail ends in the Hyperion alley battle. All that said, it was generally the best course of action to play along with her whims… which was the reason she, Fred, Gunn, and himself were in this blasted Chuck E. Cheese place to begin with. The flickering lights and sounds heralding the entrance to the building had proved far too intriguing to the demoness, and she'd announced in no uncertain terms that she wished to grace the establishment with her presence—her words, of course. For an ageless god-king, she really could behave like a perfect child at times. It was all part of her strange charm, Wesley supposed.
Charm or no charm, he was relieved to see Spike coming through the door some quick moments later. The vampire stopped to scan his surroundings, noticing immediately that every man, woman, and child in the place was not only staring soundlessly at the far corner of the room, but was huddled in the corner directly opposite. A strong odor of burning circuitry and human fear permeated the air.
Ruination and near-panic—two definite earmarks of what he and the gang had taken to calling an "Illyria Incident."
"Can't take her anywhere," he muttered, but a fond smile took away any harshness in his words. He loved his little Illy like mad, even if she did have a way of turning their every public outing into a three-ring circus. It all came with being in love with an Old One, he guessed... and besides, he'd never really considered a talent for destruction a fault. Quite the opposite, really.
She was all too eager to describe the situation for him when he arrived at her side. "These mechanical rodent-like creatures were taunting me, making a mockery of my power with their insolent chirping and raising of heads. I have given them what they deserved," she summarized, sounding monumentally pleased with herself. As usual.
"Yeah, but 's a game, Illy," he explained, only to have his statement met with an uncomprehending tilt of her head. Got him every time, that did. "Y' know, like Crash Bandicoot?" A slight frown creased her countenance at that. "Never mind—bad example." He winced as he remembered exactly how bad. How many X-boxes had he gone through now? Five? Six? His Illy was many good things—but a good loser was not one of them.
Come to think of it, the platinum-blond vampire mused, "taking her to this place might have been a very, very bad idea…"
It was, unfortunately, a little late for that revelation. What Spike had on his hands now was one ruined game, one very difficult ex-goddess, and a roomful of terrified people who were about two seconds away from major panic. The vampire had enjoyed plenty of mayhem in his day and part of him was plenty content to just let it come now, but his companions were sure to disapprove, and much as he hated to admit it, he felt a bit sorry for the poor sods who were probably permanently traumatized by Illyria's impromptu show. Just kids, and all that. Really, this soul was making him entirely too soft. Still and all, it was probably better to just convince Her Royal Blueness to backward-time-warp this whole mess away and be done with it… but convincing Illyria wasn't the easiest thing to do. It was usually accomplished, Spike had noticed, by giving her a way to take on the idea as her own.
He had other, much better ways. Or more fun, at any rate. Clearly, it was time to put them into affect.
"Come on, now," he coaxed her suavely, pressing in nice and close. Illyria's defiant look didn't disappear, but she at least dropped the mallet. Right onto his foot, granted, but she dropped it. Unperturbed, he got in closer, hoping to melt a little of the smugness off that blue-rimmed face of hers.
It worked. Too well. Illyria's eyes widened.
"You seek to initiate a mating ritual?" she announced at about eighty-six decibels. Of course, the room would be conveniently dead silent. Her proclamation couldn't have been louder if she'd used an intercom.
For about five eternally long seconds the crowd stood in dropped-jaw quiet. It was too much. Fred started giggling, Wesley cleared his throat, and more than a few mothers clapped hands over their children's eyes and ears. A lone voice rang out from the far corner of the room, it's owner a pigtailed girl, aged six at most.
"Mommy, what's a mating ritual?"
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"I have done as you asked," Illyria informed Spike five minutes later—or was it five minutes back? Whatever the case, she looked as if she'd been colossally put upon. "And now I want to see this 'ball pit' of which you spoke."
Bribed her with, more like, Spike thought, secretly miffed that he'd been reduced to such a measure but more disoriented than anything. Traveling backward through time wasn't exactly easy on the stomach, though Illyria had told him he would get used to the sensation as he did it more often. He'd held to Illyria as she skipped them back (or rather, she'd held onto him) and so was aware of the change, whereas the others in the room were milling about in happy ignorance. The Whack-A-Mole machine stood whole and un-charred, though the vampire made a mental note to keep Illyria out of its vicinity. No need for a repeat performance.
"'S right here, luv," he replied, bringing her alongside the netted walls of the ball pit. She observed as noisy children jumped and played, sending the bright colored plastic balls flying about the enclosure.
"But for the human pupae wriggling in its depths, it pleases me," she smiled in satisfaction, and strode up to the inflatable stairs that led to the entrance. A young employee stopped her in mid-stride. He was clearly nervous, either from her martial appearance or the fact that he was having a hard time not staring blatantly at her leather skinsuit.
"I'm sorry," he gulped, "but you're too tall..umm.. ma'm." He gestured to the ruler beside the entrance in a weak defense.
Spike let out a low whistle. Round two of the fireworks show in five... four... three...
"But I wish to swim in the round, multi-colored spheres!" Illyria demanded, sounding almost petulant. Spike knew it wouldn't last long. The boy was cruising full-speed towards the headache of his life, if not a chiropractor.
"I'd let her do it, mate," he added confidentially, his smile bemused. Nevertheless, the young man looked only lightly less intimidated by him than he did by Illyria. He probably recognized that they were a pair. Spike fancied it was the aura of mystery and battle-glory that surrounded them. Or perhaps it was just the fact that they both had a yen for wearing leather.
The poor employee waffled. "Okay," he almost squeaked. "She's probably way under the weight limit, anyway." God-king or not, Illyria looked like she weighed a good twelve pounds sopping wet, and even that was mostly her impossibly clunky boots. Those presented a problem.
Illyria nodded and made for the door. "But...umm... could you take your boots off?" the employee asked hesitantly.
"These are my war boots. With them I have crushed the bones of my enemies, danced over the..."
"An' now you've gotta take them off, of you'll be smashing up the kiddies," Spike cut in, stopping what was probably the makings of an endless speech. "Can't have that." His demoness raised an eyebrow.
Nevertheless, in less than a minute, the boots were in the cubby—taking up three spaces—and Illyria was happily ensconced in the ball pit.
It looked like he had some influence, after all. If he could just keep her away from any kind of competitive gaming-- and the animatronic stage show-- everything would be fine…
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"Okay, English, beat that!" Gunn crowed as the lights flashed atop his Skee-ball machine. "High score!"
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Wes asked dreamily, managing to pull his gaze away from Fred for a full two seconds. It seemed to be a major accomplishment. Barely glancing over, he sent a Skee-ball of his own down the lane, where it landed haphazardly through the 'thirty' slot. It would have been a fine score… where it not in the slot two lanes down from his own.
Gunn gave a good-humored shake of his head. "Pathetic," he said half to himself. Not that he didn't understand Wesley's feelings over having Fred back, but really—all those two needed were some cartoony hearts and flowers around their heads and a violinist following them around. He didn't care if they were newlyweds, it was just plain mushy. He was sure that he'd never acted that way with Fred…
When he realized he had, the joke he'd been about to make at Wes' expense died on his lips, and instead he bent to retrieve a long length of prize tickets from his machine.
At least Fred's romantic leanings didn't seem to be affecting her game. Rattling off what sounded like a mixture of advanced physics terminology and several mathematical equations, she calculated the angle needed to roll the Skee-ball up the slope, as well as the ideal velocity. Eight easily-rolled Skee-balls later, she'd thoroughly creamed the two men, leaving Gunn frowning and Wesley as adoring as ever.
"Math is everything," she smiled proudly.
Spike favored a more physical approach, himself.
"See, now, there's a technique to this," he explained to Illyria, who looked mildly interested. "Now you take the ball… no, not that one," he corrected as she held up a badly squashed blue plastic ball she'd swiped from the ball pit. Shrugging, she tossed it away, where it landed among hundreds of others on the floor. How she'd ever managed to splash all of them out of that netting he'd never figure out…
"I understand," she stated, taking up one of the brown, well-worn Skee-balls and testing its weight in her hand. She smiled. Then before Spike could stop her she was rearing back into prime major-league pitching position—
"No, luv, you're s'posed to roll it— " Before his sentence was out the ball had left her hand in a blur of motion. There was a slight crash, a splintering of wood. Then a car alarm going off far down the street, accompanied by a tinkling of glass. Silence, for a moment, followed by the distant sound of a dog barking.
Spike's mouth quirked. "Why roll it when you can throw it, eh?"
Gunn nodded, inwardly thinking that they should never, ever take her bowling.
The spectacular throw even jerked the two lovebirds out of tunnel vision. Wes stared.
Fred just shrugged. "Look, she got a fifty."
Illyria lifted her head in proud acceptance of the compliment, a self-satisfied little smile on her lips. Spike loved that smile; he often wore a similar look himself. He was just thinking of maybe giving his favorite goddess a congratulatory kiss when a whirring sound emitted by the game stole her attention.
A single pink prize ticket emerged from its slot. Illyria's eyes flared.
"This machine is insolent!" she thundered. "It is sticking out its tongue appendage! Is this not a gesture of disrespect in your culture?"
Without further ado and without waiting for an explanation from her companions, she yanked at the ticket-tongue. It shot free satisfactorily, the strength of her pull sending reams upon reams of tickets spooling out through the slot. Illyria, ankle-deep in enemy 'tongue-appendages,' was vindicated.
She was even happier when Spike informed her she could trade in her battle-spoils for a prize.
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The gang tried not to laugh when Illyria returned from the prize booth, but it was just too hard not too. Fred, but for Spike, was the least intimated by Illyria, and she laughed openly. Wes tried to mask his amusement with well-timed coughs, while Gunn covered his mouth and did his best.
She was holding a giant blue stuffed octopus.[1]
The irony, cleary, was lost on no one.
But they were surprised, a moment later, when she presented her prize to Spike.
He, oddly enough, didn't look surprised. "Aw, see—I knew you cared," he teased her, trying to hold onto the gargantuan stuffed animal. It was half as big as he was, at least.
And when they were nearly to the door, leaving the place at last, he took it a bit further. He wasn't teasing so much, this time.
"You love me, Blue, admit it."
The former goddess turned to meet his eyes, her head tipping in that curious way. He waited. When she did speak, her words were halting and almost foreign-sounding, but he could tell she meant it.
"Yes," she said slowly, as if she was trying out the words. "I – love-- you."
That was all he needed to hear. Spike, with a half-arrogant grin, put his arm around her, and thought to himself that he wouldn't have changed their night for anything.
[1] For those of you who may have missed "Shells," (I am kicking myself for not taping it!) we see in that episode a picture of Illyria in her native form. She has a scary-looking gladiator-type helmet, an almost insect-like middle, talons, and many tentacles that wrap around and also form four arms. The effect is more like a snake than an octopus, but I figured it was close enough.