Chapter 13: Breakfast with the Family.

Angel switched on the coffee machine and turned towards Connor, his hands busy cracking eggs and beating them in a bowl. He As he stopped beating and reached for the pepper mill, his gaze lingered on the sleeping form of his son. Connor lay on his back on the second sofa in Spike's office, having given his place in the made-up bed to Lorne. His face was peaceful, a slight smile playing on the corner of his mouth, as though sharing a joke with an unseen other.

Angel reflected on Connor's reaction to regaining his memories wondered what the price was would be for having given him such a well-balanced personality. Whatever it is, it'll be worth it. Perhaps this is what he would have been like if Holtz hadn't got his hands on him. Angel gave the pepper mill a final twirl and resumed beating the eggs. As he turned back to the microwave, his eyes caught a slight movement from the armchair upon which Spike had spent the night.

Spike sat with his legs sprawled over the arm of the chair, his head thrown back against the headrest., It tossing it from side to side and jerked occasionally as he murmured softly to himself. Angel strained to catch the coherent words from unconnected phrases, interspersed with groans, over the sound of the whisk on the bowl.; unconnected phrases interspersed with groans.

"Gotta do it . . . no, you don't, but thanks for saying it . . . better go, lamb . . . wanna see how it ends."

Angel stopped beating and sighed deeply. And I wonder what you would have been like if I'd never got my hands on you.

The toaster popped up with a loud clatter and Angel flinched as two slightly charred pieces of toast launched themselves skywards. Angel's hands shot out in automatic response to their downward trajectory and he caught both pieces as they descended, throwing them onto the nearest plate and blowing on his fingers to relieve them.

Spike stirred in his chair and opened one eye. "When did you get to be so domesticated? Coffee last night, breakfast this morning . . . if my nose doesn't deceive," he grinned, sniggering at the sight of Angel nursing his fingers under his armpits.

"Trust you to have the toaster set to max, Spike. Everything you do is so . . . loud."

"Told you, never do things by halves. Waste of effort. 'sides, I like burnt toast. It has that yummy charcoaly flavour."

"No you don't," said Angel crossly. "You just like the mess you make scraping the burnt bits off." Angel turned on the tap and held his fingers under the soothing stream of cold water.

"My, my, tetchy this morning, aren't we? Get out of bed the wrong side again? Sorry, forgot," Spike added hearing Angel's warning growl. "There isn't ever a right side for you is there, Mr Grouchy?" He threw his legs off the arm of the chair and pulled himself out of the depths of the leather upholstery. Stretching his arms over his head, he yawned loudly. "Not the most comfortable sleeping arrangements," he grumbled.

Angel turned off the tap and glared at him. "Why do you do that? You know you don't need to."

"What? Sleep? 'course I do," replied Spike. He rumpled his hair in an attempt to massage the back of his head and neck. "Not used to doing it in an almost upright position though."

"Not that. Why did you yawn just now? And breathing, you don't need to do that either but you do. It's annoying."

"Do I?" asked Spike, feeling his chest. "I'm not doing it now am I?"

"You breathe while you sleep," said Angel. "I've seen you."

Spike raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. "Been watching me sleep now? Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

He walked towards the work surface and stepped close to Angel, looking up into his eyes from under his lashes. Angel took a step backwards and reached hastily for the bowl, opening the microwave door as he did so.

Before he could place the bowl inside, Spike checked the contents and gave him a small smile. "Mmmm, scrambled eggs, toast and coffee. We got any marmalade, Hon?" he asked, opening the fridge door and rummaging through the contents.

Angel glared at him. "This isn't for you. You don't need to eat. Just like you don't need to yawn, or breathe in your sleep." He punched the time and heat setting into the controls and pressed the start button.

"Then why did Wes set me up with all this stuff when he had the office kitted out – which by the way is my office, in case you'd forgotten." Spike slammed the fridge door shut and rifled through the cutlery drawer for a knife. He cut liberal chunks off the slab of butter he'd found in the fridge and started applying it to a piece of toast.

"Shhhh. Stop making so much noise," whispered Angel. "You'll wake the others."

Spike stopped his attack on the toast and looked at his grandsire. "Isn't that the whole point of making breakfast? For people who are awake? Not that you're a whiz in the kitchen," he went on before Angel had the chance to respond. "This butter's rock hard and the toast has gone cold. Put some more on. I like my butter melted in, not mortared on."

Angel glared at him and took two more slices of bread from the wrapper. "It's not like I'm used to working with such inferior facilities," he whined. "I can't cater for so many in this poky space, I had a full kitchen to work with back at the Hyperion."

Spike opened the microwave door just as it finished its final ping. "When you've done griping about my office, you gonna give this a stir before it goes all rubbery?" he asked, smirking slightly.

Angel snatched the bowl out of his hands and began beating the eggs vigorously. "When are you ever gonna quit riling me?" he snarled.

"Oh, let's see . . . never," grinned Spike. "And while we're on the subject of riling, when're you ever gonna stop invading my private stuff? It's always the same with you, innit? I get something of my own and you have to muscle in and take over." Spike perched himself on one of the stools in front of the breakfast bar and fixed Angel with a steely, ice-blue stare.

Angel turned his back on him and put the eggs back in the microwave and reset the timer. "I thought we were done with all that," he said quietly.

"No – you were done with it. I'm still on the receiving end of it – again. This is my room. You're using my stuff without so much as a by-your-leave, like you owned it."

"I thought you knew where you stood now. No one forced you to stay. You chose to." Angel didn't trust himself to turn and face Spike while he fought down the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Ungrateful pup, he thought bitterly.

"I did. And I am – choosing to stay," Spike admitted Spike. "But I don't remember asking anyone over for a slumber party. You're not exactly my first choice in bedmates you know. Come to think of it ,it, you wouldn't even feature on the list, especially not after that whole watching me sleep thing," he grimaced.

"Is that so?" Angel snarled. "And just who would make the shortlist? Drusilla? Buffy?" Angel swung round and caught sight of the huge grin on Spike's face. "So, we're back to Buffy again?" Angel began buttering the fresh toast, concentrating on whirling the softening butter into little swirls and flattening them with the back of the knife, then cutting ridges into the toast and watching the creamy liquid disappear into the gaps made by the blade. "You know you're wasting your time. I'm the one who's waiting for her to finish baking. I get to eat warm cookies – me, not you. Even if you are - in her heart – whatever that means."

Spike guffawed. "God, you are so easy, you know that? I thought it'd take longer this time."

Angel looked up from his endeavours with the toast to see Spike and Connor shaking with laughter and giving one another a high five.

"We had a bet last night, 'bout how long it'd take to get you mad," explained Spike through snorts of laughter. He handed Connor a ten dollar note.

Angel's face dissolved into a sheepish, lopsided grin. "Heh," he laughed uneasily. "I guess Connor won?"

"Your face. You should see your face," giggled Connor. He pocketted the note and turned to Spike. "Is he always like this?"

"What? You mean like he's just eaten something he's having trouble getting down? More or less." Spike snorted with laughter again. "I think when they gave him his soul, they removed every funny bone in his body. I don't remember him laughing much after that. Not like he used to in the old days. You ever seen him have any fun?"

"Not so much. I remember there was a lot of scowling involved."

"And brooding. Don't forget the brooding," chuckled Spike wiping his eyes. Then, noticing Angel's crestfallen face, he added, "Aw, c'mon Big Guy. Don't take it to heart. It's not your fault. Loosen up a bit. Maybe your other-timely self is enjoying himself right now with some lovely little . . ."

"There is no other-timely self," said a voice from an armchair behind them. Gunn raised himself stiffly to his feet and shook each leg in turn. "Not the most comfortable night I've had since we came here," he added.

"No other self?" asked Angel anxiously. "Is this speculation or can you back it up?"

Gunn crossed the room to the breakfast bar and poured himself a mug of coffee. "I'd rather wait 'til everyone's here – and awake," he said, glancing at Lorne's still sleeping form. "before I explain. I think we're going to need both Wes and Fred to pull everything together to make sense of it."

Angel looked up at him in alarm. "Why? What's wrong with you?"

Gunn sank onto one of the stools and put his head between his hands. "I've lost it, Angel. All of it. The legal knowledge, the deductive reasoning. It's all gone and there's no way I can get it back. Without it . . . I'm nothing."

"Bollocks!" cried Spike. "You're still you, still Charles Gunn."

"What do you know?" asked Gunn wearily.

Spike took Gunn by the shoulders and shook him. "You're asking that of someone who's been through more changes than Angel gets through jars of hair gel? Not to mention being fried crispier than this here burnt piece of toast. You're talking to an expert, Charlie Boy."

Gunn looked up at him and opened his mouth to protest, but before he had a chance to say anything, Spike crouched down on his haunches and looked directly into his eyes. "Stuff in your head? Stuff out of your head? Bin there, done that, got the sodding T-shirt and chip-inna-bottle souvenir. It's not what's in your brain that makes you you, Chuck, it's what's in here." He touched Gunn's chest. "And here." He touched his stomach. "In your heart and in your guts. It's what flows in your veins, keeping you fighting, making you do what you know is right. That's what makes you . . ."

"One of us," finished Angel.

Spike looked round. As he'd been speaking, a silence had descended in the room and Angel and Connor had moved closer. Spike stood up and flexed his knees waiting for the criticism from Angel that never came.

Angel's eyes were wide with surprise, his face softened by a look of admiration. "I always said you talked too much. But sometimes, what you say is actually worth listening to," he said softly.

"That was just like one of Dad's pep talks," said Connor grinning broadly. He turned to Angel. "I thought you were the serious one. Are you sure he doesn't have any of your genes tucked away in there somewhere?"

Spike snorted. "As if! I am nothing like Mr Broody Pants. Just because a bloke picks up some pointers from hanging around the good guys for a few years, doesn't mean he's signed up for . . ."

Spike's sentence was cut short by the sound of the office door opening, and Connor never did get find out which particular organisation Spike wasn't going to apply for membership of. The door swung back revealing a grim faced Wesley clutching a slim wallet folder in one hand and balancing a cardboard Starbucks' cup between his chin and the top of the file.

"Ah, fresh coffee," he sniffed appreciatively. "I can consign this dish water to the drain it so justly deserves." He said indicating the Starbucks' container. He deposited the file on Spike's desk and crossed the room to the coffee machine. "And scrambled eggs, too. What have we done to deserve an Angel special?" he asked, eyeing Spike's plate and grabbing a fork. and scooping a mouthful.

"Hey! Get your own," yelled Spike reaching over and snatching his plate out of Wesley's reach. "Is everyone moving in on my stuff now?"

"Well, I've eaten all I can," said Connor, rising from his seat. "So I guess I'd better make a move and head back to college. You got an excuse note for missing curfew last night?"

Angel stepped into his path and scrutinised his bruised face. "You've hardly had time to eat anything. And I'd rather you didn't go back until all this is sorted out. I got this strange feeling that we need to stay together until it's all over."

Connor looked at him and shrugged. "OK. I'll give college a ring and tell them I've gone home for a few days."

"I think that might be for the best. Last night's research does indicate that, we do need to stay together for what has to be done next," said Wesley suddenly grim faced again.

"Together," echoed Angel. "Where's Fred?" he asked, anxiously scanning the empty space behind Wesley.

"I presume she's having a late start. We worked into the early hours and she was exhausted. Security drove her home. Mmmm – good eggs," said Wesley pouring himself a cup of coffee and sampling some more from the bowl.

Spike looked up from his plate, which was piled high with toast buried beneath a mountain of scrambled egg. "What? You think she's just slept late with all that's been goin' on? Didn't you notice how upset she is by all this lost memories thing? Not to mention the duplicate time-line that can't possibly exist. My guess is she's too hyped to sleep."

Angel and Wesley exchanged concerned glances as Gunn reached for the phone and dialled Fred's number.

"No answer."

"Maybe she's already on her way in," suggested Wesley.

"That's her mobile number Charles just dialled," said Lorne, lifting his head from the pillow and shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

Spike frowned. "How'd you know that, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Dial tones are like music," replied Lorne.

"That so? Can you read if the phone's gonna be picked up? 'cos that would be nifty." Spike tilted his head and squinted at Lorne before piling more toast and eggs on his plate.

Wesley placed his cup on the counter and strode towards the door.

"Wes?" Angel called.

"I'm going to find her." He said as he turned the doorknob.

"No, Wes, we need you here," said Angel firmly. "Spike'll go."

"Can't I just finish . . . "

"No!" Angel swung his head towards Spike who was busy shovelling eggs into his mouth. "It's not like you need to eat that stuff, Spike. It's . . ." Angel struggled to find the right words. "Habit. That's all it is."

"But I like it," protested Spike. "Reminds me of when I was a kid."

Angel took the plate out of Spike's hands and shoved him towards the door. "Yeah? Well that was a long time ago, Sonny. Now, mind what Grandpa tells you. Get over it. Get gone. Get Fred. Got it?"

Spike opened the door and hesitated. "Hang on a mo'. Give me something to go on. Where might she have gone? And how the bloody hell am I supposed to get there in broad daylight?"

The others looked at one another for inspiration. Finally, Lorne spoke. "Fredle's been upset by what's happened hasn't she?"

Spike nodded.

Lorne sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned. "Um, Would you say she was a little unbalanced?" he asked choosing his words carefully.

Spike nodded again, his mouth full of the toast he'd snatched from the plate Angel had removed from him. "Mmmm. Don't . . ." he chewed rapidly and swallowed. "Don't tell me no one noticed?" he gazed at the others. Angel looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wesley studied the bottom of his coffee cup and Connor looked bemused.

"Everyone too wrapped up in their own little problems to notice one of our own going over the edge?"

Lorne hung his head and murmured he'd been out of town most of the time.

Spike patted his shoulder. "Wasn't referring to you, Dean. Or you," he said over his shoulder to Connor. He glared at the others, his eyes flashing yellow with anger. "Bloody typical! Fred's been sliding backwards. She's fading away before your eyes. Didn't you hear what she said last night about handsome men saving her from monsters? What was all that about?"

"Wasn't referring to you, Dean. Or you," he said over his shoulder to Connor. He glared at the others, his eyes flashing yellow with anger. "Bloody typical! Fred's been sliding backwards. She's fading away before your eyes. Didn't you hear what she said last night about handsome men saving her from monsters? What was all that about?"

"Pylea," groaned Lorne. "She was talking about the time we got her out of Pylea."

"Of course," said Wesley. "Why didn't I see this before? She'd not just lost her memories of Connor, she's losing her memories of her time here." Wesley crossed the room and stood before Spike. "You'll find her in her old room upstairs in the Hyperion. Take the Viper and park in the alley at the back,. It's in shade at this time of the morning, so you shouldn't have any difficulty." Wesley glanced at Angel, his face tight with anxiety. "If she's reverted to the state she was in when she first arrived there, do you really think she'll come back with Spike?"

Angel thought for a second, looked at Spike who raised a querying eyebrow, and said, "Spike isn't part of her lost memories. And she trusts him,- for some unknown reason." He glanced again a Spike whose face creased in a huge grin.

"Knew my charm and sparkling wit'd come in handy one day, Peaches. Leave it to me. I'll have her back in the bosom in a jiffy."

"Spike!" Angel warned. "Take care. She's fragile. It won't take much to push her over and we'll lose her. And we can't lose her. Not Fred. Not after Cordy."

Spike studied his grandsire's face. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson with Dana," he said, sweeping from the room. "Despite what you thought, I learned my lesson."