Author's Notes: I know it took awhile, but I swear I'll get the next chapters up soon.
xxxxx
Angel really didn't have the slightest idea how to draw Spike. He'd done dozens of sketches, but they were all wrong. The cheekbones weren't defined enough or the hair was too long. Spike's eyes were difficult to pen so Angel had taken to sketching them closed. They still weren't right. He'd tried drawing Spike the way he looked after he'd killed his first Slayer. Angel remembered that night well. His boy had been drunk on the potent blood and the feeling of the fresh kill. He'd been so excited. He wouldn't shut up. He'd kept Angel up for hours telling him exactly what moves he used and the order in which he performed them.
Angel had smiled. He had taught Spike most of those moves. Even though he had a soul at the time of the Slayer's death, Will's glee had been infectious. Spike had even tried to get Angel to spar with him. He had wanted to show his Sire exactly how he'd killed the girl. Angelus would have done indulged the lad, but the guilt-ridden Angel had no desire to enact such an event. He had feigned tiredness. Spike had been disappointed. He'd made a joke about his Sire's old age catching up with him before hopefully asking if Angel would be up for a demonstration tomorrow. Angel had promised he would.
He had lied. He had left the next night. He hadn't even said goodbye before he'd fled Darla's wrath. She had been disgusted by the soul. Darla. He hadn't drawn her in a while. He'd have to find time for her after he'd finished with Will. That probably wouldn't be any time soon, judging from the discarded papers lying on the office floor.
He had gone back to Wolfram & Hart. There was an apocalypse in the making, after all. That is, if Lindsey wasn't lying. Angel didn't think he was.
Aside from analyzing the impending threat of yet another armageddon, Wesley had spent some time convincing Angel that it was best to be around people in times of grief. That was part of the reason Angel cut his leave of absence short. Funny, Angel didn't see any people around him currently, not even the imaginary ones.
Illyria had followed him. It was wandering around the building. Angel didn't know which floor. Strange how the Old One's whereabouts didn't seem to concern him as much as figuring out the best way to draw Spike's chin.
Indeed, he was so engrossed in his current project he didn't even hear his office door open.
"Angel?"
The vampire reluctantly tore his eyes away from his sketch and to the person standing before him.
"Wes," he greeted, "how've you been?"
"Better than you, evidently."
"Huh?"
Wesley gestured to the many, many failed sketches decorating the floor.
"Oh. I'm doing okay."
"I don't think you are." He bent down and picked up a half-sketched picture of Spike sleeping. "This was the report I sent you."
"Oh, sorry." Angel hadn't realized that he'd been drawing on the work he was supposed to be going over.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
About what? Oh, that.
"Not really."
"You should."
Since when was Wes a touchy-feely guy? He really did sound concerned. Probably because the last time he had gotten into Obsessive Sketch Mode he'd gone kind of crazy and fired him, Gunn, and Cordy. But that was years ago. And it involved Darla and Dru. Totally different situation.
"I don't want to."
"Yes, I can see that, but..."
"No 'buts' Wes. I don't want to talk. End of discussion."
"Why are you doing this?" asked Wesley, placing the drawing on Angel's desk. "When Spike was alive you treated each other with indifference and contempt. Now that he's gone you're acting just like you did when..."
"I know, Wes."
"Why?"
That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?
"I don't know."
He really didn't.
"You don't know?" Wesley repeated carefully.
"I don't know, okay?" Angel snapped. "Now, drop it!"
"If you would just..."
"Um, excuse me?" a voice asked. "Could we come in?"
Both men turned their attention to the now opened office door.
Connor.
One day later
The half-breed was ignoring it. Not that this bothered the Old One. No, the god was merely inconvenienced by the absence of its favorite toy. The vampire was currently occupied with a boy called Connor. For whatever reason that boy had caused the half-breed's attentions to shift. No longer was he dwelling on the memory of the shell called Spike. His stench of grief was lessened because of the man-child. There was affection there, love. Love for a human child. Where had this emotion come from? Illyria had meticulously gone through Spike's memories. There was no Connor in them, no mention of the boy Angel seemed to care so much for. Of course, the shell's memories were imprecise. Spike had had nearly a century and half of life, or some form of it. So few of that time had been in Angel's presence, less than two decades. Many of Angel's experiences were beyond the shell's knowledge, yet the vampire's existence had warped the Spike's own.
It should have ripped out the half-breed's throat after his first trespass, after he had forsaken Illyria for the boy. "Oh, that? That's Illyria." The insubordination still echoed in the Old One's ears. The half-breed had dared address Illyria as "that" to the boy. Such disregard, such insurrection! Millennia ago, the world trembled at the very sound of its name. The footstools had screamed and the muck had bowed before its greatness and now? Now it was "that," named causally, coldly, thrown aside quickly in favor of the topic of a place called Stanford.
Why had the half-breed survived this insult? Illyria had taken intestines from screaming victims and worn them as decoration for less callousness then the vampire had given it. Why did Illyria allow him to continue functioning unmarred, unpunished? Perhaps it was because it found the half-breed stimulating. It could have been the shell's influence, but something about the vampire was intriguing. It was not his soul. No, such a useless object was of no concern to Illyria. It was his powerful madness that drew the Old One to him. The grief was so strong in scent that it very nearly caused Illyria to vomit, but it was that grief that made him tolerable. Angel's grief hazed hatred, as well as his fixation with the shell and its occupant, made him the closest thing to a worshipper it had left in this world. He was an amusing study, a toy that Illyria could not bring itself to ruin.
The toy would return to her as all of its toys had done in the past. It was all a matter of time and the question of when. Illyria was capable of great patience. It would wait. It was already finding other creatures to observe.
Earlier, Illyria had visited the girl, Fred, in her lab. She was not nearly as attractive as the Old One had first thought. She had begun leaking fluid from her eyes shortly after it had arrived. That wretched, sobbing girl would have made a poor shell, but at least she had acknowledged the Old One's greatness. The one before Illyria now, the one called Charles Gunn, had not even averted his gaze from the parchment he was reading.
"Do you mind leaving my office?" he murmured distractedly.
"Why?" Illyria cocked its head to the side. It was a request not an order. He would not be injured for that small iota of respect.
"Because your body suit is making me uncomforta..."
He ended his sentence there, his attention drawn back to the parchment. His eyes increased in size. Illyria recognized this as a human act for surprise.
"What is it?"
"I - I was just going over our contracts, re-reading the fine print. Angel... he signed something the day we took over Wolfram & Hart, something that includes us." Shaking his head, Gunn picked up the nearby communications instrument and pressed one of the dials. "Wes? I think you'd better get down here."
Three hours later
He had modified their memories. How or why, Illyria could not be certain of, but the half-breed had done it without his subjects' permission. They felt angry, betrayed. They wanted to hurt him.
This new development was amusing. Illyria had not previously thought Angel was capable of ruling. The Old One had seen him as a weak being, soft, ruled by his emotions, but now it saw how suited Angel was for the role of king. He properly served no master but his own ambition. This was how the half-breed's reign had endured. It was ending now, much to the despair of the vampire. He was powerless, helpless to the mercy of the people he had betrayed and to a mysterious glowing, yellow cube.
It was glorious.
Illyria nearly smiled. Angel would fall for his discretions. Perhaps the boy would fall with him. Yes, that would be most satisfying.
"You changed the world," whispered Wesley, glancing at the cube in his palm.
"What are you guys doing here?"
Illyria detected fear in the vampire's voice. Fear it had never seen the half-breed emit before. It was over the boy currently fighting a demon behind a cloaked wall. It was over the trinket in the human's hand. Fred, Gunn, Lorne, Wesley, they were all beside Illyria. Angel feared them. Feared their identical looks of disgust and loathing. Feared what they would do to him.
"You sold us out to Wolfram & Hart!" exclaimed Gunn, barely concealing his rage.
Angel's eyes had not left the cube holder's. "Be careful, don't..."
Wesley again examined the glowing object. "Is this your thirty pieces of silver?"
"Wes, give me the..."
Illyria saw the half-breed approaching the human. If Angel took the cube, than his servants' power would be weakened. Illyria desired to see the arrogant half-breed humbled for his earlier insubordination. It would pay for forsaking Illyria to be with the man-child. Moving quickly, it struck Angel with a force that sent him across the room. This action caused a feeling of immense satisfaction to envelop the Old One. It enjoyed causing the half-breed pain.
"They do not follow you any longer," Illyria declared, making no effort to mask its amusement.
"You changed the world," Wesley repeated.
"Why'd you do it, Angel?" asked Lorne. The clown was uncharacteristically solemn. Sadness choked its entire being.
"Connor's my son," Angel muttered, again approaching them, but wisely keeping his distance from Wesley. "I had to save him. I had no choice. I - "
A son? Illyria knew that half-breeds could not procreate. Why would the vampire state such an obvious lie?
"Your son?" shouted Fred, completely horrified. "Your son? You did this because - God, Angel! Did you trade him for - " Her eyes widened. "Everything that's happened since we took over Wolfram & Hart, everything that's happened to us, was Spike the price?"
"What? No! How could you - you don't understand," Angel said weakly.
"What's not to understand?" Wesley asked icily. "You betrayed us."
"You guys know me. You know I'd never..."
Gunn glared at him.
"That's the problem, Angel. We don't know you. I don't think we ever did."
"I'll explain everything, just - Wes, put the box down."
The half-breed's desperation was increasing. Illyria drank it in. It was so immensely satisfying, so intoxicating. The half-breed would break. Break, as he deserved to be broken.
"Why are you so afraid of it?" questioned Wesley. "Would bring back the past? Will it undo what you've done?"
"If it could don't you think I would've... It can't bring Spike back," said the half-breed. "It - it can't undo any of this."
"I'm willing to test that theory," said Gunn. "English?"
Wesley moved to throw the cube to the ground.
"No, don't!" Angel pleaded. "All of you - you have to trust me!"
"Trust you?" asked Lorne. "After all this?"
Fred shook her head. "We can't. Not anymore."
And Wesley dropped the cube.