Author's Notes: Sorry Big Bad, no Buffy or Andrew.

xxxxx

They cube had given them their memories back. Angel knew his friends now understood why he'd gone through with the mind wipe and erased Connor from their consciousness, but that didn't change anything, not really. They saw it as violation. They were right, Angel couldn't deny it. He had raped his friends. Not physically, of course, but mentally. Mind wipe, mind rape, it was all the same. He had Vail concoct false memories and replace the true ones with - well he wasn't exactly sure, but he'd heard there was lots of jenga involved. They barely talked to him anymore. Well, Wesley did, but that was probably more guilt than anything else. He'd lost his friends quite possibly forever, but he'd do it again. Why? Because Connor was in Stanford. He was the happy, intelligent, well-adjusted kid Angel had always wanted him to be, the happy, well-adjusted kid he deserved to be.

Connor had also gotten his memories back. He hadn't told Angel directly, but he knew. His son had chosen to go back to his fake family. He couldn't deal with the truth, or maybe he could but just preferred his fabricated magical life to reality. Another lie. Connor had once told him that a person couldn't be saved by a lie, yet Connor's entire existence had been based on them. For the rest of his life, Connor Angel: miracle child of two vampires, would go through life as Connor Reilly: son of two boring suburbanites.

That bothered Angel. A lot. He didn't want to give up his son, but it was for the best. Angel was like poison. He'd destroyed everything he'd ever touched, ruined every relationship he'd ever been in. He'd been alive for over two hundred and fifty years. That didn't mean much. He was still alone. No friends, no family, just - Illyria.

Angel was watching the god now. It had not moved from the spot Wesley had - well he wasn't quite sure what Wesley had done. He had shot some type of ray gun at Illyria that had taken most of its powers. It was no longer invincible. It could be killed.

Wesley had told him it was best to do away with Illyria while it was defenseless.

"Illyria's a threat to us, Angel. He must be destroyed."

"It, Wes."

"Excuse me?"

"Illyria's not a 'he' it's an 'it'."

"Call him whatever you like, that doesn't change the simple fact: Illyria must be destroyed."

"I know."

Did he really? Angel couldn't be sure. He wasn't sure of much these days. Illyria was perfectly willing and able to slaughter them all, yet Angel couldn't kill it. Why? Because it resembled Spike? Maybe. Angel couldn't say he was in the most stable place right now, but he needed Illyria because - even he didn't know. He knew it was insane, but killing Illyria would be like killing Spike all over again. By all means, that train of thought made absolutely no sense. Illyria had tried to kill them and yet... the problem with Angel was that he was too attached. Some part of him still hoped that, deep down, Spike was in there hiding inside the Old One and that maybe, if enough time passed, his boy would come back... Angel shook his head. It made no sense. He was officially insane. Not like this type of thing hadn't happened before, but still, it really was quite jarring.

Illyria still hadn't moved. Angel briefly wondered if it would spend the entire night on the floor. It didn't want any help and Angel couldn't say that he was anxious to pull it to its feet. He should have left the demon alone. It was getting late. He had work to do tomorrow and - he'd leave, but only after Illyria got up.

He could wait.

One week later

"Boss? Hello? Boss?"

Angel sighed. All he wanted to do was get into his office and finish his paperwork. Why did his secretary insist on bothering him? "What is it, Harmony?"

"You've got messages from Italy. Some loser Goran demon named Capo di Famiglia got himself whacked on a business trip there and his family wants the body. You need to send someone over there and..."

"Harmony?" Angel interrupted. "Wolfram & Hart has an Italian branch, right? Let them handle it."

"There's also the Buffy thing."

At once, Angel became concerned. Was she hurt? Dead? No, she couldn't be. He had some guy keeping tabs on her, he would have phoned if anything was wrong. Then again, last time Angel checked, his source was in the hospital...

"What Buffy thing?" Angel asked quickly. "Is she in trouble?"

"Well, I'm not sure. She was recently spotted hanging around some guy called the Immortal. If that means anything."

"What!"

It was worse than he'd thought.

"Hey, Boss, don't shoot the messenger..."

"I can't believe her!" Angel ranted. "The Immortal? She really does have the worse taste in - Harmony, send her an e-mail telling her that the Immortal once slept with Darla and Dru. That'll make her come to her senses."

"What?"

"Just do it."

His voice left no room for questioning.

"Um, sure, whatever. Oh, by the way, Illyria's in your office."

As if Angel didn't have enough problems, now he'd have to deal with the Old One's questions pertaining to the lunar cycles.

"Thanks, Harmony," he said wearily.

Thirty seconds later

"Illyria?" Angel called, taking a quick look around. He didn't see the demon anywhere and he seriously doubted it was hiding under any of the furniture. He couldn't say it was disappointed by the Old One's absence. Maybe now he could finally get some work done.

Slowly, Angel walked toward his desk. He noticed his leather chair was facing the wall. He hadn't left it like that, had he?

Suddenly, the seat swiveled around.

"Finally! I've been waiting forever, Peaches. Long lunch?"

Spike?

Angel took a step back. He was finally cracking up. He wasn't seeing him. He couldn't be. Spike was dead. This was a lie, a delusion. He wasn't dreaming again, was he? Was it a ghost? Why didn't Ghost Spike have a scent? He should've. Everything had a scent, everything but...

"Illyria."

"No," the demon said slowly, pushing itself off the chair and sauntering toward Angel. "I'm Spike, remember?"

"No," Angel whispered, "you're not." How was the god doing this? How could it manipulate itself so perfectly? It had Spike down to a tee. That movement, that voice...

"Sure I am. Anyway, I was thinking, Peaches, we should go out. How 'bout you leave work early? We'll go to a bar. Get you liquored up good and proper. Maybe take in a show, flirt with some girls..."

"Stop it," Angel growled. This was a mockery, an insult to his Childe. The demon was playing a game. He wanted no part in it.

"Alright, fine, we won't talk to the women. Jeesh, what's your problem? You used to like bar whores, if I remember correctly."

"Illyria..." Angel warned.

"No, I'm Spike, we covered that already. So, how come girls aren't good enough for ya anymore?" Illyria laughed Spike's laugh. Angel could have killed it for such a trespass. "I knew you were a poofer underneath all that hair gel! Then again, that should have been a big hint... Tell ya what, Gramps, I'll throw you a bone. I'll be your deviant just this once, let you get it out of your system, then we're going to the movies."

The demon was standing far too close to him. Clearly, Illyria, like Spike, had never heard of the Bubble of Personal Space. Angel should have left his office, turned away, done something besides stand there, but Illyria looked like Spike. Angel couldn't tear his eyes away from the imitation.

"Not like dog girl's putting out and you need the exercise. It'll be fun." Illyria dared to run its hand down Angel's chest. "C'mon, Sire, don't be that way..."

As soon as that title passed Illyria's lips Angel snapped out of his trance. This thing wasn't Spike. It had no right to use that term with him.

"No!" he shouted, pushing Illyria away.

"You dare strike me?" Illyria asked, shoving Angel back. The vampire was propelled across the room. He hit the wall. Hard. He thought he felt the plaster crumble from under his back. "You dare raise your hands against me?"

The Old One's voice was coming out of Spike's mouth. It was wrong, unnatural. The eyes held not a hint of warmth and its voice was shaking with demonic fury. Illyria's fury; so unlike the fury of his boy. Spike had been volatile, his anger had always been passionate, never cold, never calculating like Illyria's.

"Change back," Angel ordered, climbing shakily to his feet.

"It's better this way, Sire..." It was back to using Spike's voice, all trace of anger forgotten.

"I'm not your Sire!"

The demon's use of that word made him sick.

"Your grief hangs off you like rotting flesh," Illyria murmured, it's voice and features reverting back to its natural ones. "I could no longer tolerate the stench."

"So you did this?" he demanded.

"I became what you wanted. He meant a great deal to you, didn't he?"

"You can't possibly know what he 'meant' to me, Illyria."

"I know what you meant to him. You were his father, his master, his god. You were his companion, his teacher, his enemy, his friend. The names he called you echo through my mind. Daddy! Master! God! They are but titles. Screaming titles that parade in pain-drenched festivals before my eyes. Do you know which title screams the mightiest, half-breed? Sire. Memories of blood and women all surrounded by that screaming, relentless word."

Angel knew about voices. For over a century, he'd heard the sounds of his victims. Their screams, their pleads. He remembered how the children had squealed like little pigs, some had even messed themselves before he was through with them. Their cries used to make him want to kill himself. Strange how their voices had never cut as deeply as the tender ones. Darla, who had whispered eternity into his ear. Drusilla, who had called him "Daddy" as enthusiastically as any daughter. Spike, who had sung with him; crude, drinking songs brought on by too much ale and far too many hours spent in taverns. After Angel had gotten his soul, it had taken decades to block out their voices in favor of the louder ones.

"I have no desire to become Spike, half-breed. I merely wish to understand why these words continue even after the shell's destruction. Why do they not cease their cycle?"

The demon seemed genuinely curious. Pity Angel didn't want to be part of its learning experience.

"You can never be him, Illyria. Don't try to be."

With that, Angel walked out of his office. He was suddenly feeling very tired. Maybe he would take the rest of the day off. Wolfram & Hart could manage well enough without him.