Let's pretend. A bedtime story. It might give the man some comfort, but just wait 'til he found out the truth. Again. Spike shook his head. Fred still alive? Yeah, right. He'd like it to be true, but then he'd like Mother to be here, and not a leering vamp, either. He'd like it if things had worked out somehow with Cecily, Dru, or Buffy. Especially Buffy. He'd like it if Dawn and him were still friends.
William had always wanted a sister, and Dawn was something like one for a while. But Fred, she'd been almost the real thing. Her death shook him more than anyone realised. It wasn't that he'd been interested in getting her into bed. She was good-looking in her own way, but not his type of girl at all. More pretty than sexy, at least as far as he was concerned. Everything about Fred and him could be said in seventeen syllables and three lines. It was a different poem for her and Wesley, though. Something with as many cantos as Dante and the gentle touch of Keats. He sighed. Fred and Wes – real fireworks there. Hell, everyone in the building had known it. For some reason those two hadn't got fixed-up with each other, not until it was too late. Stupid bloody world.
Fred had been Spike's only friend here. He'd been adamant he wouldn't let her die. But that's exactly what he'd done. Wesley was bitter about that? No wonder – Fred had been his soul's mate. Spike was devastated at losing her; God knew what Wes was feeling.
As he crossed the lobby he glanced to the left. His spirits lifted. Pammy, Harmony's replacement, was on reception. Pam was a dish, if ever there was one; all flesh and hips and curves and breasts. The complete package. He'd only had a couple of chances to flirt with her when she'd worked in Accounts, but there were more opportunities now she was Angel's PA. He walked over to the desk, eyes locked with hers. "Pam," he said, lowering his voice, "when are the two of us going to make each other happy bunnies?"
The smile she gave him had to be her naughtiest smile, the one she kept in reserve to quicken a male pulse. He didn't have a pulse, but he could still appreciate it. She arched an eyebrow as only a woman with some history could. "You know I'm not that kind of girl, Spike." Those green eyes of hers, so coy, so wanton. What kind of girl was she? The sort a man could sink his teeth into. So to speak.
He returned her look. "It's not easy for me to be a gentleman around you, love."
That smile again. "Is that why you're carrying a liquor bottle instead of flowers for me?"
Laughing, he flipped the bottle over, sloshing what was left of the scotch. "This? Present from a friend." The words were out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying. Wesley was someone he considered a friend. Who'd have thought it? "I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm on a mission."
Pammy leaned forward, doing the cleavage thing and knowing she was doing it. "Something dangerous? Because I like dangerous."
"There might be danger," he said, getting an eyeful. It wasn't a lie, exactly. Blue could be tetchy.
"If you come back in one piece, we could talk about it over a drink. I could debrief you."
Bingo. He gave her a look to tell her he understood. "Could you, now? I might see you later, then." Spike grinned at her and then strutted away from the desk. He couldn't help strutting. A date with Pammy. At least that was something to look forward to.
You don't have to believe it, Angel had said yesterday. Make like you do; the truth will come out. Yeah, except that they already knew the truth, and it wasn't the smoke and mirrors of a grieving man. It was as sure as the sunset. But, no – Angel was on one of his crusades. He wanted to know if Blue understood anything of what she'd written in that article. Tread gently, Spike, he'd said. Don't mess it up. You've got that rapport with her. Use it.
Walking through the corridors, Spike raised a hand in greeting to the people he knew, tried to intimidate a few he didn't like the look of. When he got to the lab he stuck his head through the door – lots of nerds doing their nerdy things – then went on to Observation Room One, Illyria's room. He saw her through the window, crouched, facing the wall. She was probably doing that frozen, lizard-between-meals act of hers. Oh, well. She'd just have to wake up. Opening the door, he said, "Hey Blue, Wes sent me down here…" His voice faded.
Most of the wall space was covered with writing. No, not writing – equations, like the ones in the journal. Illyria slowly turned. She was stooped, and some hair fell over her face. There was a magic marker in one of her hands. Something, he couldn't say what, made him think of Fred. He mentally slapped himself across the face. All the "I believe in fairies" talk was getting to him.
"Mind if I interrupt your decorating?" he said, and then leapt back as she dropped the marker and straightened, her body melting and shimmering. Everything changed: hair, skin, eyes, clothes. She was Fred, holding a paint roller.
"In a minute, I just wanna finish this section." Fred's voice. Her expressions, mannerisms, the lot. It was even more frightening and depressing than he'd imagined it would be. She rolled the roller on a blank patch of wall, then melted and shimmered and looked like Illyria again. Crouching once more and taking up the marker, she started writing. Very slowly, Spike relaxed.
"Don't do that. It's not fair on us who knew her."
"I behave however I wish," she said, rising gracefully. Her eyes moved over the walls. "The shell would do this during periods of agitation." She shot him a blue glance. "I am not agitated."
Funny she should say that, because he'd never seen her more uptight. "Didn't say you were."
After staring at him blankly for a while, she started walking. She made a circuit of the room, one arm outstretched, fingers brushing over the equations like she was petting them. "These sigils and glyphs, they speak to me in tongues that babble. I am drawn to them."
Speak to me in tongues that babble? Spike tried not to roll his eyes. This was a way into finding out what she knew. "It's all Greek to me, too," he said, looking more closely at the nearest wall. Oh. A lot of it actually was Greek. Alright. Tread gently. "So you're not clued-up on all this stuff?"
Illyria carefully poised herself. "I require more knowledge of the magic called science. I see what the shell understood, but I do not understand her understanding."
Spike worked his way through that. Did it answer Angel's question or not? He was still trying to think of something else to ask her when her head dropped a notch, eyes glaring at the bottle in his hand.
"That belongs to Wesley."
Didn't look like she was after a bunch of flowers, then. "He passed it on to me. Think he's decided to give it a rest for a while."
She didn't quite not smile. Weird. It was there for a second; then it was gone. "You said he sent you here."
Gently. "Yeah, it's about that article of yours. There're a few things he's puzzling over."
Her shoulders sank a tiny bit. "Why could he not come himself? He has been behaving strangely since he returned. I assumed the Burkle persona for him as he died, at his request. Now he finds my presence painful."
At his request. Best not to think too closely about what that little scene had been like. "No, it isn't that. He's just tied up at the moment."
The shoulders sprang up again. "Is he with Mistress Spanks-A-Lot?"
Bloody hell. Old Wes was a dark horse, wasn't he? "Not unless that's the name Angel's using these days."
Strange. She didn't move at all, but he could see her relief. Then her head cocked. "People scream."
He grinned. Right, love, people scream. Scream in tongues that babble.
Illyria's voice dropped in pitch. "Listen."
The grin slipped from his face. There was a sound outside. People were screaming.
- - -
Angel made a silencing gesture and listened. Nothing. "I guess I'm jumping at shadows. Go on."
"I was just thinking about Lorne," Wesley said wearily. "Do you think it will take long to find him?"
Getting the empath to come back here was the real difficulty. "The Legal Department has extensive resources. One missing demon shouldn't be a problem. Gunn will take care of it." The attorney was under instructions to use all means necessary.
A sad frown creased Wes's face. "I don't think I apologised to Gunn adequately."
"He understands. We all do."
"I was wide of the mark as well as spiteful. Quite simply, it was fate that Fred and I would never be together."
Maybe that was true. And maybe it was time to stop letting fate push them around. "Screw destiny, that's what Fred told us."
"She did say screw it, yes." Tears began to fill Wesley's eyes and he roughly wiped them away. "I'm sorry. I miss her."
So do I, Angel thought, but stayed silent. He didn't want to belittle his friend's grief by comparing it with his own. After looking at Wes for a long moment, he said, "I think she hung on, Wes. I don't believe it, but I think it."
Wesley nodded. "I feel the same. It hurts." He picked up Modern Physics Review. "Fred is resourceful. She knows how to endure, how to hide. If anyone could survive Illyria's resurrection-"
A single knock sounded on the door and it opened. Vincent Lamlane, one of the junior researchers in Wesley's department, moved a step into the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr Angel, Mr Wyndham-Pryce. There's an emergency down in Records. The mystical scroll section is fading from this dimension."
"Again?" Wesley sounded more tired than ever. He got to his feet slowly. "What is the point of me drawing up a list of safety procedures if they aren't followed?" Turning to Angel, he said, "There's a substantial amount of irreplaceable material in that section. I should go there to supervise damage limitation and bash some heads together." He looked at the researcher.
Lamlane stared at him.
"Not literally," Wesley added.
Angel smiled faintly as the two men left the office. Wes was beginning to think about his work again. And he'd just talked about Fred in the present tense. Hopefully, that was a good thing.
- - -
It was a commotion in the lab. There were raised voices, then silence. Spike met Illyria's eyes and moved quickly toward the door, almost taking it in the face as Pammy burst into the room. She moaned his name, clinging to him.
He let this go on for a little while, and then gently moved Pam to arm's length. She was scared out of her wits, that much was plain. His earlier thoughts about her seemed wicked now, and not in a good way. Here she was, a fragile human with a thousand dreams and frustrations abruptly exposed on her face. He felt ashamed. "What is it?"
"Out there in the lab." Her lungs kept grabbing breaths.
Illyria was already half out of the room. "I will investigate."
"Wait up," Spike called after her.
Before he'd taken a step, Pammy blocked his way, hugging him again with unexpected strength. "Please don't. I need you with me."
He held her. "Just slow everything down. You'll be fine here. Now let me go and take a look."
"No!" Pam's grip tightened as he tried to move away from her.
"It's okay," Spike said, only half listening to his own words. Through the open door he could see Blue retreating from something. What did Illyria ever back away from? Another figure started to come into view. He almost laughed when he saw it was one of the nerds from the lab menacing her. Some little weasel gone stir crazy. No surprise, down here. She probably didn't want to hurt him. Now Spike thought about it, he couldn't remember her ever really hurting anyone outside of battle.
At that moment, Illyria darted past the silver thing the man was holding and grasped his lab coat. She threw him head first into the ceiling. Really into the ceiling – his upper body was left buried in the concrete; his lower body hung and twitched.
Caught somewhere between shock and a desire to applaud, Spike let go of Pammy. They both stared through the doorway as Blue turned her head to look at them almost apologetically. Then her eyes flashed a warning.
Spike reacted, the bottle smashing as he dropped it and raised his arms. A sharp, ripping agony went through the left one. He looked, and was amazed to see it impaled on a stake. The point was maybe half an inch away from his chest, and bang-on target. Even more startling, Pammy held the other end. There was nothing to see of the woman he'd been getting to know; her expression was cunning, but also vacant. Pain flared all the way up to his shoulder as she pulled out the stake for another swing.
No time to think. Take her out now. But he couldn't, because Pam was flying away from him, her empty hand sticking forward in a fist. Hell, what was that? A train had hit him from behind? No, no train. It was the wall. Sexy little Pammy had just punched him clear across the room. He should have seen it coming. He'd been looking too hard at the hand with the stake in it. Sloppy.
Pam charged. He got to his feet, but it wasn't smooth and easy. Striking the wall so violently had damaged things inside him. It took way too much effort just to feint and let her stab to his right. Really, that should have been it for her. A good kick to her undefended back. He tried it, but broken bones grated and he wasn't able. She swung her arm again.
It bounced back as Illyria stood between them and the stake rebounded off her body armour. With a swift and efficient movement, she lifted Pam, turned her horizontal, and brought the woman's body down over a raised knee. The shattering noise was horrific, even to Spike. Pammy fell in two halves.
Illyria glanced questioningly over her shoulder at him. Limping, he moved to her side and they both stared at what was on the floor.
"Well now, there's a thing," he said.
Fizzing, buzzing, and popping sounds accompanied the sparks jetting from Pam's upper torso and spitting more feebly from the half where her nice legs kicked at the air. Instead of the red and slimy inside of a human body, there was a mystifying heap of iridescent coiled metal. Her flesh became faint and vanished, as did her smell. A glamour. Then there was just a broken machine on the floor.
Somewhere in the building a gun fired once. After a pause, seven more shots sounded.
"Wesley is in danger," Illyria said and immediately broke into a run. She coolly snapped off the hanging man's foot as she left the room and threw it to Spike.
Sure enough, there was oddly-coloured stuff sticking out of it. It looked like tin foil would if it were alive. Spike set off hobbling after Blue, swearing as he almost tripped over the silver object RoboNerd had been carrying. Wait a minute – it was the thing Wes had used to drain Illyria's power that time. Looked like the plan here had been to finish the job.
- - -
The reception desk was unattended when Spike arrived back in the lobby. No more flirting eyes or naughty smiles. What was it with him and robot girls, anyway? The door to Angel's office opened and the boss shuffled out, hunched over. One of his eyes was swollen shut and there was a massive wound on the left side of his chest. He was in a fair bit of pain, by the look of things. But when he saw Spike, his face became expressionless, and he stood upright. Very nonchalant. A few choice insults sprang to mind, but before Spike could use any he realised he'd done the same thing.
"Caught off guard?" Angel said, approaching him.
In more ways than one. "Yeah. Robot. You?"
The other vampire nodded and glanced at the elevators as the doors on one opened. A dour but unhurt Wesley emerged, eyes widening as he noticed their injuries.
"Lamlane?" Angel said, sitting on the reception desk.
The faintest smile tugged at one corner of Wesley's mouth. "Yes. It was obvious there was no inter-dimensional disturbance. The smell and the dust told me that the air had been still in Records for some time." He shrugged. "I was ready for him, but it took eight shots to bring him down." His eyebrows raised and lowered quickly and dispassionately. "So – three of us attacked."
"Four," Spike said. He looked at Wes and saw no comprehension. "She didn't find you?"
That nasty shiver took hold of Wesley for a moment. "Illyria and I only talked briefly. When she saw I was no longer at risk she seemed to lose interest. A good thing, too. I don't trust myself to be around her right now."
Understandable. That was, after all, the reason Wes hadn't gone to see her today. Spike explained what had happened: the robots, the attempt to drain Blue dry with Flash Gordon's pop gun, and the bedlam he'd found in the lab where a few people had tried to stop it from being removed.
"Classic tactics for taking out a small group. Separate, isolate, eliminate." Wesley punctuated each word by shifting his gaze between Spike and Angel.
"It was a hit on the Black Thorn," Angel said.
Wes began to nod then stopped. "Where's Gunn?"
"In the field." Nervousness spread over Angel's features. "He's found Lorne."
The unease was infectious, Spike saw, because Wes began to look the same. Of course he did. In his heart he must know that, as soon as they got Blue to sing, his castles would come crashing out of the air. "Is Lorne far from here?"
"He's working at a club in Malibu; Gunn's gone up there to bring him in. They should be here tomorrow, and then we'll know."
Spike snorted involuntarily and instantly cursed himself for it, because Wesley looked at him and started shaking. This time he didn't stop.