It was a difficult night. Angel had told him to rest, but that wasn't really an option, was it? He'd returned to his apartment, because Illyria sometimes arrived at Fred's. Yet he wasn't alone in his own place – it was haunted. Their brief and dear time together. The night she'd come to him for help with Seidel; the way her face had softened when she learnt he'd been keeping track of her. Her standing at the door after the Billy incident, not only forgiving but trying to support him. Torment, all of it.

The new tiles in the shower were quite cheerful. Faith had done him a favour when she'd removed the old ones. Water ran over Wesley as he tried to wash the fatigue from his mind. There'd been no sleep, and he hadn't eaten in twenty hours. His tired thoughts wandered back to the events of yesterday.

To keep himself occupied he'd spent the remainder of the afternoon supervising blood tests on the entire Wolfram & Hart staff. Two more robots were discovered, one in the Legal Department, one in the Entertainments Division. Clearly, they were placed to eliminate Gunn and Lorne. An assassin for each of them, even Illyria, although that one may have originally been intended for Fred. Why they were sent and by whom were mysteries, just as they had been the first time. Another unanswered question was why they had revealed themselves with two of their targets absent. The remaining robots posed no danger – they seemed lost without something to aim for, things that no longer had a function. God, he knew how that felt.

It had been twenty minutes now. The water was starting to lose its temperature, and he hadn't even picked up a bar of soap. Actually, he hadn't moved. Quickly and mechanically, he washed and turned off the shower.

Toward the end of the day's final meeting, Spike had mentioned, seemingly as an afterthought, that Illyria was "writing on the walls". A meaningless recycling of memory, or another suggestion of the impossible? Wes needed to know the answer, but dreaded it being the wrong one. The dread was electric and sharp in the pit of his stomach. If Lorne came, was able to read Illyria, and pronounced that there was no trace of Fred, it would be the end of everything. The darkness that had beckoned him for so long would finally absorb him utterly, he knew. And he would welcome it. For the loss of that most rare and lovely soul could only mean that this world was not worth the fight.

He dried and dressed himself, then left an apartment that had become a memento mori funhouse. Ten crawling minutes in the LA traffic had passed before he realised he'd forgotten to shave. It seemed a bad omen.

There was someone he didn't recognise on reception. She knew who he was, though, and directed him to the senior staff conference room, where a meeting was in progress. On the way he had to stop and lower his head as vertigo flooded his consciousness. To those passing in the corridor it must have looked absurdly like he was bowing. In a way, he was. Bowing under the panic that sent him cold and left pins and needles in his mind.

Angel was singing, badly, when Wesley reached the conference room. "My home lies deep within you; And I've got my own place in your soul; Now, when I look out through your eyes; I'm young again, even though I'm very old."

Wesley listened at the door until the song ended, not breathing. Lorne spoke. "You know Barry didn't write that, don't you?"

Drawing on the last of his strength, Wes was able to wrestle the panic down into something small enough for him to enter the room. He was in time to see Angel's crest-fallen expression.

"Good morning, everyone," Wesley said, astounded at how calm his voice was. Good mornings were mumbled. Gunn gestured in welcome and pulled out a chair. Acknowledging him with a nod, Wes sat in it. "Hello, Lorne. Do I have to sing? I'm not sure I can."

The demon smiled warmly. "Hi, Wes. I'm not happy about being here, but seeing you is a plus. I don't need to hear a note."

Spike smiled, too. "You got off lightly. Don't know which was worse, having to sing myself or having to listen to him." Raising an eyebrow, he jabbed a thumb back toward Angel.

Ignoring this, Angel said, "How are you feeling today, Wes?"

"Tolerable. Can we get this over with?" It was going to be the wrong answer. He knew it. Here in cold reality, it was obvious. But there were so many things hinting at the other possibility. The struggle between doubt and the evidence began again. Wesley shivered.

Lorne stood, smiling humourlessly as Spike also rose to his feet. "A nursemaid, huh?"

"She trusts me," Spike said. "Might have a better chance of getting through to her if I'm there."

"Right." Lorne dead-panned laughter, keeping his gaze conspicuously away from Angel. But he gave Wes another smile, this one genuine, and then moved to the door with Spike in tow. "Let's go hear the bluebird sing."

- - -

It seemed to Spike that, yeah, nursemaid was the long and short of it. Embarrassing. Lorne and him walked in a not-too-companionable silence until they reached the Science Division corridor.

"I'll do the talking to begin with," Spike said then, not allowing any space for discussion into his voice. "She's been getting skittish, lately. Not sure what she'll do when she sees you."

Lorne stopped walking. "Skittish? Her?" His face became thoughtful. It looked strange on him. Then he slipped on one of those sarcastic masks that Spike knew well, even though he'd hadn't seen his own reflection for a good long while. The mask turned his way. "You know, I'm intrigued. The songs say the same thing. None of you believe this."

Hard to find a good answer to that. Probably because there wasn't one. Spike sighed quietly. "Yeah. Doesn't hurt to make sure, though. We could be wrong."

"We're not, and it does hurt." There was a pained expression on the demon's face. He looked the way Spike felt.

"I know."

Rubbing his temples, Lorne said, "The only reason I'm here is that, when it comes to Fred, I still have a little hope. Silly, isn't it?"

Spike shrugged with his eyebrows and looked at the floor.

They began to walk, again without speaking, the rest of the way to Observation Room One. When they arrived there, Spike glanced through the window. Blue was standing, head cocked and eyes empty, one hand reaching out. The magic marker she held still touched the wall, like she'd been halfway through writing something when she'd just, well, stopped. He opened the door and held it for Lorne, who entered the room ahead of him.

No movement from Illyria.

"Brought someone to see you," Spike said.

Still nothing, as if she was waiting to catch a fly, or something. Then a small shift of the head. Her eyes gradually swivelled toward Lorne. After gazing at him for a few moments she said, "Krevlorneswath. The mind-raping jester."

Lorne spread his arms. "Hey, I missed you, too. How about a hug?"

Jester – she got that right. A funny man. This was such a funny situation, after all. Spike stepped between them. "You know the drill, Blue. Sing a song, and Lorne here can see how things are going for you."

"I will not be hoped." Her eyes flicked back and forth, as if confused. "I will not be probed."

"It's just like the tests." Spike held up his clipboard. "See? Not like he'll be reading your mind."

Illyria raised her chin. "My mind would make his stunted brain burst were he foolish enough to attempt it."

All of a sudden Lorne was standing in front of her. Great. That was right in her combat zone. Not that Lorne knew it. "There you are, then, blueberry muffin. You're safe. I just want to get an idea of what your aura is like."

"Do not call me blueberry muffin." There was murder – no, genocide – in her eyes. Moving to Lorne's side, Spike braced himself.

Raising his hands, placating, a bit poncy, Lorne said, "Whatever's good for you. So what songs did the Old Ones sing? I'm guessing romantic ballads. Hmmm. Maybe something folksy."

The danger within Illryia's gaze instantly evaporated. Almost before Lorne finished speaking, she said, "The shell knew many songs."

Lorne smiled encouragingly. "How about you wow us with one of those?"

There was a weird moment of calm. Motionless, vacant, and unblinking, Illyria stared at Spike and Lorne. And that's how she stayed when her mouth opened and a huge sound came out of it: "R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me."

Spike dropped the clipboard, and, bemused, turned his head to look at Lorne. His fingers clicking time, the empath pouted appreciatively. Admittedly, Blue had a surprisingly good singing voice.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Take care, TCB. Ohhhhh."

Now the bloody demon joined in. "Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me."

"A little respect."

"Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me."

It was surreal. The room echoed with the two of them. Blue and green should never be seen; Mother used to say that. As for whether they should be heard…

"Whoa, babe."

"Just a little bit."

"A little respect."

"Just a little bit."

Spike turned on his heel. "I'll just wait outside, then." When he was in the corridor he pressed his back against the wall and hung his head in his hands. Another time he might have found all this hilarious, but not now. Soon Lorne would come out of there, and Spike would have to face losing Fred all over again. Then there was the happy job of telling Wesley. Epic tragedy for breakfast. The man would fall. Oh, they'd all try to hold him up, no doubt. Wouldn't help him, though. In Wes's office a few days ago, Spike had seen someone who'd lost the whole world. It was a look he'd noticed several times in the past, mostly when he'd just made someone watch while he slaughtered their entire family. Something like that, it made a person's universe crumble. Seeing the expression back on Wesley's face, confirmed, would be hard to bear. After all, Wes had an eternity of that sorrow to look forward to. If only by clapping their hands loudly enough they really could bring back Tinkerbelle.

Despite everything he knew, Spike found himself hoping. It was a desperate, vain hope, but the fact it was there at all amazed him. His instincts rarely failed, and right now they said he was a fool for being here, for allowing himself to be involved in the charade at all. You couldn't blame Wesley for grasping at the proverbial. The blame lay with Angel and his, "We've been played." Why hadn't the big idiot tried to let Wes down gently?

Yet Spike had gone along with it, and now he could see why. Somewhere inside him William was crying out for the wrong to be put right: Fred back here, back with Wesley. Bloody Angel.

Soundproofing on the observation rooms was impressive; Spike could only hear muffled singing from where he was. He saw the duet through the window, though. Could even lip-read most of it. For a while Lorne swayed to his own embellishments, while Illyria stood with that reptile patience of hers, only her jaw moving. With a little respect (just a little bit), the song wound up.

Squatting on his haunches, Spike waited. Eventually the door opened, revealing Lorne looking back over his shoulder into the room. "Normally I don't go with the whole in medias res thing? But that was diva, pure diva."

"I see." Illyria's voice. "You may now call me blueberry muffin."

The demon sounded cheerful. Hard to tell if it was false or not. "I can see that name in lights."

When Lorne stepped out into the corridor, the door closed itself behind him with a sound that was final. This was it.

"Well?" Spike said.

- - -

Hunched over the meeting table, Wesley shook uncontrollably. Angel and Gunn had apparently given up trying to simply talk him down. Gunn sat close beside him, while Angel paced, occasionally resting a hand on one of Wes's shoulders. Doubtless, this was intended to be comforting, and in a way it was. In another way, the feeling was claustrophobic and oppressive. One didn't have an easy approach to that kind of physical contact after thirty-six years of being male and English.

"Hey, man," Gunn said gently, "whatever happens, know that we're right here for you. We ain't gonna be leaving you again."

Even in the midst of his misery, Wes inwardly squirmed with embarrassment at this compassion, a sensation that magnified when Angel gave his shoulder another friendly squeeze. Both of them had been uttering similar words of support since Lorne and Spike left the room. They meant well, but nothing they said or did could help him. Lorne must be with Illyria now. Would she sing for him? If she did, the truth was probably known already. Fred was gone. Of course she was; he'd always known it, just as he'd always known she could never be with him. He'd been a fool to believe that, after everything, things would work out for them. It had been like a miracle, her kissing him that evening. And, like an inverted miracle, she had been cruelly torn from his arms and destroyed before his horror-struck eyes.

No form of spell could remove that memory etched onto his soul. For so long he'd watched her exquisite body and the workings of her brilliant, lateral, and charming mind. At the end he'd watched her slowly eaten alive from the inside out, slowly tortured to death, in agony, in terror. Then her beautiful and indomitable soul burnt away. It was wrong. It was obscene. It sullied the very idea that goodness existed…

…Yes, it was wrong, wasn't it? In fact, perhaps it was so wrong that it couldn't really be true. An unexpected and certainly unlooked-for glimmer of hope appeared in the darkness where Wesley lived. Consumed might mean absorbed. Had he forgotten that already? Forgotten about the inadequate "evidence" of Sparrow's word? And what about the messages in Illyria's article? Apparently this had all been washed away by despair. Not the things themselves – their import. Even now it required intense mental effort to remember. A chill went through Wesley as he began to suspect his mind had been manipulated. He willed himself to hope.

But hope died the moment he heard the conference room door opening. Oh, God. How would he be able to bear this?

"You gotta be kidding me," Gunn said.

Wes stopped trembling, raised his head, and looked at the doorway. Spike and Lorne stood there, grinning like idiots. A whistling sound began as Wesley, brushing the hand from his shoulder, stood and walked toward them. Angel, of course, reached them first.

Something amazing must have happened, because Lorne unexpectedly gripped the vampire's upper arms, without a trace of the animosity he'd shown less than an hour ago. The demon actually beamed, and Angel smiled uncertainly in return. "You managed to get a reading from Illyria?"

"Loud – very loud – and clear."

Angel smiled more widely. "And?"

"She's got soul," said Lorne.

The whistling increased in both volume and pitch. Everyone was celebrating all around Wes, clapping him on the back, laughing. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I think I'm about to faint." Someone, he thought it was Spike, caught him as his legs gave way. A dimmer switch faded his thoughts, and for a little while he rested.

- - -

Angel insisted Wes allow Medical to give him the once-over, so it wasn't until evening that, in a spirit of celebration, everyone relocated to the all-night diner just across the street (a favourite of Fred's). All five of them crammed into a single booth. Wesley read the journal article over and over. He was glowing, floating on air. The world, his friends, everything was immediate and wonderful, but he couldn't allow himself to bathe in these feelings. He'd already failed her with self-indulgent despair; he wasn't about to do the same thing by wallowing in joy. Fred was still here. She existed. Knowing that was a bliss surpassing anything he'd experienced or imagined. Now her soul had to be released. He swallowed with difficulty and looked up. "What do you mean she isn't Illyria?"

Leaning forward in his seat, Lorne said, "Don't glower at me like that."

"I'm not glowering." I'm glowing, Wes thought, fighting against a delirium of happiness.

"And finish your – what shall we call this? Breakfast?" Pushing a pink container across the table, the demon smacked his lips.

"I can't possibly eat an entire box of doughnuts." Wesley had to smile. Angel, presumably thinking of blood sugar, had ordered glazed jelly doughnuts for him. They were so sweet he could almost feel his teeth rotting as he ate one. He shoved the box away again, only for Gunn to slide it back.

"Sure you can. They'll make you feel a whole lot better."

Everyone was in a silly mood. Exasperated, Wesley snatched up another pastry and took a bite. He could practically hear his teeth shriek in protest. "Satisfied? Now can we stop chattering about bloody doughnuts and get back to the matter at hand? Lorne? You said she isn't Illyria."

"She isn't."

Spike wrote on a napkin, smiling to himself. "She's nervy, easily spooked," he said distractedly. "Still seems like the same Blue to me, though."

"I didn't say she was different."

A scrunched-up napkin hit Lorne in the chest. Wes turned to look at the window seat and saw Angel with one hand extended, eyes glinting mischievously. "Enough riddles, Lorne."

Laughing a little, Lorne said, "That being we call Illyria? She isn't Illyria. She never has been. It took me a while to get a good reading."

"Oh?" said Spike. "I thought you were just having fun."

Lorne grinned. "There was that too, Spikelet."

"Did you just-"

"But mainly it was because there's two auras there, bound up together. It's not easy to tell them apart."

Gunn's tenor became level and questioning. His attorney voice. "So you're saying, what, Fred and Illyria are mixed with each other?"

"A hybrid." Wesley added. He'd expected this, but still felt his doughnut-filled stomach slowly turn over.

Head tilting in acknowledgement, Lorne raised one immaculately manicured finger. "I guess you could say that. Sort of IllyriFred. Illyria's driving, but Fred's giving advice from the passenger seat, and I think she's shouting it louder all the time. Sometimes the two auras are confused. That's the best I can explain it."

It was appalling, but it made sense. Illyria. Wesley thought carefully about every word and gesture of hers. He ate another excruciatingly sweet doughnut and reread the last set of equations from her (or was it Fred's?) article. All around him, delighted confusion passed between the others.

"Fred's been here under our noses the whole time." There was a bemused smile in Angel's words.

"Yeah," Gunn said. "Like when Illyria busted me out of suburban hell."

"Indeed." Wesley didn't look up. "She claimed she did it so we'd be in her debt."

"She ever call on that?" said Spike.

"No." Turning back a page, Wes began to reread again. Something about this particular formula was interesting, and strangely recognisable. "And don't you find it odd we so readily accepted that a genderless Old One, dating back eons before the development of sexual reproduction, was female?"

"That's just it," Lorne said. "Illyria may be genderless, but the bluebird's all woman." One side of his mouth curled. "Okay, half all woman. If you see what I mean."

Actually, Wesley could see. And he was starting to understand why it had taken him until now to realise it. He shifted his attention back to the journal. This calculation was tricky. "Illyria was god-king of the Primordium, Shaper of Things. Its rule was absolute, amoral, beyond good and evil. It was as far above us as we are above a cockroach. And what happens when this inconceivable deity is resurrected? It mysteriously doesn't kill anyone, and, upon finding its army destroyed, becomes a pompous little-girl-lost with an interest in Petri dishes." Illyria's display of emotions, her automatic bonding with him, her human behaviour, her apparent desire to be Fred – all of this should have alerted him to at least the possibility that things were not as they seemed, and yet it had simply washed over him without his notice.

"Well, there was that time she killed or dusted most of us," Angel said hesitantly.

True. She'd been upset. "Earlier that day she told me betrayal was simply a word in her time, with no judgement attached to it. She admitted, however, that she was troubled by my attempt to restore Fred. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say she took it personally. What happened later was in part self-defence and in part a reaction to betrayal." Just as he had when first reading Illyria's article, Wesley felt a smile of recognition play on his lips. This time he allowed it to stay. "You say the auras are sometimes confused, Lorne. Who do we know with a passionate hatred for treachery above all other things?" Oh, wait. The calculation was actually rather simple. Yes. All one had to do was solve the bracketed section here, and this whole sequence would-

The diner was gone. Wesley was in a forest of lush and impossibly green trees. Scents alien and also familiar filled his awareness, and somewhere there was singing-

Angel looked at him, a little concerned. "Everything okay, Wes? You're not going to pass out on us again, are you?"

There were the walls of the diner, as solid as ever. It was like the transition between dream and wakefulness, but it was difficult to tell which was which. The forest had seemed real, equal to the reality around him now. At the exact moment his mind untangled the final series of equations, a world had burst into sense-shocking life. Blinking, screwing his eyes closed, Wesley inwardly swore to catch up on his sleep. He had to remain focused, for her. "I'm-I think I'm not quite myself, yet."

"Have another doughnut," Lorne said, dropping one onto Wesley's plate.

Grimacing, Wes looked at yet another lump of sugar masquerading as a bread product. He ate a piece of it anyway and smiled again. She existed. "You're receiving a commission from my dentist?"

Lorne grinned back at him. "It ain't from your image consultant, sweetie." The grin faded. "You know, you're right, and Angel's right. She was under our noses. How come we couldn't see her?" His question sobered the mood around the table. Each had his own story to tell of Fred's presence in Illyria's words and acts. Each berated himself for not picking up on it. Wesley worked his way through to the end of the article and listened to the others without comment. When he'd read the conclusion again, he closed the journal and lifted his head.

"That crap Sparrow fed me," Gunn said finally. "I just believed it."

Snorting softly, Spike dropped his pen. He folded and pocketed the napkin. "It was all a con trick."

"A cheap one," said Angel. "But if it was a cheap con, why did we fall for it?"

"Because one doesn't see the misdirection in a shell game." Everyone turned and stared at Wesley. He realised he'd raised his voice and forced his tone to become gentler. "All of us should have realised what was going on. I believe our thoughts were stage-managed by someone or something."

Several seconds of silence passed before Angel spoke, anger moulding his features. "Except that two days ago things changed, because Fred gave us the heads-up."

"All of a sudden we didn't look like sure marks anymore." One corner of Spike's mouth rose cheerlessly.

"And so whoever's running the game decided to activate the assassination squad," Wes finished, sharing a moment's understanding with the two vampires. "Quite."

Clasping his hands together, Lorne frowned. "So, who are we talking about here, the Powers?"

"Not their style," Angel said.

Gunn lapsed into his courtroom voice again. "And it doesn't fit the Senior Partners' modus operandi."

"We're on their side now, anyway." Angel's brow creased, apparently in perplexity at his own words.

"The First Evil, then," said Spike. After seeming to consider for a moment, he shook his head.

Wesley had already reached the same conclusions. There was no entity or group of entities that seemed quite right for this. Whatever was responsible must be potent enough to shape events and influence thoughts and actions, more so than anything involved in the plot to raise Jasmine. This was a new threat, perhaps more serious than any they'd faced. But it was trivial, obviously, beside the need to help Fred's soul escape from the strange cave in which it was trapped.

Angel pulled another napkin out of the dispenser, took Spike's pen, and wrote something. He handed it to Gunn.

"What's this?" Gunn said.

"The address of the Black Thorn's inner sanctum. I want you to pay a visit. There won't be a problem – the guards will know you. Go through the Circle's records. Find any references to their – to our – most serious enemies." A sad expression passed over Angel's face and he briefly looked out of the window before taking the napkin back and writing on it once more. "Look into this too, would you?" He passed the napkin to Gunn again.

The attorney read it, and his eyes widened for a moment. "I'm on it," he said.

More mysteries, even now? It didn't matter. Only one thing did. "Angel, I understand that discovering who did this to us is important, but we have to free her soul. That must be our priority."

"Agreed. How do we do it?"

The directness of the question halted Wesley in his tracks for an instant, but he quickly recovered. "I'm unsure. I think the answer is somewhere in here." He held up Modern Physics Review. "I'll need time to study this further and extend my research."

Standing, businesslike, Angel said, "Then that's your brief. Check Fred's notes. Look at whatever Illyria's been writing on the walls. Get help from the lab, if there's someone you can trust." He turned a determined glance on the demon and the other vampire. "Lorne, Spike, talk to Illyria, find something we can use. Be careful." They both nodded, but no one stirred. Angel's speech and body language took on an edge of authority. "Let's get to it, people. The night is young." Then he became a little sheepish. "Also, I'm kinda stuck in here until you move."

They rose and moved to leave, but by unspoken consent paused by the counter and formed a circle.

"For Winifred," Angel said. "This time, we get it right."