Ten minutes after she and Spike left Xander's apartment, Illyria said: "How far are we from your Houston Street?"
"It's pronounced How-stun, pet. Fastest way to let people know you're not native's to say it like a Texas town." Illyria stared blankly at him, and Spike chuckled. "Good point. That's the least of your fitting-in problems. Shouldn't be too much longer. I think you'll like the new place. Got your own bedroom and everything."
"So I shall no longer be subjected to Gunn's tumultuous nocturnal emissions."
Spike skidded to a stop, and a second later Illyria crashed into him. He turned to her, jaw agape. "Subjected to his what?!"
"You know." Illyria crossed her arms and made several snorting sounds. "Racketous nocturnal emissions."
With a sigh of relief, Spike said, "You mean he snores. You...mean he snores, right?"
"Yes."
Even the crashing relief couldn't wipe out the disturbing mental images she had conjured for him.
They continued on in silence for a few more blocks before Illyria tugged on his jacket sleeve, a trick she'd picked up from a child they saw in a North Carolina train station. Spike braced himself, fearing the worst. Her questions often had an Anyaesque bluntness that made them embarrassing at best.
"What were you before a vampire?"
Relieved by the apparent normalcy of her question, he smiled a little and said, "Human."
She cocked her head. "Was that all?"
"Well, no." Spike drew his jacket around him. "Was also a bit of a mama's boy, bit of a ponce...and I wrote poetry."
"Poetry. Like the poem you taught me?"
"Which one is that, love?"
"Barnacle Bill the Sailor. Who's that knocking at my door," she began singing.
Spike cut her off with a gesture. Wasn't much good in her attracting attention warbling dirty sea shanties at the top of her lungs downtown at 3 a.m. Amusement factor aside. "Not quite as fun as that. Mine bent more towards the artistic. In theory, anyway. They have art in your time?"
"Darkness was its own art. The beauty in gore-flecked--"
"Meant poetry, paintings, sculpture...."
"Oh. From the primordial cesspools I drew together materials to make pieces such as that," Illyria said, pointing towards the giant black cube across the street.
Spike raised his eyebrows. "You were a sculptor?"
"This surprises you." She was already walking towards the sculpture, which gleamed black and inviting in the moonlight.
Spike trailed after her. "No. Well, yes. Sorry, pet, but you didn't strike me as the artistic type."
"I appreciate art. Even by your narrow definition." She rested a slim hand on the steel surface. "This is beautiful."
"It spins, you know. Well, needs you and a few of your drunk mates to get it going--" With an effortless shove, Illyria set the sculpture spinning on its axis. Spike had to spring back to keep from getting hit upside the head as another corner came around. "Always forget the super-strength thing."
"Hey, man, that's one strong little girl you got there," a homeless man said, shuffling past.
"Yeah, noticed that." Spike wondered how smashed the guy had to be, to be so blasé about Illyria's little display. Then he remembered: it's New York City. He had a feeling they'd all fit right in.
Well, as much as this band of freaks was gonna fit in anywhere, at any rate.
Spike managed to get the last board over the window with minutes to spare before sunrise. Not that the sun stood much of a chance against the skyscrapers, but better safe than infuego. He wasn't keen on burning to a crisp...again.
With his non-flambéing seen to, he set the hammer aside and finally took a good look around the room. For a slum in the Lower East Side, it was almost homey. A few coats of paint to cover the blood stains -- purely for Gunn's benefit, since they added that extra special touch of home for Spike -- and it would be right nice.
And, most important, it wasn't a condo in hell.
Three months and he still had trouble believing the magnificent poof was gone. News of Darla's death had reached him -- well, the first time, anyway -- and sure, he always thought she was a tough old bird, but after Romania she'd ran with a crowd likely to up and stake her at any moment anyway. So not much surprise there. And as much as he loved Dru, he wouldn't exactly be surprised to learn she'd ended up on the wrong side of a sunrise while listening to the elves of the moon or some other nonsense. But Angel? Hell, Spike figured he'd go before Angel. And okay, technically he had, but it was still odd to wrap his head around.
Of course, on his end, some things had gone just as expected. It was just Spike's luck that a guy could die, get resurrected, face down hordes of demons and cross America and still end up face to face with the spawn of Sunnyhell.
Xander hadn't looked that excited to see him, either. Spike had to grudgingly admit he liked the boy. Liked giving the boy a hard time more, but at least Xander was consistent. Spike always knew where he stood with him -- usually half a second away from the pointy end of a stake, but hey. Wasn't like certain other Sunnydale denizens. Ones who had a tendency to keep a fellow guessing, trying to figure out whether he was a shoulder to cry on, a punching bag, an enemy or a Champion.
Or all of the above simultaneously.
At least he had a good excuse to avoid her now. Can't show up at the Slayer's doorstep with the hounds of hell snapping at his heels. She deserved something resembling a normal life, and even if she wasn't gonna choose it herself -- gallivanting about Rome with the sodding Immortal for chrissakes -- he wasn't about to make matters worse by dragging his own problems with Wolfram and Hart along for a visit.
Of course, when this excuse expired, Spike was well and truly screwed.
Los Angeles -- Six Months Before
"Nice work."
Not profound, as last words go, but after everything they'd gone through together, a little recognition from the old grandsire wasn't unwelcome.
They'd made it, slightly worse for the wear. Gunn was slumped in the hotel's doorway, right where Illyria had dumped him before he got ripped limb from limb. The tactic worked, because his heart was still beating, albeit faintly. The God-King of the Western Hemisphere, meanwhile, had taken out most of her Wesley-related frustrations on some unlucky demons and was wearing their guts as garters. A sight he had to stop and take a moment to admire.
This admiration was made possible thanks to the very demon hordes who'd been sent after them. Turns out? Keeping an army of hell in your employ is all well and good, but dispatching them en masse leads mostly to in-fighting. Right after Angel slayed his sodding dragon and Spike got a few good hits in himself, the demons started turning against each other.
Twenty minutes later, it was over. Angel wiped the flecks of blood from his cheek, clapped Spike on the shoulder, and gave him an almost-proud smile. The kind of look Spike had been waiting one-hundred and twenty years for. Then he muttered his famous last words, and a second later the sky was opening to vacuum him up.
The rest was silence.
Spike didn't need a clock to tell him it was almost 8 a.m. when Charlie boy came rolling into the apartment. A more considerate roommate would give the guy his privacy, let him suss out the strange day's events in peace and quiet. It was the decent thing to do.
Luckily, Spike was none of those things.
By the time he rolled out of bed and wandered into the kitchen, Gunn was hunched over the table in front of a steaming bowl of buttered grits from the supply they'd snagged in Georgia. Spike dipped his fingers in the bowl and spooned some grits into his mouth, eliciting a disgusted snort from Gunn which he answered with a smirk.
Dropping onto the chair across from him, Spike raised an eyebrow. "And how did things play out at Casa Harris?"
Gunn gave a small smile, which he immediately stamped back out in favor of the usual somber stare. But he couldn't hide the warmth in his voice as he said, "It's good to have her back." The smile crept back, and Gunn shook his head. "Damn, it's good to have her back."
"We're sure it's her, then?"
"It's her. It's Cordelia." Slumping back in his chair and giving a sigh, Gunn ran a hand over his head and said, "I just wish I knew why she was back. She wants to know, too. It's killing her."
"Isn't there a way to tap into The Powers That Be? Even without Lorne or their great golden Champion around?"
"Naw, man. I mean, I guess it's possible, but all those connections we had, we left them back in California."
"That is untrue," came a voice from behind Spike.
Both men turned to see Illyria framed in the doorway of her room, clad only in an overlong tee-shirt. She drew an ice-kissed wrist against her forehead and gazed at them with pale eyes.
"You know something we don't know, pet?"
"Always," she replied, and Gunn chuckled. "Your Powers, they are nearby. Too close, if you ask me."
Gunn and Spike exchanged looks. Spike pushed the third chair away from the kitchen table and gave it a pat.
"Grab a seat, Blue. I think we need to have a talk."