CHAPTER TWENTY

Debatable

(October)

"Buffy, I've had a month to think about what happened, to regret what I did, and I need you to know ..."

She set down her coffee and held up a hand by way of interruption. "Angel, please don't tell me you're sorry. I've read the texts, I've heard the messages, and I get it. You're sorry, and I believe you."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

Buffy sipped at her coffee, glanced around the coffee shop where she'd, reluctantly, agreed to meet, and considered the question. Finally, her eyes settled back on Angel.

He looks terrible. Good.

"Have you been sleeping in a crypt?" she finally asked.

"The office," Angel admitted. He had dark shadows under his eyes and his face was haggard and pale. Despite his appearance, he seemed to have found time to shop for clothing, as he wore a long, black coat remarkably similar to the one destroyed by Arach.

She set the coffee cup down and leaned back in her chair. Summer had given way to fall, and she had to pull her own, faux-fur-lined, coat closer as the wind whipped through the patio of the coffee shop.

"I'm here talking to you now," she pointed out. "I'm here despite the most important moment of my campaign being only hours away, and despite the fact that I should be getting ready for tonight's debate instead of sitting here listening to you whine for forgiveness. Like I told you before, I already forgave you … kinda … when it was happening. Our not being together isn't about you being sorry or my forgiving you."

Angel leaned forward to reach for her hand, then wisely froze mid-movement when she shot an icy stare towards his fingers. He hastily pulled his arm back.

"Then tell me what it is?" he pled with haunted eyes. "What else do you want me to say?"

She shook her head, then stood. "Figure that out on your own … though it really might not make any difference." She shrugged. "It's not my problem anymore."

Buffy set the coffee mug down and began to walk away.

"Do you mind if I come to the debate tonight?" he called out. "I still have the ticket, and I … I want to be there."

I don't know what I want you to do …

She didn't turn around as she replied, "Suit yourself, but if you're not coming, give the ticket to Giles."

. . . . . . . . .

"I think you left off a zero, Buff," Willow hesitantly suggested.

Buffy closed her eyes in exasperation as she set her cue cards down. "A good or bad zero?"

Giles cleared his throat and interjected. "The cost to the Moonridge budget of adding the extra police you propose might be considered a good thing … from a certain point of view."

Buffy blanched as she glanced down at her card. "We're spending that much on police? What about schools, buses, libraries … anything else, really?"

Willow and Giles just looked at her.

"Fine," she said as she jotted a note. "People like the police. Got it." She glanced up. "This isn't boring for you guys, is it?"

"No, no, Buff," Willow replied quickly. "Anything we can do to help. This is your chance to get out there on the same stage as Wilkins and really bring him into the light."

"I'd prefer to bring him to the light of a flamethrower," Buffy muttered.

"Not a bad idea," Spike said as he wandered out of the kitchen and into the Giles's living room. He raised a glazed, jelly-filled donut to his mouth and took a large bite. Mumbling through the pastry filling his mouth, he continued, "you'll only be a few feet away from your most rcent nemesis, maybe do what you do best?" He held up a fist and made a rhythmic pumping gesture.

Both Buffys giggled at the sight, and when Spike realized what activity he appeared to be mimicking, he quickly lowered his hand.

"I was saving that!" Giles protested as he stared indignantly at the donut Spike held. "And, Spike, need I remind you that we can't attack Wilkins, not directly … we have all accepted the protection of the truce Illyria brokered, and we are bound by its terms. Break them, and Wolfram & Hart will come for us, and when that happens the Powers, and everyone else, will think that our enemies are justified in doing so."

Spike shrugged and took another bite. "Suit yourself."

Giles's responsive scowl darkened the room.

"We'll beat Wilkins on election day," Buffy said confidently. "At which point, he'll either leave town, or …"

"Kill us all?" Spike asked as he leaned against the wall. "That's what you were going to say, right?"

"Spike," the younger Buffy said as she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him.

Spike held up his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Since we're brainstorming here, what if … and this is a big 'if' … you don't win the election Buffy? Wilkins does whatever water voodoo he has planned with that Valknut carving and now we're in a right pickle, aren't we?" He glanced around. "What's the contingency?"

"My winning is the contingency," Buffy said through gritted teeth.

"Hope the truce holds?" Willow added. When Buffy shot her an angry glare, Willow hastily continued, "I expect Buff to win, of course, but regardless, Wilkins will probably hold to the truce's terms … probably …"
"Unless he won't need Wolfram & Hart anymore," Spike suggested.

Nobody had a ready reply to that.

Buffy picked up her cards. "Next talking point: my plan to improve the attitudes of clerks working at City Hall. Who wants to hear about it?"

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, they all replied in the affirmative.

. . . . . . . . .

The very nice woman applying a television-friendly coating of make-up flinched when Buffy leapt to her feet. In the light-ringed mirror set in the wall in front of her, Richard Wilkins's smiling face had appeared in the doorway.

He wouldn't try to kill me in City Hall … would he?

"Whoa, calm down there, little lady," Wilkins said. He held up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "I'm just here to say good luck, and remember, this debate is just politics. Whatever is said, no hard feelings."

Buffy kept her eyes glued to the mirror as she sat back down. The make-up artist resumed her work, and Buffy did her best to ignore the powder brush sweeping across her cheeks as she replied, "No hard feelings? There is nothing I'd like more than to give you a hard feeling."

That didn't come out right.

Wilkins pursed his lips in surprise and shot her a questioning look.

"You know what I meant," she managed to stammer.

Wilkins was dressed in a dark gray suit, wore a neat red tie, and his salt and pepper-streaked red hair was perfectly parted. With his saccharine smile he looked every inch the friendly politician, but Buffy knew better.

People need to see who you really are.

Wilkins walked forward, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to lay a hand on her shoulder. Instead, he leaned down slightly and whispered, "I heard about some excitement at your sister's place last month. Shame about that."

Buffy's jaw tightened as he stared at him in the mirror.

"I imagine you had to find a new attorney?" she retorted.

He nodded. "I did, and quite a hullaballoo your sister's ex caused over at Wolfram & Hart." He leaned in closer still. " Maybe you should really think about how much time you're spending away from your loved ones. Why, Ms. Summers, you're so busy worrying about me, what's going to happen when little Dawnie's ex …"

"Don't call my sister that," Buffy snapped. "In fact, how about you don't talk about my family or friends, at all?"

Wilkins smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes as he continued, "Have you given any thought to what's going to happen when your sister's ex comes back? He's no longer part of Wolfram & Hart, and when he returns, oh, I have a feeling you'll have fires to put out that have nothing to do with me." His whisper became conspiratorial. "It's not too late for your little team to pack up and leave. There are places in this world where nobody will notice your presence. Find a quiet spot and patch things up with your boyfriend, maybe settle down? You're not getting any younger."

"Sounds like you're afraid of us," Buffy replied. "And I like the sound of that." She decided that two could play Wilkins's game. "Sorry about that break-in at your new store last month. Pity. I hope nothing too difficult to replace was stolen … did you try filing a police report?"

Wilkins's eyes hardened and his lips tightened, just for a moment, then the fleeting signs of anger vanished.

Pissed you off that time, didn't I, Dick?

"No matter," he said nonchalantly as he stepped back and stood upright. "There'll be plenty of time to clean up this town once I'm mayor, and I'm already drawing up a list of, how shall I put this, problem spots."

Buffy brushed away the cosmetician, turned towards Wilkins, and said, "I must say, I'm surprised by what I'm hearing from you tonight. Leave town? Insinuating that my sister might come to harm in the very near future? Making ominous threats about 'problem spots' that need to be cleaned up? These sound like threats, Dick, and I seem to recall that somewhere in all that paperwork we signed before appearing for this debate was a promise that we would be respectful and polite towards each other." She held a finger to her chin, stared at the ceiling, and pretended to think. "I also recall that you once said you had to win this election fair and square, right? Is coming in here and trying to throw me off my game with threats, in violation of the rules you agreed to, fair?" She pointed at him. "Keep breaking the rules, and maybe even if you win, it won't matter to whatever spell you're cooking up, cause you cheated."

When Wilkins stepped back and cleared his throat, she knew her words had struck home.

And now I know something I didn't before. Got you, you smug bastard.

Joshua appeared in the doorway behind Wilkins. He had combed his red-blond hair, for once, and his green eyes sparkled in the light of the hallway. He wore a long black coat, and idly Buffy wondered if he shopped at the same place as Angel. They both certainly seemed to trail gloom in their wake most of the time.

For some reason, the sight of Joshua worried her more than Wilkins.

Probably because I trust his restraint a lot less than I trust Wilkins's … Giles's car can attest to that slaypire's short fuse.

She found herself instinctively wishing Angel was there, then immediately felt simultaneously disgusted and irritated at the intrusive thought.

Willkins stepped into the hallway and his tone grew ingratiating, "Like I said, good luck out there, and no hard feelings."

He shot her a vacant smile, then he left.

"Everything alright?" the make-up artist asked.

Buffy nodded her head and sat back down. "Everything is fine."

. . . . . . . . .

"I feel like we should have popcorn," Oz announced as he stretched his arm around Willow's neck and shoulders. "Anyone else want popcorn?"

"The debate's about to start," Olivia replied as she rubbed Giles's knee and glanced at his face. "Are you sure we couldn't have gotten tickets?"

Giles shook his head. "Buffy only received a few, she thought her sister and 'daughter' should be there for appearances sake, and the rest went to civic donors."

"I think we've got a pretty good seat right here," Willow said as she lay a hand on her

distended abdomen and rested her head against Oz's arm.

"Not that I really to go or anything, but I think I deserve a ticket over Angel," Spike grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Olivia, Giles, Oz and Willow silently stared at him in unison.

"What?" he protested. "Angel sitting up there next to Dawn and Buffy's supposed daughter … like he's family … given the situation, it just feels weird." As nobody replied, Spike turned back to the television and settled into the cushions. "I'm just saying, is all."

Giles's expression of disapproval was plainly evident as he shook his head at Spike, removed his glasses, and began to clean them.

"I think the moderator is about to take the podium," Olivia said in a tone of nervous eagerness.

"I hope I have time to go the bathroom," Willow replied as she struggled to rise to her feet. "My bladder has shrunk to the size of a toddler's."

"Do you need help?" Oz asked.

Willow patted him on the arm and shook her head. "I'm good."

They listened to the moderator's opening remarks, then a pre-recorded montage on the importance of voting, and finally Buffy and Wilkins had just appeared on stage when Oz heard a plaintive shout.

All heads turned to watch as he scrambled past the couch, down the hall, and yanked open the bathroom door to find Willow hunched over the sink, her face wracked with pain. He glanced down and saw a pool of viscous, murky fluid lying on the tile between her legs.

"My water broke," she informed him.

"The baby's not due for another three weeks!" Oz replied as his panicky voice reached an uncommonly high pitch.

"Well, sweetheart, I think our daughter is in a hurry to meet us."

. . . . . . . . .

She found the sensation of touching Richard Wilkins's clammy hand loathsome, worse than any of the myriad undead creatures she had come across in her years of slaying, but she nonetheless forced a smile to her lips, walked across the stage of the City Hall auditorium, and extended her arm in the required formality. The suit Buffy wore was a starched, somber grey, the sensibly heeled pumps and matching thin leather belt were black, and she desperately hoped that the make-up gal had applied enough powder to keep her from sweating.

The lights were blinding as she walked to her podium, lowered the microphone so that it was not pointed directly at her forehead, and stared into the crowd. The sight of Dawn and Xander, sitting hand in hand, brought an actual smile to her lips. Her younger self, play-acting as her daughter, sat on one side, and on the other side …

Angel.

He'd asked, and she'd done her best to not think about whether or not she actually wanted him there, or didn't want him there. The sight of him didn't help matters, as she immediately felt conflicting thoughts on the subject. She took a deep breath, focused, tried to ignore the crowd, and fixed her gaze on the moderator standing at the podium halfway between hers and Wilkins's.

I'm ready … I think.

. . . . . . . . .

Angel sat up taller to get a better look at Buffy as she settled in behind the podium, then glanced about the auditorium. Every seat was taken, and while the crowd behind him was shadowed, enormous klieg lights illuminated the stage. Several men wearing headsets panned large television cameras across the stage while others leaned over monitors and fiddled with an endless array of buttons and switches. Buffy looked amazing in her dark gray suit, Wilkins seemed his usual smarmy self, and Angel found it difficult to believe that instead of fighting him in some hell dimension or back-alley temple, she was going to debate him. It seemed somewhat surreal.

He gazed over at Xander, who … as had often been the case over the past month … seemed entirely lost in his own thoughts. Dawn and teen Buffy were staring, enraptured, at the stage. Several stagehands held up large placards with the word 'silence' printed upon them, the moderator cleared his throat into the microphone, and Angel settled back in his chair to watch.

The first few minutes passed by in a blur. The act of moderation, the moderator informed them all in a calm, stern tone, required neutrality. He was there merely to enforce the rules of the debate, to announce the topics to be discussed, and the candidates would each have their chance to address the matter at hand. Buffy and Wilkins were reminded … chided really … to not speak over each other, to allow the other their allotted time, and to follow various other rules. The candidates would alternate the order of response to each topic, and to decide who would speak first, the moderator announced he would flip a coin.

"Ms. Summers, why don't you do the honors," the moderator asked.

"Heads," Buffy replied.

The coin flashed silver in the air, landed upon the stage, bounced a few times, and then came to a stop … upright, standing on its edge.

The audience stared in surprised silence at the unexpected sight.

Wilkins head moved, just a fraction of an inch, and the coin fell over.

"Heads!" the moderator announced.

Wilkins smiled graciously and gestured towards Buffy. "Ladies first."

Here we go.

"Ms. Summers, there will be plenty of time tonight to talk specifics," the moderator intoned, "but I thought perhaps we'd start with a broader, more personal question: why do you want to be mayor of Moonridge?"

Buffy's responsive smile was incandescent as she replied, "I'm glad you asked that, because if there's one thing that I want the people of Moonridge to remember from tonight, it's that I'm running for mayor not because I want to be mayor … I mean, don't get me wrong, I do want to be mayor … but because Moonridge needs me to be mayor." She took a deep breath and continued, "This community, this city, it's hurting. It's in danger. You know it, I know it, we all know it. Pretending that the problem will go away if you just blame the right people, like Richard Wilkins not so subtly suggests, isn't going to do anything but drive us apart."

"And you believe you're capable of protecting the people of Moonridge?" Richard Wilkins interrupted.

There were a few whispers and gasps of surprise at the interruption.

"Please, Mr. Wilkins," the moderator interjected, "allow Ms. Summers to finish."

Wilkins held up his hand in a mollifying gesture. "My apologies."

"I absolutely am," Buffy affirmed in a clear, confident voice. "Helping keep people safe is what I do … it's all I've done my entire life." She looked over the audience. "Whether it was in Sunnydale, whether it was here in Moonridge, whether it was when I spent nearly a decade as a guidance counselor, wherever I've been, I've worked to keep people safe, to keep away the things …" she shot a glance towards Wilkins, "that would do us harm. I consider it my calling."

Angel heard a few doubting murmurs from the crowd, but, he suspected, none were from people who had once lived in Sunnydale.

They would remember Buffy, and now she just needs them to tell everyone else what they remember.

"Mr. Wilkins," the moderator said as he gestured towards the other side of the stage. "Your answer to the question previously posed?"

"Thank you," Wilkins said. "I don't believe in 'callings,' or being 'born' for anything, and I certainly believe that this town deserves more than vague promises from an unemployed, former guidance counselor who was fired from Moonridge High School due for reasons that appear to be unexplained on any of her campaign websites. Running for mayor appears to be Ms. Summers's only job, and it has been for a long time now."

The murmurs and whispers rose in volume at the vehemence of Wilkins's words.

Buffy flushed for a moment, then she regained her composure and leaned forward towards the microphone.

She was waiting for him to say something like that.

"And what I can't seem to find on any of your websites, Mr. Wilkins," Buffy announced, "is any indication that you've ever worked a job in your life, ever." She held up her arms in a mocking gesture of confusion. "In fact, in addition to never having been employed, you never seem to have held a political office or even campaigned until now, and if you've even graduated high school, nobody has a record of it, anywhere. Seems to me like you've been living your entire life eating from the privileged silver spoon provided to you by your late father, who, unlike you, actually was an accomplished politician."

The auditorium erupted with the noise as the audience turned to each other in conversation, and the sight of Wilkins struggling to find a suitable reply while simultaneously controlling his anger was a sight Angel found delicious beyond words.

He can't tell anyone the truth.

The truth was that Richard Wilkins IV was a lie, a fake with no background whatsoever in this dimension. Buffy had neatly caught Wilkins in a trap he hadn't seen coming because, in his mind, he was still the one and only Richard Wilkins, former mayor of Sunnydale.

"Order, please!" the moderator pled as he raised his hand and looked about. "Ms. Summers, just as I told Mr. Wilkins, I ask that you wait your turn."

Buffy nodded and leaned back from the microphone.

The smile returned to Wilkins's face as he recovered. "My father died a hero."

As the audience fell silent, it was all Angel could do not to burst out laughing.

Wilkins continued, "He died a hero, trying to help students escape a … a terrorist attack by deranged lunatics. I learned everything I know about civic duty from my father, and he's the reason I'm the man I am today." He pointed at Buffy. "While I have been working to bring business to this town, to restore order in the wake of the horrible atrocity that befell Mayor Ritter, and to try to provide some desperately needed leadership, what has she been doing?"

"I can tell you I haven't been spending all year lording my wealth from a castle on high," Buffy interrupted. "That is where you live, right Richard? That castle up on the hill? With nice high walls so you don't have to worry about any of the crime that's ruining our city?"

The audience once more erupted into conversation, and the cameramen began glancing at each other as the moderator stood and waved his arms in an attempt to regain control of the debate.

Wilkins shouted the moderator down as he pulled the microphone closer to his increasingly flushed face, "And where have you been living, Ms. Summers? With your daughter, who you abandoned years ago?" He pointed at Angel. "Or maybe you've been shacking up with that gentleman, who isn't your husband, I might add, and who runs a detective agency that just so happens to be profiting from the very crime that you claim you to want to stop? Why, you wouldn't want to put your own boyfriend out of work, would you? He's the only one of the two of you that's working."

The audience erupted in conversation once more, and this time shouting could be heard. The moderator watched in frustration as stagehands again walked in front of the crowd and displayed the large 'silence' placards.

I don't care if I'm on television, I want a piece of that son of a bitch.

Angel gripped the armrests and began to rise.

Xander, showing signs of life for the first time, reached out and put his hand on Angel's shoulder.

"Don't," Xander said as he fixed his mismatched gaze on Angel. "This is Buffy's fight, not yours."

Angel reluctantly nodded and settled back down in his chair.

When the audience had settled back down, the moderator cleared his throat and reproachfully addressed the entire auditorium. "I would remind the candidates, and also all of you assembled here today, that this is a debate, not a free-for-all." He flipped through the paperwork, for a moment, then looked at Richard Wilkins. "Mr. Wilkins, it will be your turn to reply first. Since apparently you and your opponent are extremely eager to discuss each other, I ask you this: How will Moonridge be different with you as mayor, as opposed to Ms. Summers?"

"Another excellent question," Wilkins replied. Angel didn't think it was his imagination that a light sheen of sweat glistened on Wilkins's forehead beneath the lights. "Ms. Summers's websites, her commercials, every appearance that she has made, she has put the question to Moonridge as to what they can do, what they can sacrifice, in order to help those around them." Wilkins's smile returned in full force. "My philosophy on governance is entirely different. Moonridge deserves politicians who will work hard, who will do whatever needs to be done, who will sacrifice of themselves whatever they must, so that you, the people of Moonridge, can be comfortable, can rest easy, so that burdens are borne by others, not by you." He gestured at the crowd as he continued, "You need politicians who ask themselves what they can do for you, not what you can for them." Wilkins pointed across the stage at Buffy. "Do you want a mayor who tells you our problems are difficult and that you're going to have to work to solve them, or do you want to be led by someone who knows what needs to be done and plans on taking care of it for you?"

"Thank you," the moderator announced. "Ms. Summers, your response?"

"Thank you," Buffy said with a sweet smile. "What Richard Wilkins is asking, what he's been asking during his entire campaign, is whether you want to elect a mayor who will tell you the lies that you want to hear, or who will tell you the truth?"

I am so proud of you.

She continued, "Sunnydale and its politicians tried to ignore, or sweep under the rug, the horrors that were happening every night, and the result was that Sunnydale got more of the same." She jammed her finger against the podium. "That sort of attitude has to end. Moonridge … you … deserve better. You deserve who won't pretend they can wave a magic wand and solve all of our problems." She looked over the crowd, and Angel could sense that the mood was turning, that she was reaching them. "Moonridge needs me. Just like Sunnydale needed me, and those of you who are new to the area, or maybe those of you who would just prefer to forget, just ask around." Buffy raised her finger from the podium and pointed at Richard Willkins. "I've been here the entire time, helping, and where has he been? Moonridge has real problems, and we need real solutions, and that man," she gestured at Wilkins again, "has no solutions because he's part of the problem."

"And what are your solutions," Wilkins interrupted. He waved down the moderator and continued. "Ultraviolet lights installed throughout Moonridge, curfews, community patrols, radically increased police budget … when you've lived your life as a hammer, Buffy Summers, everything looks like a nail, doesn't it?"

Buffy rotated away from her microphone to stare at him. "Not everything, no."

She looked Richard Wilkins up and down, and her message was clear.

Not everything in Moonridge is a nail in need of hammering, but you certainly are … Dick.

Angel breathed deeply as a realization struck him.

She is going to win.

. . . . . . . . .

Angel waited until Buffy had finished receiving congratulations from her younger self, Xander, and Dawn before he finally spoke. "Buffy," he said hesitantly, "you were amazing, really."

Everyone turned to stare at him, and Angel could tell they were waiting to see how Buffy would react to his presence.

"Thank you," Buffy said after a delay that had just begun to grow uncomfortable. "I … I mean it. Thank you." She opened her mouth as if she had more to say, then closed it, and her eyes were sad as she stared at him.

"Well," he said sheepishly as he began to back away, "I just wanted to let you know, great job." He gave her a thumbs up gesture, then when he realized how ridiculous it had to look, he immediately lowered his arm.

Buffy fought back a laugh for a moment, then she gave in and chuckled.

Angel turned to go.

"Angel," Buffy called out.

He quickly whirled around.

"Thank you for coming," she said, and her voice had some warmth to it for the first time in over a month. "Really, it meant a lot."

He waited to see if she would ask him to stay, but when she didn't, he decided to simply appreciate the possibility that progress had been made and to give Buffy her space.

"No problem."

He smiled, then began navigating his way through the crowd. When he reached his car, he sat in grim silence and contemplated the depressing notion of another night spent on the couch in his office.

Maybe Xander's right and I should get a motel room.

The problem with getting a motel room was that it would represent an admission to himself that Buffy wasn't, at least any time soon, going to call and tell him to come home. He wasn't yet ready to face that reality.

I don't think I ever will be.

He was just about to press the ignition when he felt his phone buzz.

I thought I turned that off?

For a second he considered ignoring the text, then it occurred to him that it might be Buffy. He reached into his pocket and feverishly searched for his cell. Upon grasping it, he stared at the screen and checked the incoming number.

What the hell is that?

It wasn't a phone number displayed on his phone but rather a cascading series of symbols that struck Angel as decidedly occult in origin.

He hesitantly accepted the call.

"Hello?"

"Angel?" a voice he had not heard in roughly two decades sounded in his ear. Freed from seeing her purple skinned, blue-eyed, demonic face, it was easier to imagine that he was speaking to Fred. "Angel, I have been informed that we will be able to converse with this device. The ringing sound has stopped, and you may now speak with me."

Illyria … just what I need.

"Illyria," he said. "It's been a long time."

"It has indeed, father of Connor."

Angel tried not to audibly sigh on the phone. "Just Angel is fine."

"As you wish, Angel, father of Connor."

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "What can I do for you, Illyria."

When the phone went silent for a few moments, Angel couldn't decide if he'd lost the signal from whatever hell dimension Illyria was currently occupying, or if the Old One wearing Fred's face was actually at a loss for words.

"I … I do not necessarily wish for you to do anything," Illyria finally replied. "I merely wished to speak with you." Angel waited patiently through another long pause, and this time he was certain that Illyria was struggling to communicate whatever was on her mind. "I desired to speak about … whatever might be happening … or how you … how you are."

Angel blinked a few times. "You want to catch up? Is that what you're telling me?"

"I am unsure."

"Well," Angel said, "I remember hearing that you promised Connor that you'd look into Wilkins's affiliation with Wolfram & Hart, and I don't suppose you spared time from lording over your private little corner of hell to do us that favor?"

"You are referring to the being who once Ascended to become the embodiment of Olvikan?"

"Richard Wilkins, formerly mayor of Sunnydale, yes," Angel confirmed.

"None with whom I have spoken seem to understand his motivation. In fact, they find it odd that he would seek to affiliate himself with us."

"I mean," Angel replied, "you guys are evil, he's evil, what isn't there to like?"

"He does not like me," she informed him. "Olvikan and I were rivals in the time before the rise of man, and he would neither have been pleased at my resurrection nor wish to associate himself with any cabal with which I am affiliated." She paused a moment, then continued, and Angel almost thought he heard worry in her voice, "If Olvikan threatens you now, I advise you and your loved ones to leave your current habitations and seek safety elsewhere."

Asking her to investigate office politics is like asking a Neanderthal to program a VCR.

"Wilkins isn't Olvikan," Angel reminded Illyria. "He's just Richard Wilkins, regular old human."

"Regardless, he poses a danger. My offer for you to join the ranks of my Army of Doom, along with all of your friends and loved ones, has not been withdrawn, Angel, father of Connor. There is a place for you by my side, if you wish it."

Angel noted that left unsaid was whether she wished it, though by the faint note of eagerness in her voice, he had a feeling she wished it very much, and that realization bothered him immensely.

"Darn it, Illyria," he said in a grim, serious tone, "I was just beginning to tolerate this conversation and then you have to go and remind me that you're all about building your Army of Doom. I remember when you and I were working together to defeat an army of doom, and then when I think about that, I start to also remember how you killed one of my best friends, stole her body, and try to deny that what's left of her is now part of you." Angel paused for a moment, then continued, "You know, now that I think about it, all sorts of unpleasant memories are flooding back the longer that I listen to your voice.

"Angel, I had forgotten during these long years apart of your irksome manner of communicating in a way that foments unwelcome sensations within me."

He couldn't help himself, he laughed into the receiver. "Unwelcome sensations? You mean emotions, Illyria? Emotions like guilt, for betraying me and going over to our enemy? The same enemy that murdered people we loved?"

"I find it tedious that we needs repeat this conversation," Illyria said in a maddeningly dispassionate manner. "We fought together for many months, and you acquitted yourself well, but our combined might could not defeat the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. I accepted their offer of an alliance to prevent … to prevent …"

"To prevent what, Illyria?"

"I preferred to not witness your death, Angel, or the deaths of those you care about, so I did what was necessary. If you had listened, you might have understood."

He grinned as he stared out the windshield. "Illyria, that almost sounded human. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Of all mortals on this plane only you could insult me in such an infuriating manner."

He was about to disagree with her description of him, then he remembered.

I'm mortal now.

"You flatter me," he said with a smirk he knew she couldn't see.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Illyria sigh in exasperation. "You are alive, your friends are alive, and the truce I brokered made this possible. Why must there be this discord between us?"

"Well, for one, Wolfram & Hart has allied itself with Richard Wilkins, a man who I am pretty sure is trying to kill us. Then there is what you did to Wesley and Gunn's bodies …"

"Their loss pained me," she interrupted him. "Having some part of them by my side makes the hurt less grievous. You know this."

"You sold out everything Wesley and Gunn died for so that you could turn them into those abominations, those corpse-slaves. Animated flesh with no souls or will of their own. You're stuck on the 'denial' stage of grief, Illyria, and that isn't healthy."

"How dare you," Illyria hissed at him.

"How dare you!"

He could hear leather creak against stone as Illyria undoubtedly shifted on some monstrous throne she'd erected in some dark corner of her nightmare world. "This is not what I wished. I had hoped that we could speak and that perhaps you would be desirous of once again sharing my presence."

"Illyria, we're not going to hug and make-up until you realize that you have done things that are wrong and try to make them right."

Hugs?" Illyria asked in a puzzled tone. "Why would I have need of such a thing? Although I will admit that certain memories of physical contact with Wesley engenders particularly strong sensations that I find myself ill-equipped to deal with."

Time to change the subject.

"Illyria," he began again, "we've talked. I don't hate you, not anymore, but nothing between us will change if you don't change."

"What would you have of me?" Illyria asked. "Although you aggravate and enrage me, I find that I do not want this animosity you have towards me to continue."

Help us!" Angel exclaimed. "Dig harder, try to figure out what Richard Wilkins … Olvikan … is doing. If there is something you can do to help us win this war, do it. If you can tell us where Arach is hiding, or make him answer for what he did to Xander, Dawn, and the rest of us, then …"

Illyria, for the first time in the conversation, voiced strong emotion as she interrupted.

And that emotion sounded suspiciously like concern.

"What name did you just say?"

"Arach," Angel replied. "Does it mean anything to you? Willow and Giles can't find any demonic species or god by that name."

"How do you know that name?"

"He was masquerading as one of your attorneys and ruining my friends' lives in the process." Upon feeling a buzzing sensation, Angel pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the incoming text.

Illyria's voice was heated when she spoke again, "Angel, you should come to me. Immediately."

Angel barely heard Illyria as he stared wide-eyed at the message on his phone.

Willow isn't due for three more weeks!

"Illyria," he said as he returned to the call. "I have to go. If you want to help, then help, and you know my terms. Otherwise, just leave us alone."

"Angel …" was the last word he heard from Illyria before he ended the message.

He briefly wondered if his presence at the hospital would be appreciated, then decided they'd have to physically throw him out before he'd miss being there to congratulate Willow and Oz. Besides … Giles had to have calmed down by now …

Right?

A vision of himself, miniature black coat and all, hopping around as a frog rose unbidden in his imagination.

. . . . . . . . .

"Is what you are planning wise?" the Revenant that wore Wesley's face asked. "Arach hates you, and if you leave this place, he will come for you."

The Charles Gunn Revenant spoke next, "I agree with my counterpart's concern … what good can come of departing Vahla Ha'nesh? Your army of doom grows stronger every year, the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart stay out of your affairs so long as you stay out of theirs, and you need neither the succor nor company of those who have spurned you."

Illyria whipped her head towards the creature that wore the face of Charles Gunn. "Succor? That is not how the human you once were spoke, and you should know that."

"We are as you have made us," the Wesley Revenant reminded her. "We exist only as extensions of your will."

"I do not need you to tell me that!" Illyria roared.

Every demon near the throne immediately scampered away in a panic at the uncharacteristic display of emotion. Within seconds, Illyria could find no other beings, with the exception of the two Revenants that flanked her, within sight of the throne,

The Revenants, attuned to her moods as always, hastily changed the subject.

"The Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart should have told you about Arach's infiltration of our ranks," the Wesley Revenant informed her, "that they did not is a sign that they either do not respect you, or they do not fear you. Perhaps both."

Illyria found herself, without meaning to, crossing her arms in annoyance. "I do not need you to tell me that, either."

"You know what Arach is, and you know why he wishes you dead," the Gunn Revenant added in its calm, emotionless voice. "Until that threat is dealt with, you should remain here."

"No," Illyria said.

The Revenants merely stared at her.

"I will wait, though," she continued. "I will depart this plane for the city known as Moonridge only when the time is right."

"And when will the time be right?" the Wesley Revenant asked in a tone that pantomimed a human expressing genuine curiosity.

In a petulant, almost childish manner, Illyria replied, "I want to afford Angel a chance to call me back, first."