Angel stood motionless before the bodies of Charles Gunn and Wesley Wyndam-Price. Spike couldn't see his face, but he could imagine what it looked like. Probably that intense, brooding look that signified he wasn't in the mood to talk. Actually, now that he thought about it, Spike realised that Angel always seemed to get that look when he was around.
He shook himself out of his thoughts. That was just too bad for the vampire, he'd just have to deal with it.
Spike walked slowly down the stairs, still feeling a little strange. He couldn't believe how different being a vampire was from being a human! There was the whole lung/breathing thing... He might have to stop smoking... Nah. But still.
"Go away, Spike," Angel said, his voice cold. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
"That's not very nice, peaches," Spike said, grinning. "Where would I go?"
Angel turnd to face him, and Spike saw that he was right – he did have the dark, leave-me-alone-I'm-brooding look on. "Just... go," Angel snapped before turning back to Wes and Gunn. "Outside, somewhere!"
"It's weird... Being able to go into the sun again, after a hundred and twenty odd years," Spike remarked casually, coming to stand beside Angel. "Maybe you should try it sometime... Oh, that's right. You can't, because you, stupid git that you are, signed the prophecy away," he sneered.
Angel turned so fast Spike didn't see him move. "Get out!" he snarled. "Now!" He was practically shaking with anger.
"Hey, whatever you say, mate." Spike grinned again and strolled out, into the sun.
For some reason, goading Angel hadn't been as satisfying as he'd thought it would be, and now that he had left, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. Maybe he'd go pay Wolfram & Hart a visit, see what the Senior Partner's had done with the place.
A while later, Spike stood before the building that had once housed Wolfram & Hart, Attorneys at Law.
"A lot of good things happened there," he mumbled, pulling a cigarette out of his coat pocket. He fumbled for his lighter, but he couldn't find it. He'd probably lost it during that fight. Anyway. "I was ghost... That was sort of fun... Lorne lost his sleep and made Angel and Eve... Urgh... Not that funny... That sod, Lindsey... He made a fool of me... Not that funny either... Fred died, Illyria came..." he rambled on for some time before coming to the conclusion that the time he had spent in the building was not good at all. In fact, he felt a little sad about all that had happened through those vampire-safe glass windows. "What a bleeding heart I'm becoming," he grumbled under his breath and walked away, thoroughly disgusted with himself.
"Where is my guide?"
Illyria's question startled him out of his dark thoughts. He hadn't even heard or smelled her coming... But then again, she had no scent. "I don't know," he muttered, turning to face the ex-god. "He went out."
Illyria nodded slowly. "I heard you yelling. Why do being on this dimension yell when they are angry?"
"I don't know." That came out more sharply than he had intended, but he was still hurt about the deaths and Spike's fulfilling of the Shanshu Prophecy. "Why don't you go find Spike and ask him?" Angel suggested, trying to soften his voice.
"I was going to, but I thought you might know where my guide is," Illyria replied, then walked over to stand beside Wesley and Gunn's bodies. "What will you do with them?" she asked suddenly, turning. "Bury them in the ground, like you do with all your dead? Let them be a feast for the maggots that live there? That is a stupid custom. It is not a way of honoring them." With these words, she turned and walked out, leaving Angel alone once again, to contemplate her words.
Spike found himself by the docks, drawn to the old factory where that crazy Slayer, Dana, had cut off his hands. He hated this town. So many bad things had happened, mainly to him, and he wished he could leave, but where would he go? Things had seemed so much simpler when he'd been a soulless vampire. No morality questions, he could take what he wanted, do whatever he wished...
He sighed and sat on an empty crate in the shade of a warehouse. He was tired, but he hadn't been walking that far. Probably that whole humanity thing.
He laid his head back against the cold brick of the wall and found himself falling asleep.
That whole humanity... thing...
Illyria tracked her guide to Wolfram & Hart, ignoring the stares of the general Los Angeles pedestrian population as she made her way through the streets. It didn't occur to her that they were doing anything out of the ordinary by staring. Way back when, when she'd been the Big Bad, people had stared at her all the time, in awe of her power and ruthlessness. At least, they had until she'd burned a couple of worthless half-breed's eyes out.
After several more minutes of tracking, she saw that the trail led to the docks. She wondered why the half-breed-turned-human who was her guide would want to come here. She remembered, or rather, Fred remembered, finding Spike with his hands cut off, tied to some pipes. She remembered the feeling of revulsion and pity that Fred had felt, but she couldn't understand it.
The Old One found Spike sleeping against the wall. She crept up beside him and shook him. "Wake up," she said, accentuating the words with another shake.
"Wha..." Spike's eyes flew open. "Oh. Hey, love. What can I do for you?"
"You are my guide," Illyria said simply. "Guide me."
"Guide you where?" Spike asked, standing up.
Illyria paused. "You had affection for this... shell. Winifred Burkle. Did you not?"
"Yeah... You asked me that before, when I was... testing you." The man winced at the memory. He shuddered to think what would happen if she attacked him now that he was human.
"Affection like my previous guide?" Illyria asked.
"Uh... Sorry, what? Don't think I heard you right." Spike looked uncomfortable. This seemed to be headed in an all too disturbing direction.
"Affection like my previous guide," Illyria reiterated, watching him closely.
"Er – no. Can't say I did," Spike mumbled. "Hey, here's a thought: Why don't me and you just... go back to the hotel. Comfort Angel, be the good friend, you know?" Not that we ever really were good friends, Spike thought.
Illyria nodded slowly. This was interesting. She would have to probe this further, but at a later time. "Yes," she agreed, then turned and walked away. Spike had no choice but to follow.
Once Illyria was gone, Angel turned to go back upstairs to his room to brood in solitude and peace – but then he heard the doors open. He turned back around, about to say, "What do you want now?!" but stopped when he saw who stood there.
A girl of about nineteen, maybe twenty, walked through the doors toward him. "Nice place," she commented, looking around. "Not my choice, but hey." She smiled lazily. "Angel, right? Drogyn's friend, the one who killed him."
Angel blinked, a little off balance, but quickly recovered. "That's right..." he muttered. He had been trying to repress that particular incident. "But who are you? You knew Drogyn?"
"Knew him? 'Course I did. I was his apprentice."