Spike's repeat of his grand entrance from the year before was somewhat marred by the fact that he was completely plastered. Instead of swaggering out of his '58 Dodge Desoto, he fell out and landed ungracefully on the asphalt. His visit to the factory, where he found several of Drusilla's dolls (now charred like everything else in the place), did nothing to improve his violent depression. But he hadn't just come back to Sunnydale to mope. Angelus was going to pay for taking Dru away from him.
He spent the day at the factory, then made his way drunkenly to Crawford Street once the sun had set. When he arrived at the mansion, however, the windows were dark. He staggered across the courtyard and looked through one, but nobody was there. "Not here, are you?" he slurred. "Then where've you gone off to? Not dead, I know that. You don't think I'll find you? I'll show you who's the…cool guy." He turned, intending to find his car again, but hadn't gone two steps before he tripped over one of the cement flowerbeds and landed face-first on the ground.
[o]
Wesley was now nearing the end of his third week of delivering blood to Angelus, and his long unsated curiosity was beginning to wear thin on his patience. Even so, he was reluctant to disturb the perpetual melancholia the vampire seemed to be in by asking him questions about his past and his motives—out of respect for his feelings, a voice in his head pointed out mockingly. When he tried to contradict this and could not, he realized with a jolt that it was true. He had observed far more humanity than demonic behavior from Angelus, and without being conscious of it, he had started to see him as an equal; a fellow human being—in spite of everything he had read, and material like that wasn't easily discounted. Even giving him his blood in bottles instead of bags contributed to the illusion that he was just another bloke.
To Wesley's further surprise, he actually found himself pitying Angelus: alone, chained in a dungeon, and only not starving because he, Wesley, thought he'd be more forthcoming on a full stomach. He picked up the Claddagh ring from his desk and looked at it. Its existence, if not its role in Angelus's return from Hell, was beginning to make sense. If Angelus had behaved the same way as he did now when he was not imprisoned—during those long, unrecorded years, perhaps—then Wesley could sort of see how a sympathetic and kind-hearted woman may have come to care for him, and if he cared for her in return, he might have given her the ring. But if that were true, what had the ring been doing on the floor in that mansion?
There was nothing for it. Whether he respected Angelus's feelings or not, his own speculations were not enough. He was going to have to get to the bottom of this and that meant he would have to do more than switch out the bottles of blood when he went down there later that day. Wesley looked at the ring for another long moment before putting it back on his desk, collecting his briefcase and blazer, and leaving the flat.
[o]
Spike was awoken the next day by his hand catching fire in the morning sunlight. With a yell of pain, he leapt up, ran to the fountain, and plunged the burning appendage into the water. But in doing so, he had walked into several other rays of sunlight. With another shout, he pulled his duster over his head and made a mad dash for his car and threw himself within its blacked-out confines. The moment of danger past, he spotted his half-empty liquor bottle and poured equal amounts down his throat and on the ugly red burn on his hand.
Well, that had gone brilliantly, he thought. Time for a different attack plan. He was going to make Angelus suffer, but first, he needed to find his bastard of a grand-sire. And he knew just the way to kill both of those birds with the same stone.
Considering that Spike was still very drunk, unable to use both hands, and only had about ten square inches of windshield through which he could actually see, it was quite a miracle that he managed to get all the way to the magic shop across town without causing a pileup. After leaving his car in the shadowy alley behind the shop, he went in through the back door, spotted a shelf full of spellbooks, and began rummaging through its contents.
"Did you come in through the back?" asked the rather bewildered shopkeeper upon catching sight of him.
"Yeah," he said, turning to face her. "I need a tracking spell. And a curse."
"A what?" she asked. She wished she hadn't come so close; the man reeked of liquor and cigarettes.
"A curse!" he repeated in exasperation. "You know, something nasty." He thought for a moment. "Boils! I wanna give him boils all over his face. You know, dripping pustules. Let's really go for the gusto here."
"I'm hearing a lot of negative energy," said the shopkeeper, who was now trying to come up with a polite way of getting rid of him, "and I bet—"
Spike wasn't listening to her. "Leprosy!" he said decisively. "Alright, a spell that makes his parts fall off. That sounds proper." He scowled, too incensed to smirk with pleasure at the idea of making "the one with the angelic face" look like a half-rotted corpse.
"We don't carry...leprosy," said the shopkeeper uncomfortably. She was rescued from her awkward half of the conversation by the tinkle of the bell at the front door. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" she said, but, happy for an excuse to get away from this unpleasant customer, she didn't wait for an answer before going to greet the anxious-looking redhead who had just entered.
Spike, recognizing the redhead as one of the Slayer's friends, moved farther into the shadows of the back of the shop to eavesdrop without her noticing him.
"Blessed be," said the shopkeeper. "Anything in particular I can help you find?"
"Yeah," said Willow, holding up a notepad and showing it to the shopkeeper. "It's all here on the list. Skink root, essence of rose thorn, canary feathers..."
The shopkeeper interrupted her with a knowing smile. "Aha!" she said. "A love spell. Want that old lover to come back to you?" At these words, Spike began to pay much closer attention. "Are you sure you know what you're doing, hon?"
Willow became visibly flustered. "No. Oh, I mean, yes! I—I know how to do a love spell, but this is more of an anti-love spell. Yeah. Uh, kind of a de-lusting? The supplies are basically the same, right?"
"Basically," said the shopkeeper, moving to the shelves to gather ingredients. "Although, raven feathers tend to breed a little more discontent than canary. Let me just get some things..."
Spike watched them complete their transaction, his desire for revenge forgotten as a much more satisfying plan formed in his mind. Finally, the redhead left with another tinkle of the bell, and the shopkeeper reluctantly came back over to him.
"So, did you find a spell book?" she asked.
Spike emerged from behind the bookcase in full vamp face and seized her by the neck. "Forget the book," he said as she gasped in terror. He pulled her against him and sank his fangs into her throat. Her legs gave out and he went down with her, still hungrily draining her blood. When he was finished, he looked up at the door through which Willow had gone. "I just got a better idea."
[o]
When Wesley opened his cell door that day, Angel finally identified what had been missing for at least a week. There was no longer any fear on his scent. Angel didn't have time to think about what that could mean, however, before Wesley was walking towards him. He came to a halt a good six feet closer to him than either he or Smith had ever come before—the exceptions being the times when Smith had come close enough to hit and kick him—and held out the new bottle of blood.
Angel stared at it, then looked up at Wesley, surprised. "A little closer than minimum safe distance there, aren't you?" he said, reaching up to take the bottle.
"Am I?" asked Wesley. He had not retreated after Angel took the bottle, but continued to stand politely just beyond Angel's personal space but easily within the area in which his chains would permit him to move. "I don't believe that matters."
"Doesn't it?" said Angel. Slowly, he got to his feet to look Wesley directly in the eyes. Even though Wesley was slightly taller than him, it was still quite an intimidating move, but Wesley remained where he was and held Angel's gaze determinedly.
"When you were fighting Erebus, you saved that student. It was the perfect opportunity to go on a killing spree, which, indeed, Erebus seemed to realize. But instead of taking that opportunity, you chose to kill him, and, in doing so, placed yourself back in the hands of the Council."
"I would have been outnumbered fifty to one," said Angel, shrugging. "Not generally the kind of odds I'd call favorable, no matter how strong I am. If I had let Erebus kill that kid, we both would've had crossbow bolts through our hearts before he could even finish draining him. It wasn't much of a choice. So what makes you think I won't kill you now? I mean—it might be because of you that I'm not being starved anymore, but what's in your veins would still make one hell of a better meal than cold pig's blood."
"Perhaps," said Wesley, calmly pushing his glasses farther up on his nose. "But I think we both know that for days—if not full weeks, it has been quite within the range of your abilities to free yourself from these chains. You could have killed me well before now, taken my keys, and escaped. Obviously, you haven't."
"Could you possibly be giving me the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?" asked Angel incredulously.
"Wesley," he corrected, starting to smile. "And yes, I am."
Angel blinked. He hadn't expected for Wesley to call his bluff at all, let alone with this much resolve. "After everything you read?" He found it hard to believe, but was certain that nobody could have told Wesley to do this, and he still didn't smell like fear.
"Well, as it happens, those records are rather woefully incomplete. One can hardly know what to believe from them alone." Wesley hesitated for a moment, his tone becoming uncertain and tentative for the first time. "I was actually hoping to get a first-hand account."
"It's not like I've got anything else to occupy my time," said Angel with a dry chuckle.
Unable to contain his glee, Wesley broke into a full grin. "Excellent!" he said. When Angel raised his eyebrows, Wesley cleared his throat, regained his stiff, professional manner, and stuck out his hand. Angel shook it, once again feeling so touched by a simple gesture that he had difficulty controlling his emotions. Buffy had been the only other person to place herself at his mercy after learning what he was and what he had done. It was the most powerful demonstration of trust a human could show him, and he couldn't help trusting the young Watcher for it in return.
Wesley turned to go. Before he got to the door, Angel called out to him. "Wesley," he said. He stopped and faced him again. "You might have better luck with the records if you look up information about the Kalderash clan in Romania. Eighteen ninety-eight." Wesley nodded. Angel picked up the previous day's empty bottle and tossed it to him. "And thanks," he added.
Okay, I know I barely changed the Spike scenes, but he's so funny when he's drunk that I couldn't bring myself to abbreviate them any further. And this installment's conversation between Angel and Wesley was HARD to write. I liked having Angel challenge Wesley's evidence that he's not quite as murderous as the records describe anymore, because he was never one to plead innocent. Also, I love it when Wesley can't contain his excitement. It's hilarious.