It was more from surprise than a desire for company that Angel opened the door. "Illyria?"
"I bring you a 'housewarming' gift," The former god-king said without preamble, "It is a philodendron, and thrives in low light, so it will not be inconvenient to your person." She thrust it at him. "May it's greensong be peaceful to you, and may it be pleasant in your sight," she said formally. She paused a moment, regarding him with a sober ice-blue gaze. "It knows you are a vampire."
Angel stopped in mid-motion as he reached for the plant. "Uh, is that going to be a problem? " He looked from Illyria to the plant. "Um, hi?" He said sort of in between the two of them. "Come in?" Did I just said hi to a plant? Great. "It's not going to expect me to...?"
"It is a plant, Angel," Illyria explained with a hint of a bite. "It would not expect such as you to converse." She swept into the room and looked about imperially for a proper resting place. Crossing to the table beside his chair, she set it just under the lamp, and arranged its vines to her own satisfaction. "Do you need instructions as to its care?"
"Um, thanks, and, no, and uh, come in." Angel said awkwardly, trailing after her. He looked down at varigated heart-shaped leaves. "It's nice." A long moment passed. "What do you mean 'such as me?'" He waved a vague hand at the plant. "It's not going to sit here and you know....be all judgementa-"
"You do not sing the same song as this one," she interrupted, caressing a leaf. "It accepts its purpose here and rejoyces." She gave him a pointed look and he sighed, and walked to the other side of the room.
"Not exactly subtle, Illyria."
"I do not deal in subtlety, this you should know. But I did bring the plant as a comfort for you." She surveyed the room. "It seems you need such things in the place."
The apartment was nearly bare, walls stark and white and without adornment. That did not match Illyria's memories - hers and Fred's - of Angel's preferred living spaces. What furniture there was was clean-lined and simple, though not without beauty.
A chair for reading....and sketching, judging by the tools and crumpled papers scattered about. Heavy drapes. A lamp. Another table, piled with books. No weapons displayed - tools of necessity and pride - as of old. No soft fabrics, no art, no rich colors. None of the things she remembered in Angel's spaces. He had not shut the door behind them. Odd. She reached out and touched the cover of a sketch pad.
"You do not hang these drawings. Do they have some other use for you?"
"Don't touch that."
"I did not look."
Angel cleared his throat and said, heavily. "Thank you for the plant, Illyria. Now get -"
"I also came to ask you to hunt with me. There is a nest of demons nearby."
"Did Spike put you up to this?"
She tilted her head and regarded him coolly, "Spike is not a part of this hunt. There are demons nearby, they are a danger to the humans. I scented them on my journey here." She regarded him a moment longer. Very well, I shall return and summon the Slayer on call." She looked casually around. "Might I use your device to call the Slayer Sarah?"
"Sarah's on call? She's patrolling again? She's doing okay?" Angel's held emotion in it - concern and focus. Illyria was pleased.
"She fights well. She will be a good ally in the hunt."
"Never mind," Angel said, brushing past her, "I'll come with you." What kind of demons are they?
"Sharash."
"Oh crap. I don't have any salt." He shrugged into this jacket and patted his pockets absentmindedly.
"I observed a market nearby. It should have what weapons we need."
"Do you have some extra stakes?"
"You have no weapons here, " Though flat, Illyria's voice carried her incredulity.
"If we're going to go, let's go." He moved to the door, grasping the edge of it in his hand. The angle of the door shifted and light scattered across its surface. Illyria stopped, a strange emotion clenching her belly. This thing, the only object not of necessity hung in her sight and screamed it's wrongness. The greensong trembled behind her.
"Angel."
"What? If we're going to do this, come on." He did not look at her, but twisted a lock on the side of the shimmering door. His hand pressed against the cool surface.
"For what purpose do you have this?" she asked sharply, pointing.
"It lets me know exactly where I am." Angel said softly, and left the room.
Illyria stalked over, and closed the door enough that she could see herself in the mirror shining full-length along its back. The head of her reflection-self tilted slightly. Her unease grew. The greensong of the plant murmured sadly behind her. Her eyes flicked to its reflection.
"I concur." she said quietly, and hurried after Angel.
Even though there was no way Angel could sense her from this far away, Sarah ducked into the alley.
"Like a charm," she murmured to her companion. "Took us long enough to think of it."
"Bloody brillant, pet. Though we owe 'llyrie a new plant."
"We owe 'llyrie' a fucking garden,"
"Hey now, pet," Spike said as he gave her a one-armed hug, "What did your Uncle Spike say about cussing?"
"To bloody well not do it," She grinned, and poked him, hard, in the stomach. "Race you back." She sped into the night. "Last one makes the cocoa," came her laughing whisper.
Spike mock growled and set after her. "You stay out of my marshmallows you little......"
Wesley didn't want to stop kissing Rupert long enough to unlock the door. Luckily, Rupert had his key and was in a much better position to manage the task anyway. They both stumbled inside, the door banging against the wall, both of them still tangled around one another.
Wesley shut the door with kick, his hands too busy pull Rupert's shirt from his trousers so that they could slip under and rub against warm skin. Wesley's head was spinning, but not from the beer. Rupert's scent was all around him, dizzying in its intensity and the heights of pure want.
Wes moved them down the hall, but the progress was stumbling at best with them all but rolling along the walls between pauses. Wesley couldn't tear his mouth away and Rupert was no better, licking at his neck or ear when they weren't kissing. Heat rolled between them in waves and Wesley moaned when Rupert's hands massaged his back.
His senses were all awake, even more so than usual. The rough, calloused texture of Rupert's fingers and palms stood out, the warmth and firmness of the man's body making it hard to draw breath. When he managed, of course, their combined scents, the want and longing they contained, making his cock ache and throb.
Rupert groaned and Wes' body responded without a though, hips thrusting forward to meet the other man's. He gasped when his erection met Rupert's, a shudder rushing through his body, making it even harder to breathe.
He pulled away, his mind flashing with worries, fears and an underlying anxiety. Rupert let him go, though Wes could see the quickly covered flash of disappointment. Unsure what to say, again, Wesley leaned against the wall, his fingers fiddling with the edge of Rupert's jacket.
"So, how many chocolate cakes is that I owe you?" Rupert asked, breaking the uncomfortable--at least from Wesley's end--silence.
Wes smiled, shaking his head. "I stopped counting after ten. How many gardening chores do I owe you?"
"Ten," Rupert replied with a soft laugh. The man leaned against the wall next to Wes. "Night cap or straight to bed?"
Wesley considered, finding comfort in their usual routines. "I think bed. I, uh, have to get into the office early." And it'll be a while before I'm going to be able to sleep.
"Agreed. I'll be bring home the papers on the auditing tomorrow. You'll go over them with me?" Rupert commented, pulling away from the wall and taking the three or four steps to his bedroom door.
They seemed to get closer to it every time and Wesley wondered if next time . . .
"Yes, of course. I think we've both got some good ideas and . . . Well, hopefully you'll get the Old Guard to see the wisdom in the new system. They're being stubborn just for the hell of it."
"Yes, well. We can hope. I think they simply love to hear themselves complain. Oh, uh, how's--how's Angel? He moved into his new apartment? Is he, uh, still not really talking to you?"
Wesley could see a new tension in Rupert's stance. It was the same whenever they spoke of Angel. Still, it was lessening and Wesley thought that was some progress at least. He could tell the other man still had a long way to go before he could accept Angel, but Wesley was determined to soldier on there, especially since there was no other option.
"Well, we talk, but he refuses to discuss some topics. I try to, uh, keep him filled in, gain his interest. He . . . I believe he feels as if he has no place here, now. I . . . I'm worried he thinks he should have died."
Rupert sighed, shaking his head. "I think--I think he just needs time, Wes."
Wesley nodded, smiling at the other man's attempt to comfort him. He knew better than to offer a goodnight kiss, considering how that tended to turn out after at this point in the night.
"Goodnight, Rupert. Sleep well."
"I will. You too." Wesley sighed as Rupert slipped into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He stood there a moment, watching Rupert's door, thinking about his . . . what, boyfriend, and what he was doing on the other side of it. Undressing, perhaps . . . Wesley pulled his mind from such thoughts, for the moment at least, and retired to his own room. With the door closed behind him, he almost wanted to bang his head against it.
Spike called a halt to his early morning training session. He glared at the two Watchers who'd stationed themselves at the door, but that didn't do a thing to make them leave.
Giles had told him that he was working on it, but Spike kind liked the antipathy. It gave him someone to take his frustrations out on. A couple of the Slayers came to talk to him and he spent several moments telling Sunnydale and LA stories before they had to rush off for classes and whatnot.
"So, you two gonna be here every day or is there a changing of the morons?" Both the Watchers gave him what was supposed to an intimidating glare, but Spike had seen far, far better.
"We, or our colleagues will be watching whenever you are . . . training with the Slayers." The note of contempt in the woman's voice was anything but faint, however the word 'training' fairly dripped with it.
"Right, yeah. Can't have me dying to save the world in the middle of a training session," he snarked, watching as they glanced at each other, unsure of their footing. "Ya know," he finally said, gather his gear. "I think I'll spend my time before bed with a better conversationalist. Don't suppose you two know where Blue is?"
"I bring you a 'housewarming' gift," The former god-king said without preamble, "It is a philodendron, and thrives in low light, so it will not be inconvenient to your person." She thrust it at him. "May it's greensong be peaceful to you, and may it be pleasant in your sight," she said formally. She paused a moment, regarding him with a sober ice-blue gaze. "It knows you are a vampire."
Angel stopped in mid-motion as he reached for the plant. "Uh, is that going to be a problem? " He looked from Illyria to the plant. "Um, hi?" He said sort of in between the two of them. "Come in?" Did I just said hi to a plant? Great. "It's not going to expect me to...?"
"It is a plant, Angel," Illyria explained with a hint of a bite. "It would not expect such as you to converse." She swept into the room and looked about imperially for a proper resting place. Crossing to the table beside his chair, she set it just under the lamp, and arranged its vines to her own satisfaction. "Do you need instructions as to its care?"
"Um, thanks, and, no, and uh, come in." Angel said awkwardly, trailing after her. He looked down at varigated heart-shaped leaves. "It's nice." A long moment passed. "What do you mean 'such as me?'" He waved a vague hand at the plant. "It's not going to sit here and you know....be all judgementa-"
"You do not sing the same song as this one," she interrupted, caressing a leaf. "It accepts its purpose here and rejoyces." She gave him a pointed look and he sighed, and walked to the other side of the room.
"Not exactly subtle, Illyria."
"I do not deal in subtlety, this you should know. But I did bring the plant as a comfort for you." She surveyed the room. "It seems you need such things in the place."
The apartment was nearly bare, walls stark and white and without adornment. That did not match Illyria's memories - hers and Fred's - of Angel's preferred living spaces. What furniture there was was clean-lined and simple, though not without beauty.
A chair for reading....and sketching, judging by the tools and crumpled papers scattered about. Heavy drapes. A lamp. Another table, piled with books. No weapons displayed - tools of necessity and pride - as of old. No soft fabrics, no art, no rich colors. None of the things she remembered in Angel's spaces. He had not shut the door behind them. Odd. She reached out and touched the cover of a sketch pad.
"You do not hang these drawings. Do they have some other use for you?"
"Don't touch that."
"I did not look."
Angel cleared his throat and said, heavily. "Thank you for the plant, Illyria. Now get -"
"I also came to ask you to hunt with me. There is a nest of demons nearby."
"Did Spike put you up to this?"
She tilted her head and regarded him coolly, "Spike is not a part of this hunt. There are demons nearby, they are a danger to the humans. I scented them on my journey here." She regarded him a moment longer. Very well, I shall return and summon the Slayer on call." She looked casually around. "Might I use your device to call the Slayer Sarah?"
"Sarah's on call? She's patrolling again? She's doing okay?" Angel's held emotion in it - concern and focus. Illyria was pleased.
"She fights well. She will be a good ally in the hunt."
"Never mind," Angel said, brushing past her, "I'll come with you." What kind of demons are they?
"Sharash."
"Oh crap. I don't have any salt." He shrugged into this jacket and patted his pockets absentmindedly.
"I observed a market nearby. It should have what weapons we need."
"Do you have some extra stakes?"
"You have no weapons here, " Though flat, Illyria's voice carried her incredulity.
Angel didn't answer.
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"If we're going to go, let's go." He moved to the door, grasping the edge of it in his hand. The angle of the door shifted and light scattered across its surface. Illyria stopped, a strange emotion clenching her belly. This thing, the only object not of necessity hung in her sight and screamed it's wrongness. The greensong trembled behind her.
"Angel."
"What? If we're going to do this, come on." He did not look at her, but twisted a lock on the side of the shimmering door. His hand pressed against the cool surface.
"For what purpose do you have this?" she asked sharply, pointing.
"It lets me know exactly where I am." Angel said softly, and left the room.
Illyria stalked over, and closed the door enough that she could see herself in the mirror shining full-length along its back. The head of her reflection-self tilted slightly. Her unease grew. The greensong of the plant murmured sadly behind her. Her eyes flicked to its reflection.
"I concur." she said quietly, and hurried after Angel.
Even though there was no way Angel could sense her from this far away, Sarah ducked into the alley.
"Like a charm," she murmured to her companion. "Took us long enough to think of it."
"Bloody brillant, pet. Though we owe 'llyrie a new plant."
"We owe 'llyrie' a fucking garden,"
"Hey now, pet," Spike said as he gave her a one-armed hug, "What did your Uncle Spike say about cussing?"
"To bloody well not do it," She grinned, and poked him, hard, in the stomach. "Race you back." She sped into the night. "Last one makes the cocoa," came her laughing whisper.
Spike mock growled and set after her. "You stay out of my marshmallows you little......"
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Wesley shut the door with kick, his hands too busy pull Rupert's shirt from his trousers so that they could slip under and rub against warm skin. Wesley's head was spinning, but not from the beer. Rupert's scent was all around him, dizzying in its intensity and the heights of pure want.
Wes moved them down the hall, but the progress was stumbling at best with them all but rolling along the walls between pauses. Wesley couldn't tear his mouth away and Rupert was no better, licking at his neck or ear when they weren't kissing. Heat rolled between them in waves and Wesley moaned when Rupert's hands massaged his back.
His senses were all awake, even more so than usual. The rough, calloused texture of Rupert's fingers and palms stood out, the warmth and firmness of the man's body making it hard to draw breath. When he managed, of course, their combined scents, the want and longing they contained, making his cock ache and throb.
Rupert groaned and Wes' body responded without a though, hips thrusting forward to meet the other man's. He gasped when his erection met Rupert's, a shudder rushing through his body, making it even harder to breathe.
He pulled away, his mind flashing with worries, fears and an underlying anxiety. Rupert let him go, though Wes could see the quickly covered flash of disappointment. Unsure what to say, again, Wesley leaned against the wall, his fingers fiddling with the edge of Rupert's jacket.
"So, how many chocolate cakes is that I owe you?" Rupert asked, breaking the uncomfortable--at least from Wesley's end--silence.
Wes smiled, shaking his head. "I stopped counting after ten. How many gardening chores do I owe you?"
"Ten," Rupert replied with a soft laugh. The man leaned against the wall next to Wes. "Night cap or straight to bed?"
Wesley considered, finding comfort in their usual routines. "I think bed. I, uh, have to get into the office early." And it'll be a while before I'm going to be able to sleep.
"Agreed. I'll be bring home the papers on the auditing tomorrow. You'll go over them with me?" Rupert commented, pulling away from the wall and taking the three or four steps to his bedroom door.
They seemed to get closer to it every time and Wesley wondered if next time . . .
"Yes, of course. I think we've both got some good ideas and . . . Well, hopefully you'll get the Old Guard to see the wisdom in the new system. They're being stubborn just for the hell of it."
"Yes, well. We can hope. I think they simply love to hear themselves complain. Oh, uh, how's--how's Angel? He moved into his new apartment? Is he, uh, still not really talking to you?"
Wesley could see a new tension in Rupert's stance. It was the same whenever they spoke of Angel. Still, it was lessening and Wesley thought that was some progress at least. He could tell the other man still had a long way to go before he could accept Angel, but Wesley was determined to soldier on there, especially since there was no other option.
"Well, we talk, but he refuses to discuss some topics. I try to, uh, keep him filled in, gain his interest. He . . . I believe he feels as if he has no place here, now. I . . . I'm worried he thinks he should have died."
Rupert sighed, shaking his head. "I think--I think he just needs time, Wes."
Wesley nodded, smiling at the other man's attempt to comfort him. He knew better than to offer a goodnight kiss, considering how that tended to turn out after at this point in the night.
"Goodnight, Rupert. Sleep well."
"I will. You too." Wesley sighed as Rupert slipped into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He stood there a moment, watching Rupert's door, thinking about his . . . what, boyfriend, and what he was doing on the other side of it. Undressing, perhaps . . . Wesley pulled his mind from such thoughts, for the moment at least, and retired to his own room. With the door closed behind him, he almost wanted to bang his head against it.
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Giles had told him that he was working on it, but Spike kind liked the antipathy. It gave him someone to take his frustrations out on. A couple of the Slayers came to talk to him and he spent several moments telling Sunnydale and LA stories before they had to rush off for classes and whatnot.
"So, you two gonna be here every day or is there a changing of the morons?" Both the Watchers gave him what was supposed to an intimidating glare, but Spike had seen far, far better.
"We, or our colleagues will be watching whenever you are . . . training with the Slayers." The note of contempt in the woman's voice was anything but faint, however the word 'training' fairly dripped with it.
"Right, yeah. Can't have me dying to save the world in the middle of a training session," he snarked, watching as they glanced at each other, unsure of their footing. "Ya know," he finally said, gather his gear. "I think I'll spend my time before bed with a better conversationalist. Don't suppose you two know where Blue is?"
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