Not bad, Angel thought to himself as he rinsed Sharash slime off his jacket, if a little gooey.
It had been a good fight. Illyria had led them behind a restaurant district where four Shahrash evidently were setting up shop to have their own supper club. They were tough to fight if you didn't know how - the demons were big, spiky and exuded a numbing slime, but if you could get a good stab with something wooden to their single eye - they'd burst into big squishy blobs. Sprinkle the blobs with salt, preventing them from regenerating into even more Sharash - one for each blob - and game over.
And it had felt good to fight again, to do something. Angel decided not to think to hard about that, or the next thing he knew, he'd be signing up for patrols like nearly everyone he knew had suggested.
"I dare say we could use the help," Wesley would say, as they spent the evening in the courtyard below "I don't know if London became a demon resort after the Council blew up, but there's more than enough to do out there."
"Come on, Angel," Sarah would cajole sweetly over the phone, "They say I'm almost at 100 percent and can go back on patrol. I'd love for you to teach me some moves out there." He opened his mouth to try to explain, but nothing would come out, just kind of a strangled squeak. After awhile, she'd just ask him about art, and he was grateful. He promised he'd see her one day, soon.
"Do you some good, lo-Peaches, to get out there and mix it up a bit," Spike said through the door one night, "Clear your head." He'd come every night for a couple weeks, like clock work, knocked on the door and ask to be let in. Angel would sit in his chair and clench his fists until they were cut with the half-moon marks of his nails.
Angel could nearly see Spike spread his hands across the door and lean into it, listening. Could nearly feel him. "You're not meant to be cooped up in here all the time. 'S not right. Bit of a rough and tumble do you good." Spike was the last person he could let in, last.
He'd been telling himself that he wasn't ready. Not ready to jump back into the fray. Not even sure if he wanted to anymore. But, for some reason, Illyria, he let in, and let her drag him out. Angel totally knew that it was a set up, but somehow, her impersonal nature made it easier to say yes. Less strings. And she brought him the damn plant. Of course a former god-king standing at his door holding a philodendron would make him curious. It was just too surreal. There was also the remote chance he was getting a little bored.
Angel was going to get some fallout from the mirror, he knew. She was too curious about it. He stood in front of it, watching as it reflected all of his surroundings but nothing of him. How was he going to explain that he needed this, with everyone around him pulling him back to humanity, he had to have something to temper it - remind him. He was back where he started. He fought and schemed and nearly lost everyone he'd ever cared for and still no redemption in sight. He was nowhere. No matter what anyone said, it seemed so remote. And he was here, in the remains of the family he'd built, reminding him over and over of his failures. He had to have this, right here so he could see where he was and remember, and be reminded that he was going to have to make the choice again. Serve or fade away.
Actually, it was a lot easier to turn your back when people were trying to lynch you, not bringing you housewarming presents.
Angel walked wearily to his chair and sat down, glancing at his new plant. It seemed to shimmer under the light of the lamp. She was right: it was nice. He reached out to touch one of the leaves, and realized his hand had gone a little numb - diluted Sharash slime that he hadn't completely washed off. Great, now I'm not feeling things, he chuckled. The tired chuckle turned into a bitter laugh, which segued into a couple of kind of frightening hitches and sobs that seemed to come from nowhere. Nowhere. He sat there, exhausted, and stared at his new leafy acquisition.
"I hope you don't snore," he mumbled, and drifted into a doze.
Spike strode through the halls, still growling at the the idiot Watchers who were "observing" his every training session. Thick-headed gits.
He finally tracked Illyria to her rooms, not far from his, on a floor of the wing reserved for Watchers. Funnily enough, no one else found the rooms on this floor to their liking, so a former god-king and a vampire had it to themselves. That was one bit of discrimination Spike didn't exactly mind, 'cause it meant none of the gits were underfoot. They weren't all bad. Just mostly.
Spike braced himself and knocked on Illyria's door. Blue usually parked herself in the lounge after patrol and sometimes they'd chat, or play video games or just sit. He didn't smell any blood, so she hadn't been injured tonight. Surely she knew he wanted an update on Angel. Had barely had a glimpse of him or a word for weeks, and it was making him jump out of his skin.
"Enter, Spike."
He swung the door open, and stood there, his jaw swinging in the wind. He wasn't sure what he expected, but, this….
Illyria's room was color and light, and plants, and really, really odd objects. A crumpled, dirty soda can was arranged in a grouping next to a pyramid of Cadbury fruit-and-nut bars and an orchid. One wall was splashed with paint in a pattern that looked kind of like one of those three-dimensional pictures that Spike could never quite get the hang of. Another was bare except for what looked like words in some demon language, or higher mathmatics, Spike didn't know. There were plants everywhere, little treasures, and junk. He picked up a heavy textbook, and was surprised to find it was a physics text.
Illyria had not moved from her place at the end of her bed. She sat, posture perfect, gazing in the mirror of her dresser. Spike picked his way through the plant vines and a pile of bricks and a rather nice marble angel, to peer into the mirror with her. "Thinkin' of changing your hair, Blue?" If he had not been looking in the mirror, he might have missed the flicker of something - embarrassment? - that crossed her face.
"I entered Angel's flat tonight."
"That's my Blue. It go well then?"
"I cannot say. He agreed to hunt with me, but only after I spoke of Sarah, as you suggested, and did well, fought as he ever did. Efficient. Strong. But earlier, he -his - ,"
Illyria pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly, something that Spike had never seen her do. It was a very Fred-like gesture, and despite such things being more frequent with Blue, it still threw him a little. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, and looked into her face. "What is it, Blue?"
"I find that I am disturbed by the encounter. "
"Blue?"
"Why do vampires not have reflections?"
Spike turned to look into the mirror again, only the depression on the bed beside Illyria betraying his presence. "Don't rightly know. Used to think it had something to do with the soul. Now I think it has something to do with maybe a bit o' predator stuff lent to us by the demon. Makes us sneaky and all, why?"
"Angel hangs a mirror upon his door," Illyria answered, turning toward him and tilting her head.
Spike blinked at her. "Wha? A mirror?"
"Yes. The sight . . . it disturbed me." Her head tilted the other way as she seemed to consider this. Spike thought there was more coming, but after a few moments had passed in silence, he realized that was it.
"Why?" He asked the question he knew Illyria was probably asking herself, even though he, too, was disturbed.
"I cannot say for certain. He said it was to remind him where he was, but . . . I do not understand this. Why keep something that reminds him he is not what he wants to be?"
"Good question, Blue. Think I'll see if Wes will talk to him about it. Git still won't talk to me."
-----
Giles paced as he thought, tossing a stake from hand to hand. He glanced over at his desk and the remains of their working lunch, waiting for Wesley to finish the reports and give him an opinion. Forcing himself to sit down, Giles was about to pull out some paperwork when Wesley looked up, pushing the reports away.
"Well, I must say it's a smart approach. I suppose there wasn't time to implement it before assigning the Watchers the first time around." Wesley leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach.
Giles snorted, remembering the chaos the Council had been upon his return to London. "There was barely enough time to breathe. We already had enough Slayers to all but fill to planes, just from the States. Not to mention that the few remaining Watchers had been gathering up Potentials and then were suddenly surrounded by Slayers." Shuddering at the memories, he nodded to the reports.
"I'm not sure how to group them though. While age is obvious a consideration, I don't feel that that's flexible enough."
"Well, the grouping them by skills is a start. It will provide a wider range of resources. But you'll have to be careful not to single out those who are more mystically adept. You certainly don't want to seem as if you're favoring them."
"Damn," Giles muttered, leaning in to take a look at the rough lists of possible groups he'd made. "I hadn't thought of that, but you're right." Sighing, and shaking his head, he made a few notes on the changes he'd need to make.
"Also, I'm wondering what you're going to do about the Watchers." Wesley seemed particularly thoughtful as he said that and Giles sat up, giving the man his full attention. "Most of them have very little field experience and . . . we both know how that stresses things. Not to mention the novices with a whole group of Slayers."
Giles nodded, sighing. "That is something I've been thinking on quite a bit. I thought, perhaps, we could audit the Watchers. See how they're coping, if they are."
"And see what the Slayers think of them, how they react to them. It might also help to put one of the more experienced Slayers in each group, if it's possible. Someone with experience, Slayer or no." Wesley leaned forward then, his eyes fixing on the reports in a way that said he was thinking through an idea. "You know, this might be just the thing to draw Angel out of his shell. Get him back out there. He and Sarah are friends, if we could assign him to her team . . ."
Giles shrugged, sighing. "Wesley, he's been through a lot."
"What are you suggesting?" Wesley stiffened a little and Giles hated that guarded posture, though he was fairly sure he deserved it, give that he'd been rather . . . prickly when it came to discussing Angel.
"Only that he needs time to think, Wes. This is the third time he's had to start all over and . . . perhaps it's best to simply let him be."
"And . . . what? Page him when the apocalypse hits?" Wesley raised an eyebrow at him, but it was the glare that made Giles sighed, shaking his head and holding up his hands.
"No, no. That's not what I meant." Rubbing his forehead and wishing for a change of subject he knew he wasn't going to get. While he wasn't completely comfortable with sending Angel out with group of novice Slayers--who all but hero-worshipped anyone from Sunnydale or who had faced the last apocalypse--he knew that was his problem. "I'm not suggesting that you turn your back on him. Only that trying to push him into action now might backfire. Lead him to believe that . . . that fighting is all he's here to do."
Knowing he hadn't expressed his thoughts very well, Giles gave up. Wesley only shrugged. "I can't leave him sitting in his apartment talking to Illyria's philodendron."
Giles nodded. Angel was not a topic he wanted to discuss and he took the easy way out.
"Yes. Well." Giles pushed another report across to Wesley, not at all liking the way the previous topic had ended. Angel was one of the few things he didn't feel he could, or should, discuss with Wesley. "I've been thinking of converting one of the clinics to train Slayers in, at least, basic first aid and such."
Wesley's fingers brushed over his as the man took the report and Giles glanced up to see a small smile on the man's lips. "Very subtle subject change," Wesley chuckled, his fingers sliding up Giles' to draw spirals on the back of his hand.
"I thought so," Giles countered with a snort of laughter at himself.
It had been a good fight. Illyria had led them behind a restaurant district where four Shahrash evidently were setting up shop to have their own supper club. They were tough to fight if you didn't know how - the demons were big, spiky and exuded a numbing slime, but if you could get a good stab with something wooden to their single eye - they'd burst into big squishy blobs. Sprinkle the blobs with salt, preventing them from regenerating into even more Sharash - one for each blob - and game over.
And it had felt good to fight again, to do something. Angel decided not to think to hard about that, or the next thing he knew, he'd be signing up for patrols like nearly everyone he knew had suggested.
"I dare say we could use the help," Wesley would say, as they spent the evening in the courtyard below "I don't know if London became a demon resort after the Council blew up, but there's more than enough to do out there."
"Come on, Angel," Sarah would cajole sweetly over the phone, "They say I'm almost at 100 percent and can go back on patrol. I'd love for you to teach me some moves out there." He opened his mouth to try to explain, but nothing would come out, just kind of a strangled squeak. After awhile, she'd just ask him about art, and he was grateful. He promised he'd see her one day, soon.
"Do you some good, lo-Peaches, to get out there and mix it up a bit," Spike said through the door one night, "Clear your head." He'd come every night for a couple weeks, like clock work, knocked on the door and ask to be let in. Angel would sit in his chair and clench his fists until they were cut with the half-moon marks of his nails.
Angel could nearly see Spike spread his hands across the door and lean into it, listening. Could nearly feel him. "You're not meant to be cooped up in here all the time. 'S not right. Bit of a rough and tumble do you good." Spike was the last person he could let in, last.
He'd been telling himself that he wasn't ready. Not ready to jump back into the fray. Not even sure if he wanted to anymore. But, for some reason, Illyria, he let in, and let her drag him out. Angel totally knew that it was a set up, but somehow, her impersonal nature made it easier to say yes. Less strings. And she brought him the damn plant. Of course a former god-king standing at his door holding a philodendron would make him curious. It was just too surreal. There was also the remote chance he was getting a little bored.
Angel was going to get some fallout from the mirror, he knew. She was too curious about it. He stood in front of it, watching as it reflected all of his surroundings but nothing of him. How was he going to explain that he needed this, with everyone around him pulling him back to humanity, he had to have something to temper it - remind him. He was back where he started. He fought and schemed and nearly lost everyone he'd ever cared for and still no redemption in sight. He was nowhere. No matter what anyone said, it seemed so remote. And he was here, in the remains of the family he'd built, reminding him over and over of his failures. He had to have this, right here so he could see where he was and remember, and be reminded that he was going to have to make the choice again. Serve or fade away.
Actually, it was a lot easier to turn your back when people were trying to lynch you, not bringing you housewarming presents.
Angel walked wearily to his chair and sat down, glancing at his new plant. It seemed to shimmer under the light of the lamp. She was right: it was nice. He reached out to touch one of the leaves, and realized his hand had gone a little numb - diluted Sharash slime that he hadn't completely washed off. Great, now I'm not feeling things, he chuckled. The tired chuckle turned into a bitter laugh, which segued into a couple of kind of frightening hitches and sobs that seemed to come from nowhere. Nowhere. He sat there, exhausted, and stared at his new leafy acquisition.
"I hope you don't snore," he mumbled, and drifted into a doze.
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He finally tracked Illyria to her rooms, not far from his, on a floor of the wing reserved for Watchers. Funnily enough, no one else found the rooms on this floor to their liking, so a former god-king and a vampire had it to themselves. That was one bit of discrimination Spike didn't exactly mind, 'cause it meant none of the gits were underfoot. They weren't all bad. Just mostly.
Spike braced himself and knocked on Illyria's door. Blue usually parked herself in the lounge after patrol and sometimes they'd chat, or play video games or just sit. He didn't smell any blood, so she hadn't been injured tonight. Surely she knew he wanted an update on Angel. Had barely had a glimpse of him or a word for weeks, and it was making him jump out of his skin.
"Enter, Spike."
He swung the door open, and stood there, his jaw swinging in the wind. He wasn't sure what he expected, but, this….
Illyria's room was color and light, and plants, and really, really odd objects. A crumpled, dirty soda can was arranged in a grouping next to a pyramid of Cadbury fruit-and-nut bars and an orchid. One wall was splashed with paint in a pattern that looked kind of like one of those three-dimensional pictures that Spike could never quite get the hang of.
Another was bare except for what looked like words in some demon language, or higher mathmatics, Spike didn't know. There were plants everywhere, little treasures, and junk. He picked up a heavy textbook, and was surprised to find it was a physics text.
Illyria had not moved from her place at the end of her bed. She sat, posture perfect, gazing in the mirror of her dresser. Spike picked his way through the plant vines and a pile of bricks and a rather nice marble angel, to peer into the mirror with her.
"Thinkin' of changing your hair, Blue?" If he had not been looking in the mirror, he might have missed the flicker of something - embarrassment? - that crossed her face.
"I entered Angel's flat tonight."
"That's my Blue. It go well then?"
"I cannot say. He agreed to hunt with me, but only after I spoke of Sarah, as you suggested, and did well, fought as he ever did. Efficient. Strong. But earlier, he -his - ,"
Illyria pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly, something that Spike had never seen her do. It was a very Fred-like gesture, and despite such things being more frequent with Blue, it still threw him a little. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, and looked into her face. "What is it, Blue?"
"I find that I am disturbed by the encounter. "
"Blue?"
"Why do vampires not have reflections?"
Spike turned to look into the mirror again, only the depression on the bed beside Illyria betraying his presence. "Don't rightly know. Used to think it had something to do with the soul. Now I think it has something to do with maybe a bit o' predator stuff lent to us by the demon. Makes us sneaky and all, why?"
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Spike blinked at her. "Wha? A mirror?"
"Yes. The sight . . . it disturbed me." Her head tilted the other way as she seemed to consider this. Spike thought there was more coming, but after a few moments had passed in silence, he realized that was it.
"Why?" He asked the question he knew Illyria was probably asking herself, even though he, too, was disturbed.
"I cannot say for certain. He said it was to remind him where he was, but . . . I do not understand this. Why keep something that reminds him he is not what he wants to be?"
"Good question, Blue. Think I'll see if Wes will talk to him about it. Git still won't talk to me."
-----
Giles paced as he thought, tossing a stake from hand to hand. He glanced over at his desk and the remains of their working lunch, waiting for Wesley to finish the reports and give him an opinion. Forcing himself to sit down, Giles was about to pull out some paperwork when Wesley looked up, pushing the reports away.
"Well, I must say it's a smart approach. I suppose there wasn't time to implement it before assigning the Watchers the first time around." Wesley leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach.
Giles snorted, remembering the chaos the Council had been upon his return to London. "There was barely enough time to breathe. We already had enough Slayers to all but fill to planes, just from the States. Not to mention that the few remaining Watchers had been gathering up Potentials and then were suddenly surrounded by Slayers." Shuddering at the memories, he nodded to the reports.
"I'm not sure how to group them though. While age is obvious a consideration, I don't feel that that's flexible enough."
"Well, the grouping them by skills is a start. It will provide a wider range of resources. But you'll have to be careful not to single out those who are more mystically adept. You certainly don't want to seem as if you're favoring them."
"Damn," Giles muttered, leaning in to take a look at the rough lists of possible groups he'd made. "I hadn't thought of that, but you're right." Sighing, and shaking his head, he made a few notes on the changes he'd need to make.
"Also, I'm wondering what you're going to do about the Watchers." Wesley seemed particularly thoughtful as he said that and Giles sat up, giving the man his full attention. "Most of them have very little field experience and . . . we both know how that stresses things. Not to mention the novices with a whole group of Slayers."
Giles nodded, sighing. "That is something I've been thinking on quite a bit. I thought, perhaps, we could audit the Watchers. See how they're coping, if they are."
"And see what the Slayers think of them, how they react to them. It might also help to put one of the more experienced Slayers in each group, if it's possible. Someone with experience, Slayer or no." Wesley leaned forward then, his eyes fixing on the reports in a way that said he was thinking through an idea. "You know, this might be just the thing to draw Angel out of his shell. Get him back out there. He and Sarah are friends, if we could assign him to her team . . ."
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"What are you suggesting?" Wesley stiffened a little and Giles hated that guarded posture, though he was fairly sure he deserved it, give that he'd been rather . . . prickly when it came to discussing Angel.
"Only that he needs time to think, Wes. This is the third time he's had to start all over and . . . perhaps it's best to simply let him be."
"And . . . what? Page him when the apocalypse hits?" Wesley raised an eyebrow at him, but it was the glare that made Giles sighed, shaking his head and holding up his hands.
"No, no. That's not what I meant." Rubbing his forehead and wishing for a change of subject he knew he wasn't going to get. While he wasn't completely comfortable with sending Angel out with group of novice Slayers--who all but hero-worshipped anyone from Sunnydale or who had faced the last apocalypse--he knew that was his problem. "I'm not suggesting that you turn your back on him. Only that trying to push him into action now might backfire. Lead him to believe that . . . that fighting is all he's here to do."
Knowing he hadn't expressed his thoughts very well, Giles gave up. Wesley only shrugged. "I can't leave him sitting in his apartment talking to Illyria's philodendron."
Giles nodded. Angel was not a topic he wanted to discuss and he took the easy way out.
"Yes. Well." Giles pushed another report across to Wesley, not at all liking the way the previous topic had ended. Angel was one of the few things he didn't feel he could, or should, discuss with Wesley. "I've been thinking of converting one of the clinics to train Slayers in, at least, basic first aid and such."
Wesley's fingers brushed over his as the man took the report and Giles glanced up to see a small smile on the man's lips. "Very subtle subject change," Wesley chuckled, his fingers sliding up Giles' to draw spirals on the back of his hand.
"I thought so," Giles countered with a snort of laughter at himself.
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