Remains

By Stakebait, WesleysGirl, and Jane Davitt

Neon light and thumping music spilled out of a Sunset Strip nightclub. A large sign above the main entrance introduced the club as 'BJ's.'

Outside a crowd was gathered. The young and the beautiful of Los Angeles - mostly men - milled about dressed in leather, silks, satins, and a few materials that defied description except in the pages of the most trendy fashion magazines. A long line snaked behind a velvet rope that led from the front door to halfway down the block. Couples dotted the landscape, some eagerly waiting in line, others leaving the club for the next stop on their dance card, and still others ignoring the club entirely as they engaged in elaborate make out sessions that bordered on the obscene.

Around the corner, a dingy white van idled in the club's loading zone, but nothing was being loaded in or out. Inside the vehicle, classic rock from the radio clashed with the techno spilling from the nearest open doorway from the club.

"Shit. My butterflies have butterflies," a young man's voice muttered from the shadow of the backseat.

"Would you relax, Dan?" said the driver, digging in the glove compartment before shutting it with a snap. "It's a club, not a bank. Their security's nothing."

"I dunno, Jimmy." A girl with pink hair and an even pinker mini-dress chewed worriedly on her lower lip. She looked as though she belonged in the club more than she did in the van. "I'm starting to think this is a bad idea."

"You wanna get back at Henderson for firing you or don't you?" Jimmy asked. "This was your idea, Raquel. You want to scrap it now?"

"So let's put sugar in his gas tank or something," Raquel said. "Not this."

"Why not?" Jimmy asked. "You said it yourself, the till's full, they don't put it into the safe until midnight, nobody knows you still have a key for the side door - "

"What if something goes wrong?" Dan asked.

"Yeah." Raquel glanced around at their surroundings. "What if somebody recognizes us?"

"We'll be wearing masks, stupid," Jimmy said. He threw two black ski masks at his companions. "And you stay in the car."

"Mistakes can happen, Jimmy." Dan leaned forward, resting his weight on the front seats. "What are we going to do if shit goes down and somebody fingers us for - "

"Shit is not going to go down," Jimmy said. "Nobody is going to recognize us."

"Are you sure?" Raquel asked.

"I'm sure." Jimmy punctuated his comment by pulling out a large gun that looked as though it was made of gold and covered in pulsating jewels. An unearthly glow emanated from it. "Because I've got this. I'm telling you guys, with this on our side what could possibly go wrong?"

---

Inside of the club Angel and Spike were surrounded by muscle-bound, half-naked men, all of whom were dancing wildly.

"Yeah," Spike said, as though he'd just decided something. "Next time I get to pick what we do when we go out at night."

---

Watch the Credits

• Episode 6.17: Remains
• Written by: Stakebait, WesleysGirl, and Jane Davitt
• Edited by: Jane Davitt and Adoxerella
• Produced by: The Brat Queen and Flaming Muse

---

"Right," Angel replied. "Like you were so busy when I called."

"I could have been," Spike said, taking a quick step sideways to avoid being hit in the face by one of the dancers moving energetically beside him in time with the pounding music. "You know, not all of us think the best way to kick off a weekend is a long night's brooding followed by three hours of preliminary hair care."

Angel gave the top of Spike's head a long look. "So with you it's what? Five?"

"That's rich coming from the man who couldn't stop fussing with his hairdo if I lit his gigantic forehead ablaze." Spike cocked his head and began to rummage in his pockets. "Hang about, that just might perk up the evening."

"Quit screwing around," Angel said. "We're here to work."

"Who's screwing around?" Spike spread his arms out to take in the whole of the club, most of whom were ignoring them in favor of dancing with, and getting closer to, whomever was near. "Well, besides everyone else here in Babylon's L.A. branch. God, I miss having someone to shag."

Angel tilted his head in a parody of Spike's thoughtful pose. "I'm sorry, what? Did you just admit you couldn't get a date if you tried?"

"I could have anybody I wanted to, mate, with a snap of my bloody fingers." Spike snapped his fingers to demonstrate. When nobody paid any attention to him, he cleared his throat. "Anyway, you said we were here to work. What are we here for?"

Angel began to move through the crowd. He kept his gaze high, trying to see over the dance floor. "I got word from one of my contacts - "

"You still have those?" Spike raised his eyebrow.

Angel ignored him. "He said he knew something about that case we've been working on."

"The big nasty coming to L.A.?" Spike asked.

"That's the one," Angel stepped back to let one of the glitter-covered go-go dancers pass by. "My guy said he could give us some information but we had to meet him here."

"Why here?" Spike asked.

Angel gave him a look as though the answer were obvious. "It's Friday night."

"Of course." Spike rolled his eyes. "So what's the deal? Monsters, demons, end of the word? Monster-y demons with kink for world-ending?"

"Don't know," Angel admitted. "But he said it was pretty bad."

"Must be, if it got you to crawl out of your cave." Spike bopped his head to the music as a techno-dance song began to play. "So, how are we going to find your bloke?"

Angel spared Spike a glance over his shoulder. "He's seven feet tall in heels, and the purple hair is natural. Even in this crowd, I'm thinking he'll stand out."

"A demon drag queen? Shouldn't he dress like a demon woman?"

Angel shrugged. "He says they can't accessorize."

"Either way, not seeing him," Spike said.

"Just as well you can't," Angel said. "DeWitt's easily spooked. If I'm not the one who makes contact with him he might run off before he can tell us anything."

"You'll use any excuse to linger and check out the latest couture for summer, won't you?" Spike said.

Angel snorted. "All I want is to do the job and get the hell out of here." He stopped by the bar, signaling the bartender for a drink. "I hate this."

Spike took a bar stool next to him. "Make it two. On his tab. And it's been a while since you've had a date; you shouldn't complain about being around so many potential shags." He reached for one of the glasses the bartender put down in front of them. "No matter how remote the odds might be."

"What?" Angel frowned, temporarily confused enough that he paid for Spike's drink. "Oh. No. Not this. I mean what we're doing."

"Drinking?"

"Scutwork." Angel downed his own whiskey in a single gulp. "Scrambling for information, begging for leads. Time was I had my own connection to the Powers That Be. And even without that I could always find a way to get what I wanted."

"By beating people up," Spike guessed.

"It worked," Angel told him. "Used to be I had a reputation. I wanted something, people gave it to me or they knew there'd be trouble. But these days it's like nobody knows who I am. You'd think after everything I've done at least one person - "

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I just want you to know I'm your biggest fan."

Spike and Angel turned around to see a young woman with dyed auburn hair and a green velvet bat-winged dress. She bounced on her feet excitedly, a huge grin shaping her purple-lipsticked lips.

"Really," she said, clasping her hands to her chest. "Huge."

"Oh," Angel looked embarrassed. "Um - thanks. You know I was just saying - wait, is this that thing with the chatty rooms?"

The girl blinked at him. "Who are you?"

Angel blinked back. "I'm Angel."

"Good for you," she replied. She immediately turned her attention to Spike. "Oh my God, it is such a thrill to meet you."

"It is?" Spike asked.

"It is?" Angel echoed.

"Raven de Winter Artemis Moondaughter," she took Spike's hand before he could stop her, pumping it in an excited handshake. "My friends call me Ravie."

"Of course they do," Spike said.

"Uh." Angel rubbed the back of his neck. "When you say you're a fan of Spike's - "

"I'm moved." Ravie let go of Spike's hand. "The more I learn, the deeper it affects me. Life, death, passion, blood. It's just so epic, you know?"

"Oh, love." Spike gave her a sympathetic grimace. "It's not like that. I know a vamp like me may look all sexy and glamorous, but when you get right down to it - "

"I was way more evil and epic than he was," Angel said. He looked chastened as they both stared at him. "I mean, yeah. What he said. Evil, monstrous, you don't want to be a fan of that."

"Yeah, duh." Ravie rolled her eyes. "I'm goth, not delusional. I meant I'm a fan of his poetry." Off Angel's blank look, she elaborated. "Lost Angels Poetry Slam? Sudden Death Spoken Word Night? Your friend here's the three time champion."

A look of glee crossed Angel's face. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Funny how that never came up," Spike replied with a sigh.

"So anyway," said Ravie, turning her full attention onto Spike, "I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? And, like, get your advice on this piece I'm working on? I'm having a hard time finding a word that rhymes with 'metaphysical ennui'."

"Right," Spike took a step back. "You know, I'd love to and all but I'm busy."

Angel pushed him forward again. "No you're not."

"Pretty sure I am," Spike said with gritted teeth.

"You always say how much you like helping people," Angel said with an evil grin that belied the fact that he still had his soul. "Besides, I still haven't found DeWitt."

"Fabulous!" Ravie looped her arm through Spike's insinuatingly and gave a gentle tug. "Okay, see, it's about alienation. And liminality. And since those themes are so totally present in your work, I thought maybe you could give me some guidance?" Velvet rubbed back and forth over his bare forearm, and the girl leaned in until Spike took a half-step back with a hunted expression.

"What in hell's liminality when it's at home?" Spike asked, his eyebrows beetling together. He shook his head as though remembering the actual topic of conversation. "Anyway, love to, but can't. Angel and I - er - have things to do. Private things."

"Who do you have to kill in this town to get your hands on a seven-foot-tall cross-dressing demon?" Angel muttered, having abandoned Spike in favor of scanning the crowd once again.

"Oh!" Ravie clapped a hand to her mouth. Miraculously when she took it away there wasn't a single drop of lipstick smudged. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to come stomping all over your personal time."

"Quite all right," Spike said, the picture of generosity. He made a waving gesture that seemed to encompass both an air of forgiveness and a goodbye.

"I should have realized when I saw you two - " Ravie shook her head. "Stupid, stupid. Look, can I just have your autograph? And give you my number? I promise all I'm interested in is the poetry."

Whatever Spike would have said was cut off by the sudden sound of fighting coming from the other end of the bar.

"Fake ID?" Spike hazarded, peering through the crowd.

"Drug raid?" Ravie asked.

One of the bouncers flew backward, landing face first on the floor, and lay still. A shotgun blast took out the turntables. In the sudden silence, Angel said, "I'm thinking no."

People were surging in every direction on the dance floor, getting in each other's way in a not-quite panic. Angel took a standing jump and caught hold of the lighting grid suspended from the ceiling. It groaned but held. Angel nodded to Spike to follow and swung hand over hand over the crowd towards the door.

Spike cursed, abandoned Ravie, and shoved through the crowd behind Angel, arriving just in time to hear the newcomers announce, "This is a stick up. Give us all your money."

"Okay, man," said the bartender. "Take it easy." He opened the drawer of the cash register and slowly, making no sudden moves, began removing stacks of bills.

While the gunman was focused on the cash, Angel swooped down and grabbed the gun out of his hand. He bent it into something unrecognizable and tossed it aside. Spike threw a punch at his buddy, who was busy scooping cash into a backpack.

Angel opened his mouth to speak when the third robber turned, aiming a strange-looking gold and glowing gun into the air. At the sight of Angel the robber cried out in shock. The gun went off, blasting Angel directly in the face with a bright yellow light.

Angel staggered backwards, tripping over the prone body of the bouncer, and fell at Spike's feet.

Spike offered a hand to pull him up, his attention focused on the scene around them. "Hurry, they'll rabbit in a second."

When Angel didn't move Spike bent to make sure he was conscious. "Angel?"

Angel stared up at him blankly. "Who?"

---

"Organic chem, case research, organic chem, case research." Connor held two thick books up in either hand. One was a dusty leather-bound volume about the size of his head, the other was a modern textbook that was twice as big. He moved his hands up and down, as though balancing the books on a scale. "I think this is what they're talking about when they say damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Damnation is a meaningless word created by lesser beings to comfort themselves into thinking that their actions matter," Illyria told him. She was standing by the staircase to Angel's office, staring at the faded wallpaper. "Also you used that phrase inaccurately."

Connor dumped both of the books onto the front desk. The older one released a cloud of dust on impact. "Didn't know demon-gods had special powers of universe shaping and metaphor glossaries."

"It wasn't a metaphor." Illyria abandoned the wall to stand on the opposite side of the counter, though her expression didn't change. "And my knowledge is vast, encompassing things that you couldn't possibly - "

"Yeah, yeah." Connor slumped down into a chair. "You used to be a powerful god, in your day sayings were made of chocolate and had toy surprises on the inside, we know."

Illyria cocked her head. "You mock me."

"I don't, honest," Connor said, tilting his chair back and propping one foot up on his desk to steady himself. "It's just - don't you get tired of always living in the past?"

"I have no past," Illyria said. "Time is a limited construct which - "

Connor sharpened one of his pencils with quick, pointed movements. "You know what I meant. All you ever talk about is what you used to be. Why not focus on what you are?"

There was a long pause, in which Illyria stared expressionlessly at him in a way that Connor wasn't entirely certain she wasn't going to answer the question by throwing him across the room. Unexpectedly, she replied, "I am less than what I was. My powers are diminished, and thus far I have found only two who are willing to worship me."

"I thought it was one," Connor said.

Illyria cocked her head in the other direction. "I have outings of which I do not deign to inform you."

"Fair enough." Connor gave a very Angel-like shrug. "Still, maybe that's your problem. You're trying to recreate the old days, and it's not going to happen. Maybe you should try something new for a change."

"Such as?"

He dropped his foot down onto the ground and pulled his books closer. "No clue," he admitted. "Mostly I'm just killing time here because I don't want to deal with homework."

"Your father commanded you to study possibilities for what the latest threat might entail," Illyria reminded him.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm skimming blind until he can give me more information." Connor checked his watch. "Which hopefully he'll be doing any second now. The phone didn't ring while I was in the bathroom, did it?"

Illyria expression turned to clear disdain. "I am one who once commanded the life forces of the universe. My name was sung in song throughout the galaxies. I was the beginning and ending of all that mattered. I do not take messages."

"A simple 'no' would've done it," Connor said. He glanced over at the machine. The light wasn't blinking. "Oh well. They'd call if something was up."

---

"Bloody hell." Spike's eyes raked the partygoers, who were three seconds away from a panicked stampede for the club's narrow door. "Everybody stay calm and all that rot. The good guys won. Nothing to worry about."

Nobody was paying the slightest attention. Spike raised his voice to a bellow. "Free drinks at the back!"

If that didn't so much halt the stampede, it at least shifted its direction before it could trample Angel where he lay.

Spike caught a flash of green in the milling confusion, and his hand shot out, vampire-fast, to seize something in the crowd.

"Ow," said Ravie.

"Watch him," Spike told her. He turned. "Oi, mate, vigilante coming through." He shoved the nearest body out of his way and was quickly lost to sight.

Ravie crouched down next to Angel. "So how come I'm watching you? Are you hurt or something?"

"Who are you?" Angel asked, sitting up and rubbing his face.

"I told you," Ravie said with a pout.

"I don't remember," Angel said, his eyes wide and frightened. "I don't remember anything. What happened?"

"Oh." Ravie helped him up. "Well, it all started when you and your boyfriend were over there by the bar."

"My boyfriend?"

"Yeah." Ravie looked at him as though he were stupid. "Spike."

"Spike," Angel said, as though he couldn't quite believe that was a name that belonged to anybody, let alone someone he was dating. "And, uh, what's my name again?"

"Angel," she said.

"Of course it is," Angel said. He looked around, noting all the brightly dressed people and flashing disco lights. "What am I doing here?"

"Interrupting people, apparently," said Ravie. "You didn't give me your resume. But your boyfriend's a poet. Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"Sorry," said Angel, leaning a little closer. "Sure. It sounds romantic."

---

"Run!" the gunman shouted. His buddy grabbed the half-full backpack and was just reaching for the cashbox when he saw Spike, in vamp face, come bounding out of the crowd towards them, swinging a broken bottle and half of a chair.

His eyes wide, the gunman yelped, "Run more." The three robbers darted back out of the front entrance and closed in on the van across the street, where the orange coal of a cigarette indicated the driver waiting with the engine on.

Spike dashed out after them and was just gathering himself to hurdle a Prius that drove between him and the van when a flash of purple appeared in his peripheral vision, too late for Spike to avoid tripping over it. A squeal of tires indicated the robbers getting away in the resulting confusion.

Spike and the newcomer tumbled across the wet alley ground. The other demon got to his feet first, stumbling as he attempted to run away. Spike was nearly ready to let him when his eyes focused on the large shock of purple hair.

With a roar, Spike jumped to his feet. He grabbed the demon by the shoulder, pinning him to the brick wall outside of the club.

"I've been looking for you," he growled.

"I didn't do anything!" the demon said. His purple beehive towered over Spike by a good six inches, but that might have been because of the platform shoes on his feet. "I was fixing my makeup!" He began to rummage in his purse, as though for proof, but instead of taking something out the demon shoved his hand in and wielded the purse like a boxing glove as he clocked Spike across the face with it.

Spike reeled as beads and sequins sent him reeling with a power that belied their dainty appearance, but he managed to keep hold of the demon's shoulder. "Bloody hell! What, d'you keep rocks in there?"

"No, a brick." The demon held the bag up, ready for another strike. "I find it helps when somebody tries to attack me."

"I'm not attacking you. I'm attacking - " Spike cast about, at a loss when he couldn't find the van. "Oh, great. They got away."

"With your charm and personality, it's no wonder they'd want to." The demon brushed himself off and patted his perfectly coiffed hair. "And I had nothing to do with our little friends' new approach to the cash machine, so how's about you letting me go? You're mussing the dress."

Spike relaxed his grip. Slightly. A few turquoise beads rattled to the pavement. "You're DeWitt, right? Angel's contact."

The demon's eyes narrowed. "Who wants to know?"

"Spike. Angel's... I work with Angel," Spike said.

"Do you think I was hatched yesterday?" DeWitt tossed his head. "Three times last year someone came to me and claimed to be working with Angel. If they're not lying to me, they're lying to him, or he's lying to them, or they're all lying to each other. Which is very L.A., but I don't have time for this. I talk to the big fang or no one, and he knows it."

Spike winced. "Trust me, he doesn't."

"What?"

Spike sighed, "Come back inside, and I'll explain. They're long gone anyway."

DeWitt looked at his watch. "Oh, all right. Not like anyone's in the mood for Tina tonight. But make it quick."

---

There was no sign of Angel or Ravie when Spike and DeWitt returned to the club, but luckily for Spike there really was a back bar and the bartender had apparently decided free drinks were the better part of not getting killed.

Anyway, the music was playing again, from the DJ's iPod jerry-rigged to the speakers, a slightly manic crowd was taking out their relief on the dance floor and each other.

The counter guy was on the phone with the cops, so Spike left him to it, but he scrawled 'if you need help' and the office number on a cocktail napkin, just in case.

Spike managed to get a pint of lager and a Kir Royale to where DeWitt waited in a relatively quiet corner.

"Thing is," Spike said, leaning in persuasively, "Angel wanted me to handle this. He — "

A beefy arm wrapped around Spike's waist. Spike pulled it off of him without looking at it. "Sorry, mate, I'm taken."

"I know, honey." a familiar voice said.

"Angel?" Spike turned to face him and found himself engulfed in a bear hug. "Angel!"

"Ravie told me all about what happened," Angel said, leaning his chin on Spike's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Spike squirmed out of Angel's grasp. "You shouldn't be up yet," he said. "Or touching me. Ever."

"But I was worried," Angel said. He reached out a hand toward Spike but let it drop when Spike glared at it. "What happened?"

"Apparently you hit your head," Spike replied, sighing, "and I woke up in hell."

"Should I leave you two alone?" DeWitt asked.

Angel turned to DeWitt with puzzled frown. "Do I know you?"

"I get you into one tight situation two years ago and suddenly I earn the cold shoulder?" DeWitt folded his arms. "That's cruel, even from you."

"We need information." Spike pulled Angel behind him before he could say anything else to give the game away. "Now are we getting it out of you the easy way or the hard way?"

"Patience, Cujo." DeWitt waved him down. "No need to go flying off the handle." To Angel, DeWitt said, "Your boyfriend could use some manners."

"Why should he be nice to you?" Angel asked.

DeWitt gave them a haughty look. "Because I'm the only lead you've got? If you want to stop the next chart topper on evil's hit parade I'd better see some ass-kissing, and I don't just mean between the both of you."

"I... think I want to do that," Angel said, slowly. He looked at Spike. "Stopping evil, I mean. Though you do look cute in those pants."

"Never say that again where I can hear you," Spike told him. "Or where anyone else can, for that matter." To DeWitt, he said, "Tell you what, why don't you tell us what you know, and Angel and I will be on our merry way?"

"It's not what," DeWitt said. "It's who. I've got connections. What they don't know about smuggling in this city isn't worth knowing. And I should know."

"Fine," Spike said, "tell us where and when to meet your pals and we'll go see them."

"What's this 'we', kimosabe?" DeWitt cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. "My deal's with Angel. I bring him to my buddies, or I bring nobody."

"Right," Spike said. He glanced around, trying to think. "Yeah, see, thing about that is - "

Angel stepped forward. "Spike comes with me."

"He does?" DeWitt asked.

"I do?" Spike echoed.

"He does." Angel punctuated this statement by putting his arm around Spike's shoulders. "Spike's with me. So either he comes with, or I think I'm going to get really unhappy about this fighting evil thing."

DeWitt looked Angel over from head to toe, an appraising glint in his eyes. "Wouldn't have pegged you for the possessive, toppy type."

"He's not," Spike said. When both DeWitt and Angel blinked at him, he clarified, "The top, I mean. But the rest is true. Him and me together or nothing. Definitely not Angel by himself. That part's right out. Unless you've got some other way to get us this information?" Spike couldn't entirely keep the note of hope out of his voice as he asked.

Angel responded by threading his fingers through Spike's hand. "That was so sweet of you to say, Spikey."

"I don't remember you mentioning this guy to me two years ago," DeWitt said, regarding them suspiciously.

"I didn't?" Angel asked.

"We go way back," Spike said. He tried to free his hand from Angel's grasp but Angel held on tight. "Years. Longer than I'd even care to mention, actually."

"I don't know." Pursing his lips, DeWitt shifted his weight. "The guys we're going to are very shy, if you catch my meaning. I don't know how they're going to feel about me bringing along Angel's lackey."

"I am not Angel's lackey," Spike snapped automatically. "I'm his - " Angel looked at him, and Spike seemed to remember what his role was supposed to be in their current situation. "Oh, balls."

DeWitt threw up his hands. "Okay, okay, no need for TMI. I'll let them know we're coming. Wait here."

"Did I do good?" Angel asked as soon as DeWitt walked off and flipped open his cell phone.

"Yeah, right, fine," Spike said dismissively. He tried to listen in on what DeWitt was saying, but the noise of the club made it impossible. He whipped out his own phone, instead.

---

Connor snatched the phone off its cradle before it could finish the first ring. "Angel Investigations, we help the helpless, tell me how I can make your day by helping you."

"Junior?" Spike's voice came through the receiver. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Do you like it?" Connor asked. He began to doodle absently on the pad in front of him. "I was trying it out, thought it might help cheer people up a bit."

"Kind of people we deal with couldn't be cheered with a bottle of wine and a laughing gas chaser." Spike groaned and said, 'Didn't I say to get off me?' with his mouth away from the phone. 'No, I don't want to hold hands.' After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and resumed his conversation with Connor, "But that's not important right now. We've got trouble."

Connor sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Club got hit by petty thieves with a not-so-petty weapons budget," Spike told him. "At least, that's what it looks like. Angel took a whammy of something full in the noggin."

"Is he okay?" Connor asked.

"If ignorance is bliss he's the happiest vampire alive," Spike said. "Or as happy as he can be and still cling on to the soul. He doesn't remember who he is."

"Does he think he's sixteen again?" Connor asked. "Because if I have to I'll kick his ass, but it'll take me some time to get over there."

"What do you mean a - never mind." Spike sighed. "Look, stay there. We've got a lead on whatever it is coming to L.A.'s sunny shores, but what I can't do is let Angel or this DeWitt bloke out of my sight. Think you and Blue can make with the memory research? Whip up a cure by the time we get home?"

"I'll see what I can do," Connor said, giving a baleful look at the pile of books on his desk. "Oh, hey - try hitting him on the head real hard. That always works on TV."

"Might do it just to make myself feel better," Spike said. "Call me if you find anything."

---

Angel looked worried as Spike hung up his phone. "I know something happened and I know I'm all - " Angel made a scrambling motion beside his ear. " - mixed up, but talking to that demon seemed important to you."

"You are, it is," Spike said a bit distantly. He seemed to make up his mind and focused more fully on Angel. "Look, we need to get you home and put what counts as your brain back in your skull, but we need to stop the big nasty before it gets to L.A., too. Think you can hold it together until we can meet up with the cavalry?"

"Sure." Angel gave him a broad smile. "I'm with you, right? What could possibly go wrong?"

Spike snorted. "When you get your memory back, you're gonna find that question as funny as I do."

"We must laugh a lot together." Angel's face took on a nostalgic expression. "My gut's telling me what memories I have of you are ones that made me chuckle."

"No doubt," Spike said with a roll of his eyes.

"Sweetheart?"

"Not your sweetheart."

"Honey?" Angel offered instead, looking confused.

"Spike."

"Really? And do I like your hair?"

"Only if you like your liver on the inside," Spike said.

"What was that?" said DeWitt, reappearing as he put his own cell phone back into his bag.

"Nothing," Spike replied. "I just said it's going to be a long night."

DeWitt nodded. "Follow me."

He opened a door marked 'Employees Only' and led them into the back room.

"You mean that's it?" Spike said, looking around with annoyance. "Bloody hell, I could've done that myself."

The floor lurched, and Angel snaked his arm protectively around Spike's waist.

"Earthquake!" Angel said.

Spike squirmed free of Angel's grip and irritably smoothed his hair. "Elevator," he corrected. He turned to their contact, who was grinning a little too smugly. "Stealth elevator, for making all your honored guests look like prats. No spinning bookcase? I'm disappointed."

"I could make you a bookcase... couldn't I?" Angel said.

"Let's save playing with wood for later, all right?" Spike replied, "We're off to meet with the local mob boss and his crew of tough minions to ask them for a favor, and he doesn't like it when people waste his time."

De Witt sniffed. "You know, Angel was running this town long before he picked up your skinny ass. You might show a little respect."

"That was respect," Spike said shortly. "I didn't call him an idiot."

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Spike jumped. Behind him, a different door than the one they'd come in through had opened on their destination – a basement room that seemed larger than the club above. In the doorway stood an older man in an expensive suit, and to each side of him stood heavies with tire irons – demons on the left, humans on the right.

DeWitt stepped forward to make the introductions. "Angel's here to see you about the situation. This is his boyfriend."

Spike held out his hand. "William the Bloody. What we need to know is..."

The man ignored his hand. "Your antics may amuse Angel," he said. "But I don't intend to deal with escorts."

Spike forced himself to smile nicely. "It just so happens that – "

Angel brushed past Spike into the room and shook the man's hand, paying as little attention to the lackeys as he would so many doorstops. "My partner has my complete trust," he said, holding eye contact and a firm grip longer than was necessary. "He speaks for me. In fact - " Angel paused as if the idea had just occurred to him. " - you go ahead and handle this, sweetie."

Angel released the man's hand, and despite his poker face Spike could see the man surreptitiously working the blood back into his fingers.

Spike let out a breath. "Word on the street is something bad is coming to town."

"And the word in this room is that it's worse than you think," the mobster said, nodding regally. "You desire protection? If Angel can no longer guard his people we may have to reassess the balance of power."

"We'll handle the protection ourselves, thanks," Spike said. "We want information. What's coming, when, who's bringing it, whatever you've got."

"What's in it for us?" the demon on the left asked, looking down his broad nose at Spike.

"Dead bad guys," Spike said succinctly.

The mobster chuckled. "We're bad guys."

Spike nodded. "So the last thing you want is competition."

The mobster raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. Come, and tell me what you have in mind."

Angel watched Spike follow the group to a large pool table half covered with papers and abandoned drinks. Left to his own devices, Angel wandered over to the black glass bar, where the room's only woman sat, watching the rest of them. She had dyed blond hair and a short pink skirt and looked to be about thirty-five. She was drinking a Cosmopolitan.

"Hi," said Angel.

She swiveled the bar stool to face him. "I'm his wife," she warned him. "If you like your kneecaps, you don't want to hit on me."

"I wasn't. That's my boyfriend," he said proudly, pointing to Spike.

She relaxed, crossing one slim leg over the other and smiling at him. "Sorry. My husband's business associates don't usually bother to make conversation."

Angel studied her. "You must get bored."

"You don't know the half of it. This is our anniversary. We were supposed to have a nice dinner out, but then something came up and here we are." She shrugged.

Angel straddled the stool next to her. "I know what you mean," he said sympathetically. "We were upstairs at the club and now he's all business."

"Mimi," she introduced herself. "Have a drink."

"Angel," he said. "It's nice that you take an interest in your husband's work."

She laughed. "I could tell you stories."

Angel poured himself some amber liquid from one of the bottles on the bar. "I'm listening."

Mimi leaned back and searched his eyes. "You are, aren't you? You're not just being polite?"

Angel nodded. "I'm having a kind of confusing day, but I think I'm a really good listener. I have a feeling I'm the kind of guy people love sharing their problems with. Plus I don't think I like to interrupt."

"That's sweet," Mimi said. "Does your boyfriend appreciate that?"

"I honestly don't know," Angel admitted.

Mimi stood up, scraping her stool back across the floor. Everyone turned to look at the source of the painful noise.

"Anthony, you have to help them," she said, walking to her husband and adjusting his collar. "They're good people."

"How the hell do you know?" he asked. "They just got here."

Mimi smiled back at Angel. "Feminine intuition."

"All right, all right," Anthony said. "But only because it's our special day." He turned to Spike. "All I know is it's a shipment, coming in tonight, and when it gets here L.A.'s going to be painted in blood."

"Used to be a time I'd enjoy doing that myself," Spike said. "But since these days I'd care to stop that, how's about you tell me where I can find this little shipment of fun and merriment?"

"By the water."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Want to be any more vague?"

"That's all I know."

"Great," Spike said, turning away. "Another sodding needle in a haystack - "

Anthony's hand landed on his shoulder. "My contact might be persuaded to divulge more... if you approach him the right way. You don't want to piss him off."

Smiling, Spike slowly pivoted back to face him. "I've pissed off hell gods, mate; I'm ready for whatever this nasty contact of yours can do."

---

Spike knocked on the window in game face, and the driver, a pimply nineteen-year-old boy, dropped his coffee onto his orange uniform pants.

"Can I come in?" Spike asked with a fang-filled grin.

"N-no," the boy stuttered, sliding away across the seat and getting himself caught on the gear shift.

Spike pulled the door off its hinges. "Guess again."

"Please don't hurt me," the boy said. "I don't want to die." Spike ignored him and picked up his clipboard, flipping back through the pages. He let his face slip back into human mode, frowning. The boy dove for the far passenger door, only to find Angel leaning against it to keep it closed.

Spike tossed the clipboard aside. "So," he read the guy's shirt, "Bob. We hear you've been talking about your deliveries."

"Are you from the boss?" Ludicrously, the boy tried to straighten his hat. "I never, I swear it. Not even to my girlfriend."

"You don't have a girlfriend," Spike said, looking him over.

"So that just proves I didn't tell her!" Bob insisted, and Spike shook his head with a laugh.

"Man by the name of Anthony says it was your truck. He's not the kind of bloke who makes mistakes," Spike said.

"It must've been Dave!" Bob said.

Spike and Angel looked at each other from opposite sides of the truck.

"Dave?" Spike asked Bob.

"Sure! I just drive. He loads and unloads and takes the packages in. He's in the back right now; you can ask him yourself."

Spike and Angel abandoned the cab and trotted round to the back. Spike hoisted the metal door with a clang, expecting to see another snot-nosed kid. Instead, a hulking mustard-colored demon with a second pair of arms was hauling boxes around and checking them off a list at the same time.

"Let me guess," Spike said, "you must be Dave."

The fourth hand tucked a pencil behind his ear. "What can I do ya for?" Dave asked.

"I hear there's a shipment coming in tonight." Spike said.

"I got 34 of 'em right here. You got a tracking number?"

"This one you'd remember," Spike said. "You been talking about it. To Anthony's boys."

Dave took a couple of slow steps backwards into the trailer. "That didn't mean nothing. Just having a beer with the guys, trying to sound important." He turned to Angel, hoping for a more sympathetic reaction. "You know how it is."

"No," Angel said with absolute sincerity.

"Is it here?" Spike asked sharply.

Dave stared at them. "Are you kidding? We just do overnight mail. This is something big. The boss has a whole 'nother department for that."

"Who sent it?"

"I don't know."

Spike swung himself up into the bed of the truck and started advancing toward Dave. "I don't believe you."

"I don't know!" Dave said.

Spike eyed him. "You know something," he said.

"Let me just check my..." Dave faked left, grabbed for the boxes, and rapid fired several of them at Spike's head before dashing past him toward the open door.

An avalanche of boxes buried Spike from behind, and he crawled out, swearing, from under the pile to see Dave dangling from the end of Angel's arm, all four fists windmilling as he tried to connect.

"I caught him for you," Angel said proudly.

"Good job," Spike said, staggering upright.

Angel frowned at Dave. "You shouldn't have hurt my boyfriend," he said.

"I'm not – " Spike started to say, and then Angel's punch knocked Dave back twenty feet into a dumpster. From the corner of his eye Spike could see Bob hurrying away, but he ignored the kid.

Angel looked at his fist, then at Dave... then at his fist again, and back at Dave.

Dave's mouth worked several times without producing any noise, and he bent over, clutching his chest. "I didn't know he was your boyfriend!" Dave gasped once he could get enough breath to form words. "You're Angel, aren't you?"

"Yes," Angel said, sounding almost sure of it. He moved to brush Spike's shoulder with his own and together they advanced on Dave.

"All right, I'll tell you, don't hurt me. It's one of those big container things. I heard them talking about special security in the break room. It's for Wolfram & Hart."

"Who - ?" Angel started to say.

Spike was forced to slip one affectionate arm around Angel's waist so he could give Angel a vicious warning pinch without Dave seeing. "Calm down, love," he said to Angel. Over his shoulder he told Dave, "Piss off before he really gets angry."

Spike led Angel away, not daring to let go until they were out of sight.

"Am I Superman?" Angel asked, looking down at his fist as if it might come to life.

"More like Batman," said Spike. "Not much for colors." Angel glanced down at his black-on-black outfit and nodded.

"We fight what needs fighting. Help the people who can't," Spike explained.

A smile broke over Angel's face. "I can do that."

Spike quirked an eyebrow. "I just said you did."

Angel shook his head impatiently and strode ahead of Spike for the first time since he'd lost his memory. "I can do that. Now. I may not remember where I met the guy in the dress or where we're going but I'm still strong. I can still knock the bad guys out." He glanced at where Dave's body had landed. "I can still tell who the bad guys are."

"Sometimes," said Spike, uncomfortably. Angel was smiling, a big, unshadowed, unfamiliar grin, and Spike decided to change the subject. "Want to go hit more?"

"Yeah!" Angel was so enthusiastic that Spike gave him a friendly pat on the arm.

"Some things don't change," Spike said. "We just have a couple stops to make first."

---

Gunn answered the door of the shelter with a welcoming expression aimed somewhere around Angel's chest, but it quickly faded once he realized they weren't runaways.

"Trouble?" he asked and then answered his own question. "Must be something big if you're coming to me." He glanced back over his shoulder with a frown. "I'll get my axe."

Spike shook his head. "Not that kind, Charlie. We need your brains, not your muscles." He reconsidered his statement and added, "At least, not yet. Can we come in?"

"Don’t need an invitation," Gunn reminded him, but he didn't move out of the doorway.

"Hi," Angel said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Angel."

Gunn flipped his steady gaze over to Angel but didn't take his hand. "I don't have time for your bullshit," he said coolly.

Spike intervened. "It's not. He took a faceful of Amnesia in a Bottle, and now all he knows is his name is Angel and he can fight like a superhero."

"And you're my boyfriend, Spike," Angel added.

"So you two finally admitted that?" Gunn asked.

"Go to hell, Charlie," Spike said without true rancor.

Gunn gestured to the both of them. "So what's up with - "

"Long night, not getting any shorter, you'd be happy to agree to anything if it meant shutting him up," Spike replied.

"Not sure I'd pick the same method you did," Gunn said.

"Yeah, well, until Illyria and college boy find us some way of zapping Angel's brain back we're stuck with what we've got," Spike said. He pulled out his cell phone but the display told him he had no new messages.

Angel still had his hand out. "I'm Angel," he repeated, smiling. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

After a moment of hesitation, Gunn's hand closed around it. "Charles Gunn," he said. "Come on in. But be quiet or we'll wake the kids."

Angel's face lit up. "You have children? I love kids. Can we play games? I feel like I'm the kind of guy who likes playing games with kids."

"Yeah," Spike muttered, "and in the old days if you were nice you even let some of them live."

"What?" Angel asked.

"Nothing."

Gunn led the way to his office. "Kinda like him better this way," he said to Spike as he ushered them in and closed the door behind him.

Angel plucked a construction paper flower from a bulletin board of children's artwork and held it out to Spike.

"More for you," Spike said to Gunn. He took the flower and pinned it back on the corkboard with an unnecessarily hard jab, ignoring Angel's disappointed look.

Gunn dropped into the chair behind the desk and waved the other two to the visitors' seats, then leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees. "I assume you still remember I quit?" Gunn asked Spike, only half joking. Spike nodded. "Then why exactly are you here? I've got a nurse and forty flu shots coming in — " He checked his watch. " - six hours. I need some sleep."

"There's something bad coming to town," Angel put in, fetching Spike a cup of water from a bubbling cooler in the corner.

Spike frowned at it for a moment before tossing it into the trashcan without drinking it.

"When isn't there?" Gunn asked.

"It's a shipment." Spike held Gunn's gaze. "From Wolfram & Hart. Figured you might have some idea how those go."

Gunn sat back in his chair. "Dirty blow," he said without much heat.

Spike shrugged his agreement. "Did it work?"

"Yeah." It was more a sigh than a word. "Liked you better when he played bad vamp," he informed Spike with a jerk of his chin toward Angel.

"Yeah," Spike said. "Me, too."

Gunn powered up the computer. "Maybe we can track it."

Spike blinked at him. "You're a hacker now?"

"Nah. I leave that to the kids." Gunn tapped his bald head. "But I got every password I was cleared for this time last year. I'm assuming Wes was bright enough to change his own, but for some shipping vendor's system? Maybe they didn't bother."

He hit a bunch of keys, clicked the mouse a few times, and typed a little bit more. He frowned. "No luck."

The printer spewed a sheet of paper.

"Then what's that?" Spike asked.

"Address," Gunn said. "Consolidated Container Shipping, LLC. They've still got Wolfram & Hart listed as a client. Try from the other end."

"Aren't we still going to need a password?" Angel asked.

"You might find a printout," Gunn said in the optimistic tones of someone who isn't going to be doing the searching. "Good luck with that."

Spike grinned. "We hit someone," he explained to Angel, "until they give us theirs."

Angel's brow wrinkled. "I thought we were the good guys."

Clearing his throat, Gunn stood and looked at Angel and Spike.

Angel stood too, but Spike ignored him, lounging back in the chair. "You're not gonna join us, Charlie-boy?"

Gunn opened the office door and held it in an obvious invitation for them to leave. "He forgot what happened between us," he told Spike. "I didn't."

---

The street was empty when they left the shelter, and as they walked down the sidewalk Angel reached for Spike's hand. "It's a nice night, isn't it?"

Spike yanked his hand out of reach and stuck it in his pocket. "Bloody great."

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, and then Angel said, "You don't have to take it out on me, you know."

"What?" Spike said.

Angel looked over at him. "Just because your friend didn't want to come with us. I know you're upset, but you can talk to me about it. I'm here for you."

"I'm just tired," Spike lied.

"No, there's more. I can feel it." Stopping, Angel caught Spike's chin and peered deep into his eyes. "You're pushing me away."

Spike shoved him in the chest to re-establish some personal space. "I am not!"

"You did!" Angel protested. "Just now! You pushed me away!"

"'Cause you made me feel like I was visiting the eye doctor! Just give me some room, Angel." Spike parted his hands to indicate the foot or two he had in mind. He repeated the motion for clarity.

"It's all about you, isn't it?" Angel said with a glare. "Did you ever think that when your boyfriend loses his memory he might need a little reassurance?"

"You're not my sodding boyfriend!" Spike yelled.

Angel stopped dead, and his face started to crumple. "Then who am I, and what's going on? I don't even remember - " he started to say, just as two very familiar tire irons with heavies attached turned the corner and appeared behind Angel's back.

Spike cupped Angel's face and pulled him in for a deep, passionate kiss.

---

Spike kept on kissing Angel until one of Anthony's heavies shuffled his feet. He peeked at the heavy with one eye, and then he kissed Angel some more. He even let his fingers wander over one bicep possessively, that being the tamest of the available grips.

The other heavy coughed. "Um?" he said. "We could come back later?"

Spike turned his head but kept his body pressed into Angel's. "What?" he snapped.

"The boss says pay us ten grand, and he'll be your backup for the raid."

"We don't need backup," Spike said. He added in a nearly inaudible mutter, "And it's not like I'm rolling in dosh, here."

"The boss said keep hitting you until you do," the heavy said with a shrug.

Spike smiled to show all his teeth. "You don't want to keep interrupting us, boys. You wouldn't like Angelus when he gets... frustrated. You tell your boss if he wants to be there that much he can do it for free, and anything we find that's not evil or human he can keep."

Ignoring them, he went back to kissing Angel, and after a short muttered conversation and a last 'but we could've...!' the heavies disappeared.

Angel pulled back just enough to gaze soulfully into Spike's eyes and rub his thumb over Spike's lower lip. He began to smile.

Spike shoved Angel back hard enough to bounce him off a nearby car, whose blaring car alarm promptly went off. He dragged the sleeve of his coat across his mouth.

Angel's face all but crumpled. Clenching his jaw, he strode off, ignoring the sign that said 'Dead End.'

"Here, now. You can't be wandering off like that." Spike caught his upper arm ,and Angel turned on him, jerking out of his grasp.

"I'm sick of your mixed messages," Angel said in a tired voice. "When you figure out what the hell you want, let me know."

"I had to shut you up," Spike said. "Bloody mobster's boys were listening. They think we're dating."

Angel kept walking so quickly that Spike had to half-run to keep up. "You made them think it."

Spike shrugged. "Only way I could get into the meeting."

Angel glared at him. "You let me think it, too."

Spike glared right back. "I had to stick close to you, or you'd have talked yourself into getting killed! Those blokes may be allies for the moment, but they'd stake you as soon as look at you the second you showed your underbelly."

Angel's expression softened. "You wanted to keep me safe?"

Spike rolled his eyes.

Angel stopped, abruptly. "I love you?" he said, his tone wavering between asking and telling.

Spike continued a pace or two on automatic pilot, then swiveled to face Angel. "No you don't," he said flatly. "I'm just all you've got to hang onto. When you get your memories back, you'll see. Can't bloody happen soon enough for me."

Angel smiled like the sun coming out. "You miss me."

Spike pressed his fingers into his eyes as if he were getting a headache. "You're right there."

"No, I mean the real me," Angel persisted. "That's why you're so cranky all the time. You want me to get my memories back and be him again, the Angel you love."

"I don't bloody love you!" Spike insisted.

"But you do miss me..." Angel's tone was coy, teasing.

Spike looked out over his hand, hopefully. "If I say yes, do you promise to shut up till we get there?"

"Where are we going?" Angel asked.

"Home," Spike said, letting his hand fall to his side.

"We live together?"

"This is my punishment, isn't it?" Spike asked the air. "I'm not sure I was that evil."

"That's not an answer, you know," said Angel.

---

Angel stopped dead on the sidewalk in front of the Walden, reading the marquee. Spike glanced up to make sure it hadn't been changed to something funnier while he was out, but, no, the sign still said plain old 'Angel Investigations.'

"Do we have to?" Angel asked.

Spike cocked his head in question.

"Investigate," Angel explained. "It's just... Charles made it sound like he's kind of a jerk."

"Gunn," Spike corrected. "You call him Gunn. And who's a jerk?"

"Him – me - Angel." Angel shrugged. "Maybe I don't want to know."

Spike glanced at the clock on a nearby bank. "Then don't," he said. "Yeah, there's people here can tell you who you are. But if you don't want to know, pop in a DVD, have a beer, have a nap. Go off and brood in a corner; you are – were – good at that. I'm out of options, Angel. I have to go track down a lead before tomorrow night, I can't do it and babysit you, not where I'm going, and I can't leave you alone. Connor'll take care of you."

Spike circled behind Angel and gave his shoulder blades a shove. Angel staggered a few steps into the lobby, where Connor and Illyria sat behind the counter, staring at a glowing monitor.

"Haven't found anything yet that beats my hitting him on the head idea," Connor said. "By the way, have I mentioned I'm not magic guy?"

"Our last magic guy went evil," Spike said. "You'll have to do."

"Yeah," Connor said, rolling his eyes, "because past history gives me so much incentive to follow in Wesley's footsteps."

"Who's Wesley?" Angel asked.

Connor snorted. "Yeah, he's definitely lost his memory if that didn't ring a bell."

"Memory is only a perception of shadows of reality as feeble minds comprehend it." Illyria gave Connor what might have been a pointed look. "We choose to remember only that which we want."

"You're just doing research, remember? Don't try anything to fix him on your own," Spike said. "That way lies bloody musical theater."

"Too bad Gunn's not here. He really liked Pinafore," Connor said.

"Just research. There's a chance it might wear off, and if not we get an expert. Keep your eye on him till I come back. Both eyes," he emphasized, gesturing at the computer. "I've got to see a man about a package."

Without asking, Spike groped briefly in Angel's pants pocket, coming up with his car keys. He fished a bone knife out of the weapons cabinet and tucked it inside his coat, and then, with a wave over his shoulder, he was gone.

"You're Connor?" Angel asked, sitting down on the ottoman with a thump and looking around the lobby with a frown. "Are you my boyfriend?"

"No," said Connor vehemently. "And, God, am I going to need therapy."

---

Spike walked into the Wolfram & Hart messenger center with a giant bouquet of orchids and a twenty in his hand.

"Listen, mate," he told the man working the counter. "My girl and I had a bit of a tiff at lunch. Any chance I could deliver this myself?"

The man's face was wooden. "Visitors sign in at the front desk," he said.

Spike tilted his head and tried a harmless smile. "They'll let her know I'm coming," he said persuasively. "I want it to be a surprise." He slid the bill across the Formica.

The man's face didn't change, but the bill disappeared. "If you make any trouble, I never saw you," he told Spike. "Freight elevator on your left."

The elevator juddered to a halt and debouched Spike on the floor of executive offices. Spike approached what used to be Harmony's desk with a jaunty whistle and deposited the flowers.

Kyle pushed a button on his phone console and looked up. "For Mr. Wyndam-Pryce? I'll just have security scan them for explosives and magic. Sign here, please."

"For you," Spike corrected. "Thankless job, isn't it? Just want you to know someone appreciates all your hard work – " He glanced around for a name plate. " - Kyle."

Kyle eyed the flowers with a combination of suspicion and pleasure.

"I know what it's like around here, but it won't blow up. I promise," Spike said with a smooth smile. He brushed past the desk while Kyle was still searching for a card in the flowers and opened Wesley's office door.

"It's all right; he's here," Wesley said into his receiver and hung up the phone. "Come in, Spike."

Spike kicked the door shut behind him.

"That wasn't necessary, you know," Wesley informed him. "Though quite a bit more imaginative than Angel's usual approach."

"Decided to pretend you're on our side again?" Spike asked, ignoring the chair Wesley gestured toward.

"Decided to stop wasting time and cut the plate glass and medical budget," Wesley corrected. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Funny," said Spike, "I was going to ask you the same question."

"You came to me," Wesley pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

Spike shoved Wesley's books and papers off to one side of the desk, turning the neat stacks into a hopeless jumble with his keys, paperweights, and slim silver laptop. Spike perched on the edge of Wesley's desk, getting into his personal space. "You're getting a shipment tonight," he said.

Wesley glanced down at his interrupted paperwork. "Very possibly," he admitted with a shrug.

Spike kicked Wesley's chair, which rolled back to rest against the wall. "What's in it?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Wesley said. He gave no visible reaction to Spike's gesture beyond simply smoothing the cuff of his fine blue shirt.

"You're pretty cool for a man whose girlfriend had her soul eaten by a stray box," Spike snapped.

Wesley stood up and smiled tightly. "Spike, this is a major multinational corporation. We get shipments every day."

"It could be another Old One," Spike said, standing as well.

"It could be envelopes," Wesley countered.

"Envelopes known for literally painting the town red?" Spike replied.

"Paper cuts can be very nasty," Wesley said, his expression still betraying nothing.

"Don't suppose you care to make a few phone calls and tell me exactly what it is?" Spike got closer to him, his frustration evident on his face.

"It's none of your concern," said Wesley. "Now if that's all – " He moved to brush past Spike, but Spike caught him by the shoulder.

"Not yet," Spike said. "You must have heard by now that Angel's misplaced his memory. You lot have something to do with that?"

"It wasn't me," Wesley told him.

"Didn't think so," Spike replied and let him go. "Seem to recall you had a bit of an issue with messing with people's heads. Here's the thing," he said, picking up Wesley's letter opener and toying with it. "With him out of commission, I'm the one helping the bloody helpless these days. And you should know, I'm not Angel. All that warm and fuzzy bollocks about the old days, best mates, right-hand man? I don't give a fuck for all that. He always did have a soft spot for poncing about forever. Me? You get in my way, I just kill you."

"I'm already dead," Wesley reminded him.

"So am I," Spike said, leaning in closer. "But as I recall going up in flames hurts like bloody hell regardless of whether or not your heart's still beating."

"Are you threatening me?" Wesley asked in a distantly curious tone.

Spike shrugged. "If you like." He tossed the letter opener with a sharp snap of his wrist, shattering the plate glass window that separated Wesley's office from the lobby, and used the second of distraction to palm the key ring from Wesley's desk and drop it in his coat pocket.

Security guards in dark suits came running up from several directions, but Wesley lifted a forestalling hand. "It's all right," he said. "Spike was just leaving."

Spike grinned. "Sorry about your budget," he said, sauntering out, and blew Kyle a kiss.

---

Angel stood in the center of the garish carpet, turning around slowly to look at the outdated posters that blocked the windows. "Why do I work in a movie theater?" Angel asked Connor.

"To have the world's biggest PlayStation?" Connor was sprawled on the carpet, his books spread around him and his gangly legs propped up on an office chair. "Seriously, I don't know. Ask me another one."

"Okay," Angel crouched down to be nearer Connor's level. "Why does Charles, I mean Gunn, hate me?"

Connor slowly sat up. "You guys had a fight," he said. "I didn’t get the play by play. A friend of his died, he wanted to go take her old job, and you didn't want him to."

Angel shook his head. "It's more than that. When I hit people they go flying across the room."

"Us too." Connor said with a grin, gesturing to himself and Illyria. "Neat, huh?"

"It is not neat. It is puerile. Once I could level stars with my mere displeasure," Illyria commented.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause there's nothing worse than unlevel stars." He turned back to Angel.

"Gunn said I used to play bad vamp," Angel said. "And when I asked Spike if we were the good guys he laughed."

"Yeah, the you being a good guy thing... is complicated." Connor rubbed the back of his neck, obviously finding it hard to make eye contact.

"Gunn said he liked me better this way," Angel continued. "If I used to be so bad, maybe I don't want my old memories."

"You should stop asking for information if you do not desire it," Illyria said. "That is the lesson you wished others to learn when you stole their memories from them."

Angel looked up. "When I did what?"

"He doesn't need to know about that," Connor said, getting to his feet and moving in between Angel and Illyria.

"That's not a nice thing to do." Angel stood up and went to lean against the counter. "All day today I don't know who I am or where I belong or why I do the things that I do. Spike had to keep rescuing me because I didn't know what not to say to people."

"You didn't know that even when you had your memories," Connor reassured him.

"But couldn't Spike just keep telling me what to say 'til I catch on? It's not like I keep forgetting," Angel continued.

Connor put a hand on Angel's forearm. "Look - "

"I don't remember you," Angel said. He looked deep into Connor's eyes as though he could get a clue inside of them. "I look at you, and something inside me tells me that you are very important. Maybe the most important person I've met today. I have this feeling like if somebody hurt you I'd want to take them apart with my bare hands, but I don't even know why."

Connor was momentarily speechless. "Um - you - see, the thing is - "

"You are happier without the memories, and you should discard them without sentiment. You are certainly less unpleasant to have in close proximity," Illyria said.

Connor looked down, chewing on his lip. "Yeah," he said finally. "Some of them are going to suck. But just because you're happier doesn't mean you don't need them."

"You sound sad," Angel observed.

Connor herded Angel into the desk chair. "Sit down," he said. "There's something you should know."

"Do I have to?" Angel asked, only half joking.

Connor nodded. "You're a vampire," he said bluntly. "And I'm your son."

Angel's lips formed the word "son", but no actual sound came out. "I, um, sorry about the boyfriend thing. Should I be helping you with your homework or grounding you or something?"

"I was weirded out too," Connor said with a sympathetic smile. "Take a minute to deal with the first part. We don't have to play catch in the yard."

Angel's expression showed he was hoping not to have to deal with the rest of it. "But a good vampire, right?" Angel said. "I help the helpless. It says so on the business cards." He pulled one off the counter and showed it to Connor.

Connor thought about it for a minute. "Yeah," he said. "But you didn't used to be."

---

Hours later, Spike and Angel piled out of the car and stared up at the big blue crane, followed by Connor and Illyria.

"It looks like an At-At!" Connor said.

Angel gave him a blank look.

"Star Wars," Spike explained. Angel looked at him blankly, too.

"Forget it," Spike said before turning to Connor, "These don't walk." He gave the crane another glance. "I hope."

The chain-link fence in front of them was festooned with razor wire and had signs signifying that it was electrified.

Spike gestured to Angel. "This is our job."

Angel screwed up his face. "Because we're seeking redemption?"

"Because all electricity does is give us a bad hair day," Spike corrected. The two of them climbed the fence, blue sparks buzzing around them. They cast shadows in the high sodium arc lights as they vaulted over the top and landed on the tarmac on the far side with smoke coming from their fingers.

Spike grinned at Angel and grabbed one side of the lock. Angel took the other, and they snapped it like a wishbone.

"All right. Tell me when you stop getting zapped," Spike said, hitting the switches in the junction box one by one.

Angel winced as he touched the fence after each switch until he finally didn't get a shock. "All set." He and Spike threw open the gates.

"All right, Tony," Spike called. "Come on in."

There was a loud, repeating beeping sound. Connor and Illyria scrambled out of the way of the truck as it reversed into the driveway.

"Not exactly subtle," Spike commented to DeWitt, who was driving.

DeWitt had exchanged his evening gown for a sensible Jackie O. skirt suit and pearls. His purple hair was twisted into an elegant chignon. He fixed his lipstick in the rear view mirror. "We can't take a container load out in our pockets."

A security guard rounded the corner at a run. "This is private property," he told them. "You can't be here."

"We're making a pick up," DeWitt explained. He blotted his lipstick with a tissue.

"It's after hours!" the guard said, approaching the driver's side, and Spike simply waited till he passed and then punched him in the side of the head.

"Connor," Spike said, and Connor slipped a roll of duct tape off of his skinny wrist and tied the man up.

Anthony and his boys opened the back of the truck and strode down the ramp, and then they all looked around them.

"Shit," he said, "now what?"

All around them stacks of containers, each as big as a freight train car, rose in every direction, looking like giant Legos or a modern industrial version of the Pyramids. They had letters and numbers stenciled on their sides.

Spike groaned. "How are we supposed to know whether 'AYZ679' means 'Wolfram & Hart' or 'Cabbage Patch Kids?' Where's the office?" A quick glance around only showed a couple of porta-potties and a maintenance shed.

With only a glance at Angel, Anthony strolled over to Spike's side. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Off-site office?" Spike said.

"Yeah."

"Crap."

"I could beat the shit out of you for wasting my time," Anthony offered in a conversational tone.

"Spike?" Angel asked.

"Not now, Angel," Spike said with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Spike?"

"In a minute."

"But Spike," Angel insisted, "didn't Dave say they were talking about extra security?"

"Yeah?" Spike asked.

"So if we find the extra security, it would have to be that one, right?"

Spike grinned. "Brilliant," he said.

Angel beamed. "I helped?" He reached his hand toward Spike and then dropped it.

Spike caught it and gave it a squeeze. "You bloody well did," Spike told him. "Couldn't have done it without you."

"Spread out, boys," said Anthony. "You see guards, give the word." Spike nodded at the mob leader. "You lot take the ground. We're going for a birds'-eye view." He jerked his chin to indicate the nearest stack of containers. "Follow me," he told his co-workers.

Illyria pushed past him and began to climb the nearest container with movements that looked like they belonged more to a spider than a human being.

Spike shrugged. "Or that." He nodded to Connor, and they began to scale the stack of containers.

Angel took a step after them, only to hear a small thunk as something slammed into his flesh. He looked down to see a crossbow bolt piercing his shoulder and pinning him to the wooden wall of the shed. He winced as he tried to move.

Quiet footsteps moved toward him, and a crossbow level with his heart came into view.

"We need to talk," Wesley said.

"Wishing you all would wear white or black hats so I know which team you're on," Angel drawled. "Although the crossbow is a clue."

---

"Are you sure we can trust those guys?" Connor asked, climbing up the stack of containers behind Spike.

"Of course we can't trust them," Spike said, finding a good handhold at the top of the next box and hoisting himself up. "But we're the ones with the key, and they're hoping to come away from this with some dosh in their pockets, so I'm thinking that's probably enough to keep them on our side."

Illyria was higher on the stack; she paused and looked down at them without saying anything, waiting for them to catch up. When Spike reached the container she was standing on and looked down into the yard, it didn't take long to spot the box that they were searching for; there were three uniformed security guards standing around it, looking bored.

"There we are. Nothing like looking at a problem from the right angle," Spike said.

"Where is our leader?" Illyria asked.

"Keeping his head down, looks like." Spike shrugged. "Guess losing all those memories made room for some common sense."

Joining them, Connor pointed off to the right, where Anthony's minions were creeping into the yard at ground level, moving silently.

Spike inclined his head toward the guarded container. "Give them a minute to see it from where they are," he said quietly.

"And then what?" Connor asked.

Holding up the bunch of keys, Spike grinned. "And then," he said, "we have some fun."

He watched the minions spread out and then winced as one - more eager or more clumsy - kicked something with his foot, the brief clatter loud enough to have the guards coming to attention.

"Think the fun just started," Connor said.

Spike gave him a quick glance. There was a half-smile on Connor's face and his hand was flexing, forming a fist and then relaxing again.

"You like this, don't you?" he asked as the guards caught sight of the two demons amongst Anthony's minions and backed off, looking suddenly less than enthusiastic about their job.

"Fighting?" Connor shrugged. "I'm good at it."

Spike watched the token resistance the guards were putting up before they faded back into the shadows. He smiled. "So am I."

It didn't take long for the three of them to join the others on the ground, and by the time they had there was no sign of the guards, who'd obviously decided that their lives were more valuable than their jobs.

"All right," he said, walking over to the door. The padlock was hefty and made of solid steel by the looks of it. "Just keep an eye out while I get this open. And let's hope it's not got some sort of spell on it." He tried one key after another while Connor kept an uneasy eye on their surroundings.

"What if all you've got is his house keys and his gym locker?" Connor asked.

"Then we ram the bloody truck into it," Spike muttered just as the key he held slid in. He worked the key into the lock, turned it, and pulled the padlock free. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Anthony was standing back behind a few of his minions, watching with interest.

"Here we go," Spike said and started to yank the door open at the same time that it was bashed loose from its hinges from inside the container, knocking him to the ground with the door half on top of him.

Snarls and shouts filled the air. By the time Spike had thrown the door to one side and scrambled to his feet, the battle was raging on around him, a dozen demons spilling out of the container and attacking everyone in front of them.

Spike growled as a sharp claws came down to grip his shoulders. He tried to whirl around only to discover that the demon was actually above him, its flapping bat-like wings lifting him from the ground while the demon's talons cut through clothes and flesh indiscriminately.

"Oi! Claws off!" He struggled to get his sword out, flashing into game face, and finally closed his hand around the hilt of his weapon. He writhed in the demon's grip, swinging above his head, and managed to catch his attacker with the tip of his weapon. It was a glancing blow, not more than a scratch, but it was enough that it loosened its grip. Quickly, before it could recover, he sliced at it again, and this time the demon dropped him.

He staggered as his feet hit the pavement unevenly, almost going to his knees, but managed to turn and run the demon through with the sword as it dove at him again. It made a choked sound and collapsed, taking Spike's sword with it; he sprang forward, rolling it over with a hard kick, to get his weapon free. As soon as he had, he whirled to see how everyone else was faring.

Illyria was just turning away from the crumpled, hairy body of another demon, and Anthony's minions were fighting with a matched trio of demons with some kind of sharp pointed weapon sticking straight out of their arm at the wrist.

Connor, however, wasn't in sight, and Spike cursed, stepping over the creature he'd just killed and looking around him. "Where is that kid?" he asked. "Angel'll kill me if he comes home minus a few limbs."

Then a demon with iridescent scaly flesh flew through the air and into the side of the container, a dark spray of blood marking its passage, and Spike turned to find Connor standing a little way away. He was panting with exertion but looking grimly triumphant and apparently unharmed.

Spike grinned at him before a behemoth of a demon loomed up behind Connor. "Watch it!" he roared, starting to run toward them.

He was almost within reach of Connor when his feet were taken out from under him. Some sort of enormous iridescent snake, sinuous and lithe, slithered around his lower body. Its rudimentary arms ended in claws that tore at Spike's leg as it hissed, showing off its huge mouth, and began to undulate toward his head.

There was a gurgling cry from not far away. Kicking and struggling to keep the demon from reaching his face, Spike glanced toward the cry even as he punched the snake demon between the eyes. It recoiled long enough for him to confirm that one of Anthony's human heavies was down.

Spike's back hit the side of a container, halting his retreat, and the snake's eyes gleamed as it sighted its prey. It opened its mouth wide and snapped its head directly at Spike's face.

At the last minute, Spike got his hands up, grabbed hold of its two fangs, and drove his fists towards its throat. "Sorry, mate, but you'll have to find someone else for dinner," he said, matching his strength with the snake's. "I don't have time to sit around while you digest." The teeth snapped free in his grip, leaving bloody holes in the roof of the demon's mouth and Spike with a double handful of long, nicely sharp weapons.

The snake hissed in pain and flailed backwards. As soon as he was free, Spike jumped to his feet, ran to the two remaining demons that were still fighting with Anthony's lackeys, and drove one fang into the back of each demon's neck.

He didn't wait to see what would happen, just whirled around and grabbed up his sword from the ground, chopped halfway through the throat of the still-writhing snake, and got to Connor in time to grab the hulking demon's other arm and together slam the hulking demon into the razor wire of the fence.

"Go help Illyria," he told Connor and then glanced around at the rest of the carnage. "Christ, what the hell was Wolfram & Hart been planning with all these demons? A picnic?"

Illyria had a demon cornered, a Fyarl by the look of it, and he called out after Connor, "Watch out for the mucus. Nasty stuff. Hey!" He jumped backwards as a tall, whip-thin figure in dusky grey appeared at his side. Its face was veiled, and it was reaching out long, slender, feminine fingers toward his arm. A dull red light glowed from the ring on her third finger.

Spike readied himself for her attack, but she moved slowly, her hand out as though she were blind. He smirked, dancing just out of reach and looking around the ground. "Just stay there, love," he said cheerfully. "I'll take care of you as soon as I find my sword."

She stepped toward him and brought her hands together, crimson sparks arcing between them.

"Oh, bugger," Spike said. He lunged sideways and grabbed a length of chain, whipping it over his head in a circle, building up the momentum and then releasing the chain straight at her.

The demon raised her hands, and the metal chain writhed in mid-air, sparks flying as an energy bolt flew from her fingers and wrapped around it. The energy couldn't stop it, though, and it struck her chest, wrapping up around her throat. Her long robe and veil began to smolder, and the end of the chain snapped up to slash at her eyes, drawing a high-pitched scream from her.

"Can't say I'm sorry," Spike told her, stepping forward as she crumpled to her knees, weighed down by the chain and scrabbling at her face. "I can make it stop hurting, though." His kick to her jaw broke her neck with a grating crunch.

Spinning to face the others, Spike watched Connor and Illyria tag-team the Fyarl with a series of kicks and punches and then went to grab his sword. The only other demon that was still moving had two of Anthony's heavies pinned against the side of the container while the others were pounding on it with pieces of wood and other debris from the area.

Spike shoved two of them out of the way and speared the demon through its back with a single forceful blow. It slowly crumpled to the ground at his feet.

"I'm all done here," Spike called to Connor and Illyria. "Are you lot going to finish up any time soon?" When he didn't get an answer, he grinned a fangy grin and muttered, "Guess I'll join in the fun, then," before jumping into the fray.

With all three of them unleashing a flurry of blows on the demon, it wasn't long before the Fyarl was a bloody pulp on the ground.

"Anyone got a silver weapon up their sleeve?" Spike asked. "'Cause that's what it takes to kill the bloody things."

A resounding silence answered him.

Then Illyria knelt beside its head, linking her hands under its chin, and glanced up at him. Sprayed blood left a pattern like lace across her face, making her smile even less pleasant than usual. "I recall at Christmas, you pulled a cracker with me," she said. "A foolish frivolity that gave you some pleasure."

"And you looked cute in that paper hat," Spike said, nudging Connor out of the way and crouching down, setting his sword aside. He wrapped his arms around the Fyarl's chest in a parody of a hug. "Worth a try. On three."

"Three," Illyria said and pulled the demon's head from its body.

Spike fought a grin and dropped the headless corpse. "Right, then. Is that everyone?"

"That's all of them," Connor reported. His voice sharpened. "Did you want them to go into the container without you?"

"What?" Spike saw Anthony's four surviving heavies disappear inside the container and frowned. "No, I bloody well didn't! Oi! Come out of there!"

Panicked screaming was their reply.

By the time the three of them reached the open container, a matter of seconds, the screaming had died away to a soft gurgle from a throat crushed and incapable of speech. Spike glanced down at the human at his feet and met eyes wide with pain. He watched them dim with death between one strangled, agonized gasp and the next.

The other three bodies were scattered around, limbs twisted unnaturally, and huddled in the far corner was a small, slight demon, fish-belly pale with a serrated ridge running down its spine, ending in a forked tail. Its back was turned to them, and its shoulders trembling.

Connor and Illyria flanked Spike as they slowly walked forward.

"Mate? Want to turn around and meet your horrible death face-to-face?" Spike asked.

The demon shifted as he moved closer, pressing itself into the dark corner and shivering, hiding its face.

"Come on, then," Spike said.

The demon made a keening sound, high and frail. "Leave me alone," it said in muffled but understandable English.

"Afraid I can't do that. Not that I liked those blokes, but you did kill them." Spike frowned and moved closer, and the demon gave a trembling sigh and curled its arms tighter around itself. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Just leave me alone," the demon said again, shaking its head back and forth. "Leave me alone. Leave me - "

Spike lowered the point of his sword and peered closer, frowning. In the beam of dim light coming in through the open door, Spike saw a glint of dark red on one of its bone white claws. He raised his sword again. "No."

The demon whirled and attacked, suddenly twice the size it had seemed and armed with razor sharp claws and a mouth full of equally sharp teeth. Spike barely had time to get his arm up to protect his face before the demon's teeth were in his forearm. He bellowed with the pain, and Illyria got her hands on the creature and threw it the length of the container to smash into the far wall, hard enough that it left a demon-sized dent in the metal.

"Bloody hell!" Spike said, switching his sword to his other hand as the demon flung itself at them again, so fast that he didn't have time to blink.

Connor dove low, catching a downward slash across his back from one clawed hand but slowing the demon just enough to let Spike bring his sword up. The demon twisted to avoid it, snarling and spattering Spike with blood from its gaping mouth, and then Illyria rose up behind it, her face impassive, and gripped its bony shoulders.

"Strike now, vampire," she ordered, standing firm as it writhed within her grasp.

Spike nodded and drew back his sword before plunging it into the demon's gut from the side. Illyria pushed the demon away with a contemptuous shove, impaling him even further on the sword and then stepping away.

The demon looked down, its legs wobbling and its pale face puzzled, the ferocity seeping away. "Please...," it said pitifully. "Hurts..."

"Dying tends to do that," Spike agreed, reaching down and hauling Connor to his feet. "Bit of a bugger, but it can't be helped."

"End it," Illyria said coolly. "This has taken time enough."

Spike sighed and gripped the hilt of his sword again, pulling it out with a nasty screech as it slid past bone.

The demon echoed his sigh and stood there for a moment. It looked ready to collapse, swaying slightly, but then it snarled and leapt forward with claws outstretched.

Spike fluidly stepped to the side and swept his sword across, beheading the demon in one clean stroke. They listened in silence as its head bumped three times before coming to rest.

"Nice," Connor observed.

"Nah," Spike said dismissively. "Knew he was going to do that. Watched too many movies to be caught out that way."

They moved out of the container and Connor cleared his throat. "Do we high-five or something now?" he asked with a faint grin.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Think we can skip that, don't you?"

Illyria's hand dropped back to her side. "Indeed."

---

"I suppose I could make a trite observation that hats come in more than two colors," Wesley said, "but something tells me we lack the time for philosophy."

"I know you," Angel studied Wesley's face. "Who are you? I look at you and I feel like - "

"What?" Wesley asked. A flicker in his eyes betrayed the fact that he was actually curious.

"I'd answer, but I'm a bit distracted by this bolt through my chest," Angel told him.

"You can break it," Wesley said. "I don't suppose the others cared to fill you in enough to tell you about your strength?"

"No, they told me," Angel yanked the bolt out of his arm, the movement ripping his shirt and baring the circular brand on his chest. Flush with adrenaline, he rushed forward to grab Wesley and spun them both around.

Shoving him up against the wall, Angel held the red-stained bolt up against Wesley's neck. A droplet of blood fell, tracing a line down Wesley's throat. "I just had this gut instinct that I'd do better with the element of surprise."

"I'm not here to fight you," Wesley said, not struggling at all.

"Loaded crossbow's a funny way of showing that."

"I might not need to keep it loaded if you would let me go," Wesley replied.

"Too bad, 'cause I gotta say this position feels real natural to me." Angel punctuated it by giving Wesley an extra push. He got in close, not moving the bolt away from Wesley's jugular. "So who are you? What do you want with me?"

"You lost your memory," Wesley said simply. "I came to give it back."

Angel frowned. "You took my memory from me?"

Wesley gave an aborted shake of his head, stilling at the press of the crossbow bolt. "No, amateur thieves did," he said. "You'll be happy to know they've been captured and I have it on good authority that they'll be spending some very uncomfortable time in jail."

"How do you know that?" Angel asked.

"Let's just say I know for certain they're going to find it difficult to acquire skilled legal representation," Wesley said.

"Bet I'd find that joke funny if I knew what the hell you were talking about." Angel finally relented, releasing Wesley enough so that he could take a step back and look at him. "Who are you?"

"They didn't tell you?" Wesley asked.

"Maybe they did," Angel said. "How would I know?"

"A friend," Wesley told him. "A good friend, once upon a time."

Angel glanced down at the weapon still dangling from Wesley's hand. "Good friends shoot each other with crossbows?"

"You once tried suffocating me with a pillow," Wesley said in an entirely conversational tone. "I don't think anyone would ever claim our relationship lacked an element of violence."

"Was that - " Angel looked uncomfortable, as though he wasn't sure he wanted the answer. "Was that when I was evil?"

For a moment Wesley's cool façade broke. His face was shaped with sympathy and regret. "No. It wasn't."

"I'm not a nice person," Angel said. "I do horrible things. I've hurt people. Do you know I once took other people's memory from them?"

"Yes," Wesley said. "I was one of them."

Angel took another step back as the impact of that struck him. "You were?"

"Yes."

"But you - " Angel shook his head, not comprehending. " - you said you were here to help me."

"And I am," Wesley said, "though you won't thank me for it later."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes we wish that we could forget all the horrors of the past," Wesley said. He pushed away from the wall, making a show of disarming his crossbow before taking his leave. "And because I ordered that shipment of demons so you would stay out of my hair."

"You did that?" Angel stepped forward, wavering back and forth between following Wesley and going back to the fight he'd just been reminded of. "Why?"

"Ah, now that would be telling," Wesley said.

"And returning my memory?" Angel asked. "Was that a lie, too?"

"No," Wesley turned around. He patted his chest on the exact spot he'd shot Angel. "I just took care of that at the start of our conversation."

Angel looked down at himself, then at the crossbow bolt. On closer inspection, he could see a faint tinge of thick white fluid mixed amongst the blood.

"The antidote is slow but effective," Wesley told him. "You'll be fine soon enough."

"And then I won't like you anymore," Angel said.

Wesley gave a ghost of a smile before vanishing into a waiting limousine. "See? Your memory's almost back already."

---

Anthony approached the group as they were dusting themselves off.

Spike chuckled. "Nice to see you didn't get your suit dirty. Did you hide behind DeWitt's skirt?"

"We have a problem," Anthony said, all traces of camaraderie gone from his voice.

"Not now," Spike said curtly. "Got to find - " He trailed off as Angel, missing most of his shirt, stepped out of the shadows and came to stand by his side.

"There was nothing of value in that container," Anthony said angrily.

Spike shrugged. "Bad luck, mate." He moved to walk by, but Anthony blocked his path.

"I did you a favor, and now I'm out of pocket. That annoys me. You want to pay me back, preserve a good working relationship." Anthony nodded at DeWitt once and then, his expression turning displeased, once more.

Rather reluctantly, DeWitt pulled a shotgun from the cab of the truck and aimed it in their direction. "Sorry, big guy," he said to Angel, "you know how it is."

Spike smirked and tossed the bunch of stolen keys to Anthony. "These belong to the CEO of Wolfram & Hart. If you can't find something worth your trouble with them, you're in the wrong line of work."

Anthony considered the keys in his hand and then nodded. "Unorthodox, but it will do."

Spike chuckled. "Think I'll put that on my business cards."

Illyria plucked the weapon from DeWitt's slackened grasp, and the gang walked past him into the quiet, pre-dawn street.

---

"That reminds me," Spike said. He fished in what was left of Angel's shirt pocket and tossed the car keys to Connor. "Enjoy it; once he's in his right mind you'll never get to drive again."

Illyria pumped the action of her newly acquired weapon. "Shotgun," she announced.

"It's a figure of speech," Connor explained. "You don't actually need a shotgun."

Illyria folded herself into the front seat. "I know," she said. "It silences opposition."

Angel tugged on Spike's sleeve. "That leaves us together," he said with a coy smile.

Spike bit back the groan. "Suppose it does." He climbed into the back seat with Angel, pointedly placing a machete on the seat between them. "Home, James," he told Connor, who cranked up the radio and peeled out with a squeal of tires.

"Good thing we're immortal," Spike muttered to Angel, wincing as Connor nearly missed a trash can.

Angel mimed an elaborate yawn and stretched his arm along the back ledge, draping it over Spike's shoulder.

"Stop it!" Spike hissed in an undertone. "If the kid turns around and sees us, we'll all get a face full of lamp post."

Angel pulled Spike's face in against his slightly bloodied, very bare chest. "He's not going to turn around, and they can't see us in the mirror," he reminded Spike in a whisper. "We're all alone, love." His hand slid up Spike's thigh.

"They can still hear," Spike said.

Angel's tongue licked Spike's ear.

Spike squirmed against Angel's hold. "Get off me!" he said against Angel's abs. "Crazy bastard."

"Get you off? If you say so, sweetie," Angel said, with just a hint of Irish softness in his vowels. His hand slid higher.

Spike twisted free and glared at him, and Angel's innocent façade crumbled. His bark of laughter startled Connor so much that the car swerved. Angel just laughed harder as comprehension dawned on Spike's horrified face.

"You – you're back to normal. I hate you," Spike told him, starting to laugh in spite of himself.

"Lover's quarrel?" asked Connor, glancing back at them.

"Don't you start," Spike said.

THE END