Haunted

By Stakebait and Wolfling

Panting for breath and covered in sweat, Gunn collapsed back against the pillows. "Damn, girl," he gasped. "That was..."

Gwen smiled and slid closer to his side. "One of the advantages of sleeping with a thief," she said smugly, stroking her left hand over his smooth chest, then holding it up and wriggling her fingers. "We're good with our hands."

"I can name a few other body parts you're good with," Gunn said, reaching up lazily and tangling his hands in her hair to pull her down for an equally lazy kiss.

"I'm a woman of many talents." Gwen grinned and kissed him again before sliding down to rest her head on his shoulder, throwing an arm over his chest and a leg over his waist. Skin sliding luxuriously against skin, she let out a contented sigh.

Gunn slid a hand through her hair in rhythmic stroking motions, and she gave an appreciative sound, which in turn made him chuckle.

"Sometimes I think you like this part better than all the sweaty stuff that comes before," he said.

"Not sure I'd go that far," she replied, smiling, "but yeah, I like this too. It's... nice."

"Yeah," Gunn agreed softly. "It's nice."

For a moment Gwen just let herself bask in the afterglow; the candles set around the bed plunged the room beyond into dark shadows while at the same time casting a soft golden light over the dark red sheets and their bodies. She slid her hand over Gunn's chest again, admiring the contrast of their skin and pressing her palm over his heart.

Gunn's hand came up and covered her own. "Y'know, sometimes I think I should have some kind of mark there. Like an outline of your hand burned into my chest - something to show the life you gave me."

"Yeah, the life I gave you after I killed you." Gwen grimaced. "I'd think you'd be happy not to have any lasting scars from it."

"Everything leaves a scar," Gunn said, shrugging the shoulder Gwen wasn't lying against. "Even if it's just on the inside, where no one knows it's there but you. But this wouldn't have been a scar. This would've been you leaving your mark on me. Giving me something to remember you by."

Gwen sat up and frowned down at Gunn. "You don't need a mark to remember me by. You've got me to remember me by. I'll be happy to offer a refresher course any time you need one."

"I'm sure you will." Gunn smiled up at her, but there was something melancholy around the edges of the expression. "But sometimes we can't be where we want to. You can only evade the heart for so long before it comes for you and you have to follow it through the dark forest."

Gwen straightened her spine, looking uneasy. "What are you talking about?"

"I can see it, you know," Gunn continued, his gaze now aimed somewhere over Gwen's shoulder. "All shiny white. Silver antlers in the moonlight, stamping its hoof at me." His eyes suddenly focused back on Gwen's face. "I have to go."

"No," Gwen said, the unease ratcheting up into real fear. She grabbed onto his shoulders, intent on holding him in place. "I won't let you."

Gunn just gave her a sad smile. "You can't keep me here this time. But thank you."

As Gwen watched, all the life seemed to slowly drain from his eyes, until his face looked the same as it had that first time they'd met, when she had accidentally electrocuted him. Colorless; empty. "No," she denied again, shaking his shoulders roughly. "You can't do this."

Something warm and wet cascaded over her hands; when she looked down at them, they were covered in blood.

Gwen gasped and jerked and opened her eyes onto a darkened bedroom. Sitting up, she reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on.

A glance down showed her hands were clean and that she was as alone in her bed as she had been when she went to sleep. There was no blood and no lover, dead or alive, in sight.

"It was a dream," she told herself, taking a deep breath. "Just a dream."

Still, she couldn't help but look around at her room and back at her hands.

"It didn't mean anything," she said. "I've just got to stop eating cold Chinese right before bed." She didn't lie down, though, and rubbed her hands together like she was trying to scrub away the phantom feeling of warm sticky blood flowing over them.

She looked down at them again. Setting her face into a grim mask, Gwen got up and quickly walked over to her closet.

"I'm gonna feel really silly when he turns out to be fine," she muttered to herself as she pulled out some clothes and slid them on.

Her expression was still unconvinced as it was reflected in her mirror when she walked out her bedroom door.

---

Watch the Credits

• Episode 6.20: Haunted
• Written by: Stakebait and Wolfling
• Story Developed By: Jane Davitt, Kara, and Just Human
• Edited by: Soundingsea and Mad Poetess
• Produced by: The Brat Queen and Flaming Muse

---

The front door of the Walden opened, and Spike and Connor more fell than walked into the room. They bumped their shoulders together as they tried to both go through at once, leaning into each other and laughing loudly before exaggeratedly shushing each other. Behind them, the open doorway framed a dark sky filled with gilt-edged clouds. The dawn was coming.

"That was off the hook," Connor announced. "You have the best ideas ever!"

"Just doing my part to corrupt today's youth," Spike said.

Disengaging himself from where he was still holding onto Spike's shoulder, Connor turned toward the counter. He stopped as he spotted Angel, who was sitting on the couch, unnaturally still. "You waited up! You shouldn't have."

"No, really, you shouldn't have," Spike added. "Please don't. I was introducing the boy to the wonders of stripping, poker, and rotgut whiskey."

Angel didn't respond, and Connor stepped between them. "Relax," Connor said. "No whiskey. And it wasn't strip poker." Off Angel's continuing blank expression, he continued, "Just regular poker with strippers. They weren't even naked, except for the one onstage..." He trailed off when it became obvious that Angel wasn't affecting a stern reaction; he wasn't listening. "Are you even awake? Thought you were supposed to be nocturnal. What's wrong?"

Spike took a step closer and noticed that Angel's black shirt was hanging crooked and clinging to him in patches, as if it were wet. Connor, ahead of him, reached to touch Angel's shoulder.

"I smell blood," Spike said, frowning.

Connor turned his head to look over his shoulder at Spike and held up his hand, glistening red. "He got hurt and didn't think to call anyone again," he began, but Spike had stopped looking at him.

Instead Spike had his head up, sniffing the air. He followed the trail across the lobby toward the wall of windows, stalking slowly, instinctively, like whatever he was tracking might bolt on him.

He reached down to pull back what looked like a dust sheet or a painter's drop cloth as Connor came up behind his left shoulder. The two of them stood there staring down at Gunn's lifeless body.

"Oh," said Connor.

The stairs creaked behind them, and Illyria entered from the roof and surveyed the tableau.

"The enemy has superior tactics," she said. "They isolate each individual from the pack and pick off the weakest, one by one. It is unimaginative, yet effective. I applaud their skill, if not their actions."

Her words woke Angel up. "Better finish your ovation fast," he told her flatly. "We're going to end this. They want to treat us like hunted animals? They're going to find out how cornered animals fight. You'd be amazed what a pack can take down together."

"Who are you taking down?" asked a female voice from the doorway. "And is Gunn helping you do it? He's not at home, not at the shelter, doesn't answer his cell..." Gwen stepped inside, plainly dressed beneath her coat, in jeans and a black sweater. Her face was un-made-up, pale and worried beneath the mop of dark curls.

Angel turned his head to face her, and while the determination in his voice didn't waver his tone softened for a second. "He's... here." He glanced back at Connor and Spike, who were still holding up the cloth. Gwen followed him, first with her eyes, then with her body.

She was silent as she walked towards them, silent as she looked down at Gunn's corpse.

"Do you want - " Connor began, but Gwen shook his hand off her shoulder, waved away the chair he reached for.

Finally she reached down, as wordless as she had been all along, and touched Gunn's still chest.

"That's not going to bring him back this time," Angel said.

"Fucker," she muttered at last, though she said it almost tenderly, looking down at Gunn's closed eyes. "I know." She turned to Angel, straightening her shoulders. "Who are we taking down?"

"Wolfram & Hart," Angel answered immediately. Then, gritted teeth evident in his voice, he added, "Wesley."

Gwen laughed, bitter and sharp, then nodded. "How?"

"Was about to ask that myself." Spike crossed his arms. "Tried that last night, didn't we? So far we've got nothing from that except - " He indicated Gunn's remains. " - this."

"We wait," Angel replied.

"We what?" Gwen took a step toward him, mouth open.

"That would be a mistake. You linger too long amid considerations of strategy," Illyria said. "When such an affront is offered, vengeance must be swift, immediate, and brutal."

"Just think," Connor muttered to Spike, "in some universe she's ambassador to the UN."

Angel stood, and everyone turned to look at him. "Wes won't get away with this," he said, his tone promising dark, if unspecified, retribution. "But we know where to find him; he'll keep. We have things to do first."

"Like?" Gwen challenged.

"What you do when your friends die," Angel answered. "We make sure things are okay at his shelter; we put him to rest."

Gwen took a breath, and a fraction of the tension disappeared from the set of her shoulders; she nodded. "He'd... want to know somebody was looking after the kids."

"Then we find out what was so important in that contract Wesley signed that Gunn got killed trying to break it," Angel finished.

"Call me crazy for not giving a shit about that part," Gwen said sourly.

Angel nodded at the body. "Gunn did."

"And look where that got him." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Whatever. I can't just stand here; I've got to do something. I think I can get him a nice... place." She stumbled over the word. "Without any questions."

"I'll head over to the shelter," Spike volunteered, the happy inebriation of a few minutes before replaced with a grim resolve, but Angel held up a hand.

"I'm going," Angel said. "Connor, you're with me."

"Thought you weren't much for that place," Spike said. "And you look all in already."

"Gunn was one of mine," Angel said simply, and Spike nodded with understanding and stepped back.

Angel took a step toward the door only to find Connor standing in his way. "Gunn was - " Angel started to repeat.

Connor cut him off. "I know," he said gently. "But I think you're gonna want to change your shirt first. C'mon," he added, taking Angel by the shoulders and turning him around. The pair of them disappeared upstairs into Angel's office.

"It is as though I never spoke," Illyria said with her hands on her hips. "A ruler who does not heed his counselors is three times a fool." She stalked away.

Spike and Gwen stood looking at each other and at Gunn's body for a long moment, each of them silent and subdued.

"I've got some favors to call in," Gwen said abruptly, jerking her gaze away from the scene before them. "I'll be back." She strode for the door without waiting for an answer, and Spike closed it behind her.

Spike walked slowly back toward the body and crouched down next to it. Gunn's face had gone ashy grey.

"I'll be here," he said.

---

The offices of Wolfram & Hart were in total disarray. Alarms still sounded from some distant corner of the building, and frantic lawyers in yesterday's suits ran up and down the halls. After glaring at his desk phone produced no break in the incessant ringing, Wesley turned off the sound. The incoming call light kept flashing, so he tossed a company benefits brochure over it.

Sipping his coffee, Wesley grimaced at the bitterness of the dregs. His office door was ajar, and overlapping snippets of conversation drifted in from the outer office, the voices edging on panic.

" - completely sealed off! The clerk appears to be dead, but he might just - "

" - the security team. We're waiting for transfers from another - "

" - bodies. Cleanup hasn't been mobilized, and we're wondering - "

Wesley could hear his executive assistant reassuring the distressed employees, telling them what they wanted to hear.

"Yes, we understand that Files & Records will need massive reconstruction," Kyle said. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce will authorize re-staffing of the security team on a priority basis. And yes, Mr. Kowalski, we've been apprised of the cleanup situation and are waiting to hear from an outsourced provider, and you can't go in there - "

A nervous-looking middle-aged man rushed into Wesley's office. Panting and sweating, tie missing and left shoe in shreds, he looked like he'd been through a war. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, sir, Facilities needs help! We can't operate under these conditions; we've got whole floors closed off and..." He trailed off, paling under Wesley's cold, appraising gaze.

The murmuring outside stopped, and Kyle followed the man through Wesley's door. The morning sun cut in through the blinds, and the necro-tempered glass did nothing to help the glare. Kyle stood blinking in the shadows at the doorway, reaching forward to take the distraught employee's arm.

"Come on, Kowalski. We'll get your department what you need, but you can't bother the CEO with low-level problems." He led Kowalski out, speaking in a calm, low voice as he closed the door.

Picking up a template book, Wesley said, "The Foghamhar Codex," nodding as runes covered the pages. He'd barely begun to read before the door opened again.

"Boss," Kyle said in a familiar tone, but amended it at Wesley's flat stare. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. We need an all-hands meeting to assess the amount of damage from the break-in and to bring the situation under control."

"We may, but I don't have time for it right now," Wesley said. He picked up a legal pad and began making notes from the text open before him, deliberately ignoring Kyle.

Kyle quailed but continued, "You need to appoint new department heads for Recordkeeping and Security. We've got massive chaos, a sealed-off records vault, and no security team left to speak of. And facilities management will need you to - "

"You certainly have a lot of suggestions regarding what I need to do," Wesley said sharply as he looked up. "I'm a bit more concerned with your ability to perform your job, especially after your conduct last night."

"My loyalties to the firm and to you haven't changed!" Kyle protested.

"That, I believe," Wesley told him, scrutinizing what he could see of Kyle's face. "Did you see the company nurse about those contusions?" He added in a tone that offered little sympathy, "Following Illyria can be an unhealthy proposition."

"All patched up and ready for duty," Kyle said. He mimed a salute.

"Then do it," Wesley ordered. "You're supposed to be my assistant; assist me. Deal with the casualties, keep the survivors out of my way, and wherever possible, leave me alone."

Kyle took a deep breath, as if he was about to speak, then apparently thought better of it, closing his mouth and turning to leave.

"And Kyle?"

Kyle paused mid-step, looking over his shoulder at Wesley.

"Place another call to that necromancer, Booth, and let me know when you have him on hold. I'd like to confer about his progress."

Kyle nodded, and closed the door firmly behind him.

With Kyle gone, Wesley looked down at the open book before him. After a second, he slammed it shut in frustration, then leaned back in his mesh chair and blocked the morning sunlight by throwing an arm over his eyes.

---

Spike crouched down next to Gunn's body, performing the intimate, uncomfortable tasks of washing the corpse and wrapping it securely before the others got back.

"Tell you a secret, mate," he said to it. "Just because I've seen my share of dead bodies doesn't make it any easier when it's a friend."

From just to Spike's right, a fist crashed into Gunn's face.

No, not into - through. The hand pulled back out and Spike - somewhat transfixed by the sight - was looking at exactly the same expression on the corpse's face: if not exactly peaceful, then at least undisturbed.

"So this is what being incorporeal is like," said Gunn.

Spike looked up... at a second, standing Gunn. This one had more color in his face than the corpse, despite the blood from his neck wound soaking into his charcoal grey hoodie.

Spike, on the other hand, sat down abruptly on the Walden lobby carpet.

"Gotta say," continued Gunn, "after watching you I thought it'd be more fun."

Leaning his head back against the side of a chair, Spike stared up at the ghost. "Why're you here, mate?"

"Payback, maybe?" Gunn said, looking down at him. "You say we're friends, but friends get each other's backs. When the chips were down you left me unprotected and just followed in Angel's footsteps. Like you always do."

"Being dead make you cranky?" Spike asked with some sympathy. "It'll do that to a bloke. You didn't have a problem with me before."

"You hadn't left me to die before," Gunn said. "Now I'm stuck like this forever, can't touch anything, and you know exactly what that feels like." Gunn reached down and put his hand into Spike's chest, right through the heart, and wiggled his fingers. "Or doesn't."

Spike shook his head. "Not what I meant." He rose to his feet and took a step back to get clear of Gunn's spectral reach. "Why're you still here at all? You're a good sort -"

Gunn smiled modestly.

" - helped the helpless, fed the hungry. Why aren't flights of angels singing thee to thy rest and all that?"

"Have you heard him sing?" Gunn winced.

Spike smirked, but his eyes didn't soften with humor.

"Done my things worth regretting, too," Gunn pointed out. "Besides - " He shrugged. " - I was murdered. It's traditional."

"Mate, I'm a vampire. If every man killed by violence turned into a ghost, I'd be so covered in bloody spooks I couldn't move."

"Aren't you?" Gunn asked and then disappeared.

Spike shivered and looked down at the corpse. "Gotta be more to it than that, Charlie," he said. "Maybe I'm just 'following in Angel's footsteps like I always do', but this has Wolfram & Hart's grubby prints all over it. If they're trying to keep you stuck here somehow - " He turned away and walked toward the pitiful collection of books that was the office's remaining research section. "We'll make damn sure you can move on. Least we can do, now."

---

Connor held the door open to the East Hills Teen Center so that Angel could run straight through the doorway. Three or four kids looked up at them with varying levels of interest as Angel skidded to a halt.

"He needs..." Connor gestured at Angel, obviously uncertain about how to make an excuse. "He likes to make an entrance."

There was a mixture of head-shakes and eye-rolling and one muttered, "Crazy-ass white guys," as everyone went back to what they had been doing.

"Nice," Angel said, straightening his coat. "I see Spike's been teaching you the finer points of picking the explanation that makes me look most like an idiot."

"Nah, I asked, but he wouldn't. Said you didn't need the help." Connor lowered his voice and asked uncomfortably, "What are we going to do? I mean, once we tell them."

Angel didn't respond right away, glancing at Connor and then just as quickly looking away. "When I figure that out, I'll let you know." Taking a step forward, Angel tapped a Hispanic kid, who looked about 13, on the shoulder. "Hey, Gunn leave anybody in charge around here?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah, Anton. He's down the basement, looking for TP or paper towels or something."

Angel and Connor headed downstairs, where they found an older teen struggling to take a case of canned spaghetti off a tall stack.

"Hey, let me help you with that." Connor rushed ahead and freed up the piece of shrink-wrap that had been stuck, then steadied the stack. "That's a lot of spaghetti."

Shrugging, Anton nodded at the lower half of the stack. "There's some mini-ravioli down there. Besides, these are the down and out supplies for when Gunn can't find a restaurant willing to donate their leftovers."

"About Gunn - " Angel started, then cut himself off. "I'm a friend of his. My name's - "

"Angel. I know who you are," Anton said. "You were here when Anne got killed."

Angel winced but nodded. "Yeah."

Anton hefted the case of cans like he was trying to get comfortable with its weight. "You came to see Gunn, he ain't been in yet today."

"No, we need to talk to you. I guess." Angel glanced away from the boy's steady, dark gaze. "I do, anyway. Connor, why don't you..." He nodded toward the stack of cans.

Connor reached for another case of food. "How many of these do you need upstairs?" he asked Anton.

"Just one, not too many people in at the moment - breakfast of champions," Anton smiled.

"I'm a mac 'n' cheese for breakfast kind of guy, myself." Connor took the case from Anton's arms, and balanced it on his shoulder. "I'll take this one upstairs for you, then." He turned sideways to slip past Angel on the stairs.

"You don't have - " Anton started, but Connor had taken the stairs two at a time and was already letting the door fall shut behind him. Anton flicked his gaze to Angel, and studied him for a moment. "What's up? You seen Gunn?"

"He's not coming back, Anton," Angel said, his eyes steady as he imparted the news.

After taking that in with an expressionless face, Anton crossed his arms in front of him. "Is that gone in he had better things to do, or is that gone in he ain't showing up nowhere no more?"

Walking the rest of the way down the stairs, Angel looked around, taking in the non-decor. "Someone got him with a knife."

"He's not the first brother to end like that. Won't be the last," Anton said in a matter of fact voice, a hint of defeat lurking in it. "There gonna be a funeral?"

Angel shook his head. "We're taking care of it. There's too many things that go bump in the night that might want a piece of what's left of him."

Anton nodded. "That's cool. He wouldn't want to take any chances."

Angel's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Anton's, and the young man laughed.

"He did something stupid to get himself killed, didn't he?" Anton shook his head.

Angel stepped away from the stairs towards Anton, his voice a little harsh. "He did something brave."

"Shit, that's the same damn thing and you know it." Anton's face held a cynicism that should have been beyond his years. "I get that Gunn thought he was the big protector and all, but that don't make him any more alive now, does it?"

Angel grimaced. "No, it doesn't. Look, do you know what to do?"

"What do you mean?" Anton said as he looked away, pretending to count the crates of canned goods.

"I mean that this food down here's only going to last so long and eventually the power company will kill the lights. Do you know what to do to keep this place running?" Angel asked.

Anton laughed again, still without humor, shaking his head. "I ain't no Anne. Hell, I ain't even Gunn."

"Not about who you are." Angel stepped up, putting a hand on Anton's shoulder. "It's about who you want to be. You know how this place runs. Do you want to be the one who keeps it going?"

Anton shrugged off Angel's hand and headed to the foot of the stairs, pausing with his hand on the railing. "Gunn tell you he thought I should take over this place if anything happened to him? 'Cause he sure never said nothing like that to me."

Angel studied him for a moment without speaking. Then he shook his head. "To be honest? No. He never mentioned your name. Didn't know it until I walked in the door."

Anton snorted. "Then why me?"

"Somebody has to." Angel pointed at Anton. "And you're the one already doing it."

"Bullshit, man. This stuff?" Anton responded, jerking his head downward at the stacks of food as he slowly started walking up the stairs. "Might get us through today, but it's not the same as taking care of the whole place; I got no clue how to do what Gunn did."

"Like what? What would Gunn be doing right now?" Angel stood back, his hands in his pockets, watching Anton.

Turning on the stair, Anton faced Angel, letting some frustration out in his voice. "He'd be getting in that sorry-ass excuse for a truck and going to DaVinci's Bistro or the Brookline Diner, asking for handouts. See, I don't even got a sorry-assed truck."

Taking his hands out of his pocket, Angel tossed a set of keys. They rang in the air until Anton caught them. "You do now," Angel said. "It's somewhere in the public parking garage at Wolfram & Hart. I'd have driven it here for you, but they're not real happy with me today."

"Those lawyers? Gunn didn't have much use for 'em; don't guess I care how happy they are with us." Anton held the keys almost reverently, looking at them for a long time, like they were something precious. "We'll go get it after dark." He snapped his hand around the keys and stuffed them in his pocket.

"You're going to try?" Angel asked.

Anton shrugged. "Somebody has to. Guess I heat up some spaghetti in a can, and then I call some restaurants." Glancing down at Angel, Anton smiled. "Actually, the first thing I need is a volunteer to clean out the rat traps down here. Since you're already standing there..."

Angel sighed, looking around. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Taking right after Anne and Gunn. You'll do fine." Instead of sarcasm, his voice held admiration.

Nodding, Anton said, "I'll give it a shot."

---

Spike heard the front door of the Walden squeak in protest as it opened, followed by the quick thud of footsteps as someone ran across the floor. "Didn't think you'd be back already," he called out without looking up from his book.

The footsteps stopped in front of the receptionist desk, hands pulling the volume out of his grip and laying it aside. "I found a place," Gwen said, slightly out of breath. "I know a guy - "

"Who knows a guy," Spike cut in. "I know the drill. So, where's this place?" He rummaged around behind the counter until he pulled out a phone book.

Gwen handed him a map, an area already circled in black pen. "It's not far from East Hills. Has a nice view, whatever good that's supposed to do."

"Had a tomb with a view myself once," Spike replied as he thumbed through the phone book. "Until it fell into a giant crater with the rest of Sunnydale. Good while it lasted."

"He's dead, and not your kind of dead," she said. "Not like the ambiance matters to him now."

"Might at least make it easier on the kids out at his shelter, know he's resting... someplace nice." Spike looked up, holding his place with two fingers. "Don't know what poor sod they'll get to take it over now after Anne and Gunn. Angel can't stay there." He grinned faintly. "Might be funny to watch him try, though."

"Whoever Gunn left in charge while he was gone, maybe?" Gwen suggested. "I wouldn't know who; the kiddie zone's not really my scene."

"Eh - less kiddie than you'd think. They're not half canny, some of 'em..." he responded absently, looking down at the phonebook again.

"You can't spell. Mortuary starts with an M, not an H." Gwen's eyes followed Spike's finger as he traced it down the page. "Why look the place up, anyway? We're not ordering a burial service; if we want this done quick and without the cops interfering, we'll have to go through my guy." She looked away from Spike, staring hard at one of the poster-covered windows. "My guy. Right." She glanced at the clock on the desk, then at the light poking in around the posters.

"Not gonna be able to lay him to rest 'til the sun goes down." Spike looked up at her. "It's all right to take a second to breathe, you know. Pretend you don't have time to miss him if it gets you through the day, but... Hell, I miss him, and he wasn't my guy."

Gwen moved away from the reception desk, wrapping her arms around herself. "I don't know if he was really mine, either." She paced between the desk and the popcorn machine, eyes on the floor the whole time. "I liked him. Could've loved him maybe, someday."

"Yeah, I know how that story goes." Spike snorted softly. "From both sides of the grave."

"But we don't get to play that game anymore. Can't fall in love with him, can't give him my apartment key and pretend I actually need his. Can't just be friends, or say it's not him, it's me." Gwen looked up, cracking a small smile. "Can't even beat the ever-loving crap out of him when he cheats on me with someone else."

"Don't think that's Charlie's style, love." Spike circled the number of one particular shop with a pen.

"I won't ever know that now, will I?" Electricity crackled around Gwen's hands where she clutched at her elbows. "God, I just need to... do something."

"Patience, Sparky. We'll settle things with Wes. Just got to take care of the rest first."

Gwen laughed. "With Angel's idea of 'the rest?' Yeah, that'll happen soon." She swiped her hand at the popcorn machine, an ominous static noise following the trail of her fingers. "It's not that easy. I've done the fiddly crap, made all the stupid arrangements that're supposed to calm you down and distract you, and... it's not making me feel any better."

"Got no easy answers for you, love," Spike said sympathetically. He jotted down a couple of items next to the circled name, then ripped the page out of the phonebook. "Death's a cast-iron bitch, for sure."

Gwen paced a little bit more. "Are you done with the - with Gunn?" Her voice sounded choked, as if she was having a hard time talking.

Spike waved the yellow page. "That's what this is for. Herb shops, not mortuaries. Gunn got zapped here, Angel said; showed up in a ball of white light, which means his death wasn't exactly natural. We need some anointing, a chant or two - all that mystical seasoning to make sure his rest is peaceful."

"What we need is to bury him. He's gone; magic chants aren't gonna help him now." Electricity started pooling around Gwen's hands again. "Gunn wasn't into all that, anyway."

"Neither am I when you come down to it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't work. It's like a blessing," Spike replied, his voice soothing. "It's nothing bad, pet, just an insurance policy against - "

"I can't - I can't do this. Lemme know how it turns out, okay?" Gwen cut in. She was out the door before Spike could say another word.

---

Angel stared down at the small brown rat in the trap and poked at it with his foot. It didn't move. Squatting down beside it, he released the trap and picked up the corpse, his face twisted with mild distaste as he stood and looked around for somewhere to put it.

"Not tempted to take a bite?"

Angel turned around slowly, letting the rat drop to the floor and rubbing his hand clean against his pants. "Gunn?"

The figure in front of him smiled. "In a manner of speaking, yeah. How's it going? You missing me? Hope so."

Gunn - Gunn's ghost - was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt, striped in blue and gray. Angel's gaze went unwillingly to Gunn's neck, where the collar of the shirt was failing to hide his wound. Gunn raised his hand and tugged at his collar, drawing attention to the lacerated skin even as he attempted to cover it.

Angel glanced away for a moment, his lips set in a straight line, before staring directly at Gunn. "I know why you did it, but I wish - " His voice trailed away and he grimaced.

"Yeah. Maybe better not wish. Never ends well." Gunn looked wryly amused. "Like I said; dying of a neck wound is kinda how I thought I'd go, but I'd have put money on it being something with fangs, not an old friend with a knife." He pursed his lips. "We still calling Wes a friend these days?"

"No." The single word was flat and uncompromising.

Gunn shook his head and sighed. "No, guess we're not. Not that I'm bearing grudges; feeling... detached now I'm dead and all that, but you've got to hand it to the man; he's picking us off one by one." His expression turned thoughtful. "Have to wonder who's next, don't you?"

"It won't come to that," Angel said. His voice was firm, even confident, but the tightness around his mouth told a different story. "Not now. Wesley's gone too far."

"You said that before," Gunn reminded him. "When he went after Connor? Thought that was the final straw right there when he put your son's life on the line to make you beg, but I guess not." He smiled. "You always did let Wesley get away with murder, didn't you?"

"That's not true," Angel said defensively. "We're doing our best to stop him; you know - knew - that."

"Just wish - sorry, right, no wishing - it'd been good enough," Gunn said.

"What do you want?" Angel said after a pause. "Why are you here, Gunn? Who sent you? Because if the Powers have something going on here, or there's something that you need - "

Gunn spread his hands wide, walking over to stare down at the rat. "Just wanted to say a last goodbye, Angel." His gaze traveled around the room. "Not much of a place, is it? But we were doing good work here; hate to think of that being lost."

"It won't be," Angel assured him. "You've got good kids here, smart ones. And I'll make sure it stays open; do what I can."

Gunn shook his head. "This isn't your job, Angel; it was mine. We might've been friends, but we weren't always on the same page, if you know what I mean. Can't see you dishing out soup and sympathy."

Angel smiled a little ruefully. "Yeah. Not really my style. But I didn't mean that. Anton; he looks like he might be up for taking over."

Gunn nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like a plan." He wandered over to stare at the shelves of food and then turned his head. "Angel, don't blame yourself, okay?"

"I don't," Angel said. "I blame Wesley."

Gunn looked a little skeptical. "This is you we're talking about, Angel. You always blame yourself."

Angel bit his lip, looking uncomfortable and crossing his arms over his chest. "I do?"

Gunn chuckled softly, his insubstantial form drifting over to Angel and placing a weightless hand more or less on his shoulder. "Yeah. Don't, okay? I'm dead and it's done. One failure - well, more than one, but who's counting? You just take care of the people you can still help. The ones who're still alive."

"Gunn - " Angel stopped and glanced around the suddenly empty room.

"Angel?" Connor called from upstairs. "Do you need a hand down there?"

Angel bent and picked up the dead rat, tossing it thoughtfully in his hand. "No, thanks. I think I can take care of what needs to be done."

---

"I've got your necromancer on line two," Kyle said, ducking his head into Wesley's office.

Wesley picked up the handset and pressed the button for the lit extension. "Mr. Booth." After a pause, he said, "So, the timeline has been accelerated?"

Whatever Booth said, it seemed to be pleasing to Wesley; there was the faint hint of an edge of the promise of a smile on his face... at least until he looked up and saw Kyle still standing in the doorway.

He covered the phone's mouthpiece. "What, Kyle?"

"Just wanted to tell you before the cleanup team shows and the place is filled with strange faces that I'm having all the compromised offices swept to see what's missing, find out if we can build a picture of what they were after," Kyle said. "I hired the Interrante guys from Modesto; they're supposed to be the best at this kind of thing. Paid them out of the ritual sacrifices budget, since that wasn't being used much anymore."

Wesley continued to stare at him in annoyance. "And?"

"And... they've cleared the way to Files & Records," Kyle continued, "And, yeah - she's definitely going to need to be replaced. I've posted the opening on the internal HR site, making sure to specify enhanced humans."

"Kyle, do you recall the conversation we had about you doing your job and leaving me the hell alone?" Wesley asked.

"Well, it was one-sided, so not so much a conversation as a - " Kyle swallowed as Wesley's eyes narrowed at him. "Yes."

"What part of leaving me alone does this constitute?"

Kyle held up his hands placatingly and backed out into the hall. "The part where I'm leaving you alone. Right now. Sir."

Wesley spoke into the phone again, already ignoring him. "Sorry about that. What's been the reaction so - " Then he looked up. "Kyle?"

"Yes?" Kyle said eagerly, popping his head back in immediately.

"Shut the door."

"Sure, boss."

"Good," Wesley said, but he was speaking into the phone. "Yes, exactly. I need to be sure the soul is completely...." His voice grew fainter as the door swung shut.

"How am I supposed to 'assist' him if I can't even talk to him?" Kyle plaintively asked an approaching secretary. "I'm out here doing my job and his, and I can't even get him to take two minutes to sign the stuff I don't have the authority for."

"Uh-huh," she said unsympathetically, holding out a clip-board. "Sign this."

---

Hitting the scroll key a few more times, Connor paused and used his fingers to follow a line of text across the screen. Without looking, his right hand began groping around the Walden's concession counter.

"Is this what you're looking for?" Spike asked as he pulled a pen out from between Connor's teeth.

"Hey!" He jumped and then recognized that it was Spike. "I mean, thanks." Snatching back the pen, Connor jotted some numbers on a piece of scrap paper covered with them.

"Any luck with that?" Spike asked, leaning so he could look at the screen.

"Sort of. I've got all the data here, but it needs a lot of formatting. Hopefully, I'll be able to upload it into the database soon." Connor sat back and reached for a slice of pizza from an open box nearby. He took a bite.

"Uh-huh," Spike said dubiously, blinking at the figures. "I can see you have this well in hand. What's Angel up to?"

Nodding towards the stairwell, Connor went back to the keyboard. "He's upstairs." Hesitating over the keys, Connor looked at Spike. "He was really quiet on the way home from the shelter. I think - " Connor picked up his pen and began tapping it on the counter. "I think I don't know what to think, and I know less about what he's thinking."

"Sometimes a man just has to brood on his own. At least Angel's got an excuse this time," Spike said, pushing off the counter.

"And sometimes a man has to dive into his work." Connor hit the scroll key a few times and jotted another number down.

With a short laugh, Spike headed for the main theater. "I take everything I said back; you're not related to any of us. I'm going to go hit something, even if it is only the punching bag."

Connor looked up in time to see the door swinging closed, then he bent his head over the computer again. As he reached for his soda, he had a clear view of Gunn's body on the other side of the lobby, wrapped in cloth. Deliberately he moved a stack of books to block the sight.

"And here I thought you liked me."

Connor jumped back off his stool and stared at Gunn, who was leaning on the counter. Immediately Connor's attention focused on the blood from Gunn's neck wound, darkening the bright yellow of his shirt.

Glancing down, Gunn pulled at the shirt to get a better look. "Kinda like tie-dye. I guess that makes me the ungrateful dead." Chuckling, he smiled at Connor. "A lot more blood than I spilled for you the other night."

Connor looked to the other side of the lobby and confirmed that the body was still there. He could feel the heat rising to his face. "Thank you. I know I told you that before, but I really mean it."

Gunn shrugged. "It's dangerous around here."

"Are you - " Connor swallowed. " - reanimated, like Wesley?"

"I'm nothing like Wesley, I'll tell you that for sure." Gunn went to grab Connor's soda and his hand passed through the can as well as Connor's hand. "Ghost."

"That sucks," Connor said and then bit his lip. "I mean - " He paused for a breath before finishing. "It really sucks that you're dead."

"Being dead doesn't seem to bother most people around here." Gunn looked over at the theater and up the stairs to Angel's office. "But then again they haven't been alive in a long, long time. I guess you're the lucky one."

"I - " Connor looked at his shoes and then refocused on Gunn. "I don't feel lucky." Stepping forward, he pointed at the wound. "Does it hurt to be a ghost?"

"Pisses me off mostly. It's not too late for you, you know," Gunn said.

"What do you mean?" Connor's brows pulled together.

"I mean that all this paper is bullshit." He pointed at the desk. "You use a computer instead some damn book, but all this research amounts to getting in too deep." Gunn leaned forward, stretching his neck. "And once you're in too deep..."

Connor closed his eyes and turned his head away. "I'm sorry. I've seen blood before, but it's not the same, knowing it..." He swallowed. "It killed you."

Looking up, Connor found he was alone except for Gunn's dead body.

---

Dusk had fallen on the city; the sky above Peaceful Rest Cemetery had gone gray, shading to black. Light and shadow danced on the ceiling of the crypt in the southeast corner, though, from the fire glow of two torches attached to the walls. They flickered on either side of two sarcophagi: one open, the other closed, Gunn's body lying on top.

"I don't suppose there's a light switch," mused Connor as he entered behind Angel. "Couldn't you have set up some lanterns, Spike?"

"Torches are the traditional thing in crypts," said Spike from where he was already leaning against the wall. He took a drag on his lit cigarette. "Of course, if you're going to live in one, you'll want some of the modern conveniences - telly, fridge, PlayStation, space heater, maybe a dehumidifier - "

"Is cable porn extra, or did that come with the basic package?" Angel asked as he paced the length of the small room, looking around him at Spike's preparations.

Shaking his head, Spike dropped the cigarette and crushed it out. "You think I paid a bill? I just ran an extension cord to the gatekeeper's shack."

"Where's Gwen?" Connor asked, opening up a paper bag that sat on the edge of the bier next to Gunn's head. He peered inside at its contents.

"She threw a bit of a wobbly earlier. Flipped out and ran, said we should let her know how it went. I don't know that we should wait." Spike pushed off of the wall.

Pausing in front of Gunn's body, Angel rolled his finger on the edge of the cold stone. "She knew we were going to be here tonight." Shrugging, he walked to Gunn's head. "What do we have to do, Spike?"

"You do not know the rituals of your clan?" Illyria stepped from the shadows outside the door, stopping at Gunn's feet.

"I know the death rituals of too many people," Angel said. "Too many friends."

"Yeah," Spike said quietly when he came up next to Angel. Reaching down, he pulled out an oversized leather bound book. "I had to make do when I wrapped him up. Every ceremony had a different herb or ten, so I sprinkled on everything I could get hold of. "

"You took shortcuts?" Angel asked.

"Not happy with it either, but again," Spike said, squinting at the page, "the phrase here is 'make do.' Can go over that bit slower if you like, get in the ritual mood."

"Spike - " Angel's words edged on a growl.

"Spell shop had a lot in stock," Spike explained, "but we don't have time to wait on the stuff they'd have to ship in from Timbuktu, yeah? Did the best I could. Covered all the plant bits that got mentioned more than once, at least. Besides, I think it's the entombment and the chanting that counts. Here -"

Spike pulled a vial out of the paper bag and handed it Connor, who frowned at it. "What's this?"

"I do not chant," Illyria informed them.

"You'll chant if we need chanting," Angel snapped.

"Holy water," Spike told Connor. "And if you could avoid getting the undead among us wet, it'd be appreciated."

Connor stepped up beside Gunn, uncorking the vial. "So what next?"

"We do the bit with the holy water," Spike said, frowning at the book as he turned it part way around.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I gathered that. But what?"

Frustration still twanged like a plucked wire in Angel's voice. "Are you sure that's next?"

"Yeah, I'm sure... mostly. Just sorting the diagram," Spike said, adjusting the book again and turning his back to Angel.

Reaching around Spike, Angel made a grab for the book. "Let me see that."

"Bugger off!" Spike threw an elbow into Angel's arm and nodded at Connor. "Start sprinkling. Ignore what I said before; feel free to get your father while you're at it."

"Spike," Angel snarled.

"I just want to get this right, okay?" Spike snapped back at him. "It's the only thing I can do for him; I don't want to fuck it up."

Angel stared at him for a second, then nodded, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah. Sorry."

Connor began sprinkling the holy water, and Spike read aloud from the book in a low, tuneless hum. "Requiem aeternam dona ei. Requiescat in pace."

Connor lifted his eyebrows. "That's the chanting?"

Spike shrugged apologetically. "Like everything else, we're making do. You'd rather he sang?" Pointing to Angel, he held back the book. Then he nodded at the body. "Maybe you and Blue could carry him over, Angel?"

Taking Gunn's feet, Illyria looked at Angel. "He fought well. It is fitting that the mighty should carry him to his resting place."

"You think I'm mighty?" Angel asked, as though he couldn't help himself.

"I would not let it go to your head, vampire."

Sighing, Angel lifted Gunn's body by the shoulders and with Illyria laid it inside the open stone sarcophagus. Angel looked straight ahead, not meeting anyone's eyes. Spike smoothed the page in the book, while Connor moved quietly to stand beside the others.

After a long moment, Spike chanted again, quietly, "Requiem aeternam dona ei. Requiescat in pace." He took a breath and said, "More holy water."

Connor blinked and stared at the bottle in his hands. "I used it all before."

"Fuck." Spike picked up the bag, but it was clearly empty.

"I guess we'll make do." Everyone turned to see Gwen standing at the threshold. "That's the phrase, right?"

"Sorry, love, we weren't sure you were going to make it," Spike said. "Been out there a while, eh?"

Gripping the door jam like she might fall over, Gwen eyed the dank room. "I wasn't sure I was gonna make it either." Letting go, she stepped inside and walked up to stand next to Connor. "What's next?"

"Holy water, like I said." Spike's mouth formed a tight line. "Which we're out of."

Gwen pulled off her glove. She kissed her fingers and then laid them on Gunn's cloth covered cheek. Small blue sparks danced over the linen.

Nodding, Angel said, "That works."

Spike stepped aside, gesturing at the lid. Without speaking, Angel and Illyria lifted the stone and began to slide it into place.

"Requiem aeternam dona ei. Requiescat - " Spike chanted.

"Wait!" Gwen stepped forward, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small object. Uncurling her fingers, she revealed a small jade jaguar. "Should have put a better security system on his place; anyone could have walked in and stolen this." She laughed nervously, but the others could only glance away.

Licking her lips, Gwen's eyebrows pulled together as she blinked back tears. "Here." She placed the statuette on Gunn's chest. "No one will take it now." Stepping back, she nodded.

Angel and Illyria slid the heavy lid into place as Spike closed the book, chanting, "Requiem aeternam dona ei, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace."

Angel stepped back, smoothing the hair behind his ear, while Connor and Spike shuffled their feet, looking at the closed sarcophagus. Gwen looked from one to the other, "Is that it?"

"Well, technically, there should be one more round of holy water on the top, kind of consecrate the works," Spike said. "But that one sort of fell by the wayside."

"I honored my greatest generals with the blood of a thousand slaves slaughtered over their graves," Illyria said.

"And maybe we won't go that way," Angel said.

Spike reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. "I got another route." The whiskey stained the pale stone gray as Spike poured a libation, raised the flask in a silent toast, and then took a swig for himself.

Connor took the flask, looked questioningly at Angel, and when there was no visible objection drank. He grimaced, then passed it on to Illyria. It passed round the circle of them in silence, until Angel held it in his hands.

"I guess this is it," he said once he'd pulled the flask away from his lips.

"Rest in peace." Gwen placed her bare hand on the sarcophagus. "No more roaming the night... or my dreams."

The three men collectively frowned and looked at her.

"Wh-what?" Gwen asked, lifting up her hand.

Clearing his throat, Spike tucked the book under his arm and asked, "Exactly how literal were you being there?"

Lowering her hand, Gwen shrugged. "I had a dream this morning - a very real kind of dream, and Gunn was there, and then he was bleeding. Kind of figured out quick it was more than just a nightmare."

"He was bleeding when he came to see me too," Connor said, looking disturbed. "But I wasn't asleep. He was right there in the office, bleeding bright red all over the collar of that yellow shirt. My dreams don't get that hi-definition."

"No collar; no shirt. Naked," Gwen said, pulling her glove back on.

"Whoa. Just - " Angel put up a hand, forestalling any further comment Gwen might have made. "He was definitely not naked when I saw him this afternoon. Or in a yellow shirt. " He looked at Spike. "You?"

"Stuck his less than solid hand in me, thank you very much," Spike said, snatching back his flask from Angel. "Now I know why you lot hated it so much when I was ghosty. Freaked me out six ways from Sunday when he did it, I'll tell you."

"Yeah, I could've done with a little less creep factor, myself." Stepping back, Angel's brow furrowed as his eyes traveled from Connor to Spike to Gwen, finally landing on Illyria, who stared back without speaking. "Illyria?" he asked finally.

"His spirit has not come to me," she said impassively. "Why should it? I may regret Gunn's absence, but I do not feel sorrow at his passing."

"If he was all about comforting the bereaved," Spike said, "shouldn't we be... I don't know... comforted?"

Angel frowned. "I don't think that's what he was up to, somehow."

---

The earlier cacophony of the office had died down; now, only the faintest conversations drifted in through Wesley's closed door.

Rather than attending to the background noise, Wesley listened carefully, intent upon the voice on the other end of the telephone line. He made careful notes, his pen gliding over the fine paper without catching or leaking.

"And all the arrangements are made? Very well; I'll be there." Wesley hung up his desk phone. He rose slowly, taking his charcoal suit jacket from the back of his chair and pulling one sleeve on.

"I see you tried Wolfram & Hart's recommended tailor, too. Nice suit," said Gunn.

Wesley blinked, but the apparition still stood before him. It was slightly translucent around the edges, but it was most definitely Gunn, in his own well-cut suit and tie. Not the threadbare jacket he'd worn when he'd come to threaten Wesley over his shelter; dark and neatly-pressed, the suit probably did come from the same tailor Wesley used. Blood seeped through the fabric of Gunn's shirt at the collar, turning the fine-spun cotton a dark red.

Gunn smiled. "Not like it's the first time you stabbed me. Carotid artery's a bit more vital than last time, though."

"I assure you, this wasn't part of my plan," Wesley said, exhaling slowly and leaning heavily against his desk. The jacket hung unnoticed from his arm.

Gunn moved closer, splaying an incorporeal hand on Wesley's chest. "Shouldn't need to breathe. We dead don't need that, do we?"

Wesley's face froze. He stepped forward, deliberately moving through Gunn's ghostly figure, and pulled on his suit jacket. "I don't need anything."

"So, you want to continue the conversation we were having in the White Room?" Gunn asked. "I wanted to get you out of here, out of Wolfram & Hart. But you didn't want to go, did you?"

"What I want? You don't understand what I want," Wesley said softly. "You cannot begin to understand the ramifications of what you would have done had you succeeded."

"Look, he does care," Gunn mocked.

"Why are you even here?" Wesley asked with a sudden frown. "I took steps to prevent your death from being mystical."

"Right." Gunn snorted, gesturing broadly to emphasize his words. "Expedient course of action. Do what's necessary. Didn't you have this conversation with that dead lawyer bitch? Do you ever get tired of the constant justifications?"

Wesley narrowed his eyes. "That conversation I had with a corpse? I don't recall recording it for posterity," he said, suspicion coloring his tone.

The ghost's face was blank for a moment, then he shrugged. "Yeah? Maybe I got the inside scoop from the... lady... herself; you're not the only dead employee on the books here."

"Yes, that's just what I was thinking." Wesley folded his arms. "Exactly what I was thinking. Except that the lady herself wasn't present for that encounter. Just me and a body, and my thoughts." He reached toward his desk. "Which you're reading right now."

Gunn's visage started to flicker and fade.

"I think not." Wesley knocked a paperweight off the corner of his desk and slapped at the button that had been hiding beneath it. "Initiate full wards."

The spirit grew solid again, lips set in an angry snarl. "Let me go."

"Possibly. After you tell me just what the hell you are."

---

"Why is everyone staring at me?" Spike demanded, pausing for a moment in his pacing across the Walden's lobby. He jabbed an accusatory finger in Gwen's direction. "You. Stop it, all right?"

Gwen rolled her eyes and gave Angel a frustrated look, pushing away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "This is getting us nowhere. If a ghost - "

"Former," Spike snapped, "and not even really."

"Former ghost, can't tell if Gunn was real or not, then how can we?"

"He was all see-through and stuff," Connor offered, resting his chin on his propped up hands, his elbows planted on the counter. "He really wasn't real. I mean, he wasn't alive."

"I know that," Spike said. He waved his hand impatiently. "No smell. Nothing. Not alive. Not a zombie or anything like that. Just can't say for sure if it was him."

"He seemed... off, somehow," Connor said.

"Being dead can have that effect," Spike pointed out.

"There's off, and there's off," Angel said. "I wasn't getting the 'going to a better place; wish you were here' vibe from him; were you?"

"He was trying to make me feel guilty," Connor said slowly. "About what he did for me when he cut himself."

"And do you?" Gwen asked.

"No." Connor reached for a can of soda and took a drink. "He offered, and he didn't mind. He was cool about it." His face twisted. "He was glad he could save me, I swear he was."

"It's all right, Connor," Angel said. "You weren't the only one left feeling that way. As if he held a grudge - even though he said he didn't." He frowned. "Which is... interesting."

"This is pointless," Illyria said, her voice cold. She stood, spine stiff, chin lifted in the center of the lobby, her eyes fixed on Angel.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It is. That wasn't Gunn. Wasn't him alive, wasn't him dead." He met their startled looks calmly.

"Then what was it?" Spike demanded, recovering faster than the others. "And how do we get it solid so I can hurt it?"

Angel shrugged. "It's a trick. It's a mind game. It's a way to get at us using someone we cared about. Playing on our fears. Need any more clues, or are we all on the same page here?"

Illyria sneered. "And so we see why I alone was not visited by this apparition. Only the weak fear those who cannot harm them; the dead hold no terror for me. He would know this."

"Sticks and stones," Spike muttered. "There's other ways to hurt people than give them bruises, you know." He thought about it and then smiled. "Though that's always fun..."

"Can we focus here?" Gwen asked sharply. She turned to Angel. "You think Wesley's behind this?"

He nodded.

Connor exhaled loudly. "He just doesn't give up, does he?"

"Connor - " Angel said quietly.

"No!" Connor's hand slammed down on the counter top. "He comes here, says stuff, makes me feel guilty and sad and it wasn't even him? Just one of Wesley's games?" He shook his head violently. "Sorry, but that just sucks. Gunn's dead, and he's using that?"

"It's clever," Spike said slowly and with some grudging admiration. "Got us all on edge, if that's what he was after."

"You do not know what his motives are," Illyria said. "Nor do you know if he has achieved them. The apparition may return."

"I don't think so," Angel said. "Not now that we're expecting it. Whatever it was supposed to do, I think we can assume it's done it."

An uneasy silence fell. Spike broke it. "I feel fine," he said defiantly.

"You quake at the thought of your former existence as a spirit," Illyria said scornfully. "Do not lie."

Spike made a visible effort to control his temper. "Yeah, it bothers me. A bit. But it bothers me one hell of a lot more thinking I've been played." He smiled thinly. "You know, I'm really looking forward to kicking Wesley's skinny ass from one end of his fancy office to the other."

Gwen smiled back at him, lifting her hands and bringing them together in a sharp smack that crackled with power. "Way ahead of you."

"No," Angel said, standing up. "That's not how we're going to handle this."

Gwen stalked over to him. "Excuse me?"

"Calm down," Angel told her. He looked at Spike. "And you can cool off, too. Wesley's ass is off-limits, just like the rest of him, until we - "

"Until you what?" Gwen demanded. "Hello? The longer we wait, the more people will die."

"And you care about that because?" Angel asked pointedly.

Gwen's mouth tightened. "I'm not going to sit around until you decide it's time to do something else that doesn't work."

"Hey!" Spike said. "Angel knows what he's doing." He blinked. "Did I just say that?"

"Indeed," Illyria said.

"Well... fine, I said it," Spike said. "Most of the time, no offense, mate, you're just muddling through, but I'll give you this; you get there in the end."

"Thank you," Angel said. "I think."

"Touching though this is," Gwen said, "I'm not on board the I-trust-Angel train."

Angel stared at her, showing no sign that her words bothered him. "We'll deal with this, but there's more going on than what Wesley's doing."

"Like what?" Gwen demanded.

"That's what we need to find out," Angel replied. "Before we go in stupid and angry, get our asses kicked and ruin any chance we have of catching them unprepared."

"I don't believe this," Gwen said furiously. "You're not going to do anything?"

"That's enough," Angel said without raising his voice to match hers. "Gwen, I get that you're upset; we all are - "

"I feel no grief," Illyria said indifferently. "A warrior died; it is their fate. What matters is those left living. The strong."

"Gunn was strong," Connor said. Illyria swung around to fix him with a questioning stare and he scowled at her. "And I'm sorry he's dead, even if you're not."

"Enough," Angel said again. "We're getting sidetracked. Not just here and now; I'm talking big picture. We're not seeing it all; we're just getting flashes of what they want us to see."

"'They'?" Spike asked. "You mean Wes?"

"Wesley isn't working alone, and we're forgetting that," Angel said. "He's pissing us off, keeping us off-balance, and we're letting him do it. That ends."

"No," Gwen said. "This conversation is what ends. Here and now, unless you tell me that we're going after Wesley and dealing with him, now."

"I can't tell you that," Angel said. "Not yet."

"Gunn would want revenge," she insisted. "The real Gunn."

"I can see that you do," Angel replied, "but making you feel better about your loss is really way down on my list of priorities right now."

She flinched, her fingers flexing instinctively.

"Don't," Angel warned her, his voice level. "Fighting amongst ourselves isn't the answer."

"Then what is?"

"I'm going back to work," Connor said, moving away from the counter and going over to his computer. "Researching."

"Researching what?" Gwen spat out.

Connor shrugged, sitting down and turning on his computer. "All the stuff we got from the raid. The raid Gunn was part of," he reminded her. "He's the one who thought there might be something in here, and that's good enough for me."

"Might be nothing." Gwen spun on her heel. "Count me out."

Angel watched her go, his face impassive, and then turned to the others, his expression shifting to one of resolve. "Let's get to work."

---

Kyle bounced into Wesley's office, a leather-bound file folder in hand.

"Hey, Boss," he said breezily. "When do you estimate you'll be signing off on repairs? I've taken the initiative to pull together these requests for re-staffing and emergency purchasing."

"Yes, I imagine you have," Wesley said, his voice calm and controlled. He rose, leaning on the side of his desk and fixing Kyle with a steady gaze. "Shut the door, Kyle."

"Something... wrong?" Kyle asked as he closed the door behind him and walked towards Wesley. He flicked his gaze to the corner of the room, his eyes widening. The smile he quickly turned on Wesley was bland, though. "Sir?"

"With me? No. The large man in the suit in front of my bookcase seems a little upset, however. Possibly it's because you're pretending not to see him, but I think his issues run deeper than that."

Kyle swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing tightly. "I... I'm not sure what you mean. There's no-one - "

Wesley reached out, interrupting the stammered reply by grabbing Kyle's neck and slamming his head down sideways on the desk. The folder fell from his hand, papers spilling onto the floor.

"Ow!" Kyle grimaced with pain.

"You should have contracted with an outside psychic," Wesley noted conversationally. "That, I think, would have left less of a paper trail." He increased the pressure until Kyle gasped for air, then lightened it.

"I... don't know..."

"Don't waste your breath, Kyle, and I mean that literally, as the person currently in control of it." Wesley pointed with his free hand to the image of Gunn, which stood silent, arms crossed, expression closed and still faintly angry. "And as the person in control of that, it's pointless to pretend you don't know it's there."

"You're hurting me," Kyle whined, his face growing increasingly flushed. "I only meant to - "

"Send a constructed manifestation of Charles Gunn to those who care about him, with content provided by their own subconscious minds," Wesley said, angrily adding, "What gives you the right?"

Kyle coughed, then pushed out in a hoarse bark, "The right? To go after Angel and his people? Especially after what they just pulled?"

Wesley eased up on his grasp but continued to hold him down. "Taking care of Angel is my job."

"Bang-up performance there, pal," the thing that wasn't Gunn said. Wesley glanced over but gave no further acknowledgement of its comment.

Kyle wrenched away from Wesley, staggering backwards and rubbing his throat. The redness didn't drain from his face, however. "Your job is to take care of this firm, too, and you're not doing so hot at that one either," he croaked. "In case you didn't notice, the vampire you're supposed to be taking care of walked in here with his friends last night and tore this place apart. Since you left me to put it back together again, I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone and do your other job at the same time."

"One stone?" Wesley repeated suspiciously. "What was this thing supposed to accomplish beyond irritating the hell out of me, which you're perfectly capable of doing on your own?"

"It's not my fault you gave a damn about the guy. How was I supposed to know that?" Kyle huffed. "I wasn't even sure if you knew he was dead, for all the attention you've been paying to what's going on around here."

"The knowledge was difficult to avoid, seeing as I killed him," Wesley said shortly.

Kyle's eyes widened. "Well, if you'd told me that..."

"You report to me, remember?" Wesley shook his head. "Just what did you think you were playing at? Petty antics like these aren't going to - "

"Petty?" Kyle spat, eyes narrowing again. "What, you think I just hired somebody to haunt your precious vampire? Like the game of I'm Not Touching You that you've been playing with him all year? They broke into our offices, staged a raid on our files. They wanted something. Maybe they got it, maybe they didn't, but we need to know, if we're going to be able to protect this place."

Wesley glanced at the ghost-creature and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "It wasn't just reading their subconscious minds."

"Had to do that to get close enough for the other," it said with Gunn's voice. Walking over to Wesley, it trailed its fingers over his chest again, pulling them back in reaction Wesley's glare, but not with any hurry.

"It was designed to read them for anything they might have pulled out of here," Kyle said smugly. "Any plans they might have that could be damaging to Wolfram & Hart. Then come back and pass the knowledge on to me."

"You idiot," Wesley said. "I know what they took out of here, and I know they don't know what they're holding. I've been working non-stop to stay ahead of them, to make sure that remains the case. And now, because you thought you had to... what? Show some initiative? Make a bid for the newly vacant position of thorn in my side?"

"That's not exactly the position I was hoping for," Kyle said, glancing at the spirit, then at the empty chair behind Wesley's desk.

"You colossal fool." Wesley's voice was soft. Not menacing just... tired.

"Survival instinct, I think you called it," Kyle told him.

Wesley shook his head. "No. Tell, me, what happens when I release the wards on this room and that creature disappears?"

Kyle smirked. "I know what it knows. Then I guess we see who the Senior Partners think is better at doing your job - you or me. Or you could just wait another hour, and it falls apart on its own. Same result."

Wesley walked behind his desk, then leaned over to hit the black button on its far corner. "Wards down."

The Gunn-creature smiled at him, then gave a little wave, fading into nothing. As soon as it was gone, Kyle's body stiffened. His eyes went opaque, first just unfocused, then glowing with a bright white light. Wesley sat down, watching him across the desk.

Kyle smiled triumphantly as the light died away. Then, as Wesley stared at him, the expression faltered. Crumbled into confusion. "You were - "

"Read by that thing as well, yes," Wesley said patiently.

Kyle shook his head. "No, but... you were." He stopped. His face lit up with smugness again. "And I thought the Senior Partners were going to be happy with what Angel knew."

"I suppose I did fail to mention that they should actually be good survival instincts," Wesley said. With one smooth motion, he brought a handgun up from behind his desk, pointing it at Kyle's head.

Kyle shook his head. "What do you think that's going to accomplish? I die working for Wolfram & Hart, they'll just bring me back. I've got the same kind of contract you do, without all the interesting clauses, though."

Wesley didn't lower the gun, but he did incline his head. "Ah, true. Thank you for pointing that out."

"So why don't you just - "

"Kyle?" Wesley interrupted.

"What?" The smirk was back. "Sir."

"You're fired."

---

Gwen's footsteps echoed solidly on the concrete as she stalked down the sidewalk. She moved fast in no particular direction besides onward, staring down at her own boots, paying little attention to her surroundings. Every so often, she'd punch a wall without stopping longer than it took to pull her fist away, leaving a shower of sparks and a trail of scorch marks on the brick behind her.

That changed when the wall beneath her knuckles suddenly gave way. Gwen found herself startled into stopping as her fist plunged into the glass window of a small shop, blood dripping down her hand and onto the display of jewelry below the shattered glass.

"Shit."

An alarm blared into life somewhere in the back of the shop, ringing loudly enough to alert everyone on the street, had there been anybody around to hear it. Luckily the neighborhood seemed mostly shut down for the night; the nearest figure she spotted as she glanced around was several blocks away, standing at a bus stop. Looking left and right, Gwen hurriedly bundled her bleeding hand up in her coat.

"That's all I need - Gwen Raiden, busted for a penny-ante storefront break-in she didn't even intend to pull. Pathetic."

Gwen stared at the display window, frozen in her anger and frustration. The jewelry sparkled under dimmed lights.

"What the hell. Already did the damage..." She swept her good hand over the display case, dumping a bright tangle of gold and stones into her purse. "That never gets old."

She moved away from the window and hurried along the sidewalk, staying just slow enough not to arouse suspicion if anyone saw her. Once she'd got far enough away to feel safe, she turned a corner and leaned against a wall for a moment. She tightened her coat around her hand, looking to see if any blood was soaking through the heavy material. It still looked clean.

While Gwen was preoccupied with rewrapping her hand, something tugged at her arm. She heard the metal catch on one end of her purse strap clicking open.

Looking up, all she saw was the back of a raggedy kid as he ran off down the alley to her right, clutching her purse.

"You've gotta be kidding me," she muttered. Then she started running, shouting after him, "Hey, I don't care about the stuff, but I like that bag. That's real Gucci, you little brat! Come back here!"

Gwen chased after him, catching up to the boy after about half a block. She reached out with her uninjured hand to grab the back of his neck before he could get away, but she overbalanced and they both fell over in a heap.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, kid?" she asked as she untangled herself from him and grabbed her purse back. She kept a knee planted firmly against his back, holding him down while she fixed the purse strap, then finally hauled the kid up by the collar of his faded sweatshirt.

The boy, not quite a teenager, looked up at her with teary brown eyes. He sniffled a little. "We're hungry. There's five of us at home, and Mama says she's gonna get us something to eat, but she lost her job and - "

Gwen straightened up and slung her bag over one shoulder, her bleeding fingers smarting at the activity as she held tight to the kid with her other hand. "Don't even bother, shorty. I used to spew that crap with the best of them when I ran away from school."

The tears stopped, the boy's eyes widening in surprise. He gave her a suspicious look. "You gonna turn me in?"

She snorted, then shook her head. "No point, is there. They'll just let you out of juvie in a few weeks, and you'll do it again. You should be more careful, though."

He shrugged. "Need money, lady. Maybe I don't have five brothers and sisters to feed, but I'm not stayin' at the Holiday Inn, neither."

"I meant not so obvious," Gwen told him. "You're gonna pull that stuff, do it on a busy street where you can disappear into the crowd, not someplace like this." When his gaze darted around the darkened street, she shook him lightly. "And do it in the daytime, for God's sake. What're you even doing out here at this hour?"

The boy looked at her incredulously. "Well, I don't know; guess I got bored with the penthouse, figured I'd hang out on the asphalt for a while, see how the other half lives."

She grimaced. "Funny. Except if you hang out on the asphalt at night in a neighborhood like this, you might get to see how the other half doesn't live, and, kiddo, you don't want to meet that half, believe me."

"Not scared of the bloodsuckers," the boy said gruffly. "I know how to take care of myself."

His knowledge shouldn't have surprised her, given the way Gunn had got his start in the hero business, but it did take her aback for just a second. Gwen shook her head, though, at his posturing.

"Right, you're an expert vampire hunter - hanging out alone on a deserted street waiting to get eaten. Don't you have anyplace to go?" Gwen looked around, actually paying attention to where she was instead of just the general badness of it. "Huh. We're not far from East Hills. There's a shelter that can give you a bed and some food, at least."

The boy scowled. "Hell, no. I just came from there. Rather sleep on the street than go back."

Gwen frowned. "What do you mean? Did something happen?" She reached into her pocket, pulling out a cell phone. "Guess Angel would get off his ass for that, anyway..."

"That cracker vampire? What's he care? He just handed the place off to Anton and walked, just like Gunn." The boy crossed his arms, scowl deepening. "Nothing happened at the shelter except it's all a pile of bull; nobody's ever gonna stick around to take care of that place. Look, you gonna let me go, or not?"

Gwen stared at him, trying to figure out what to say. "What's your name, kid?" she asked, stalling.

"I thought you weren't gonna turn me in."

"I'm not; I'm just sick of calling you 'kid'," she said.

"Kareem," was the surly reply.

"Kareem..." Gwen said, crouching a bit to be closer to his eye-level. "You know Gunn didn't walk away from that place, don't you? You know he's - "

"He's dead; so what?" Kareem's voice was unexpectedly scornful, his eyes narrowing. "Didn't stop him from showing up to tell us how sorry he was that it didn't work out."

He twisted his shoulder hard and managed to pull his collar from Gwen's grasp. Instead of running away down the alley, however, he stood there in front of Gwen, glaring sullenly at her as she blinked at him.

"You... saw Gunn too. His ghost," she said.

"Bunch of us did. His neck was all bloody," the boy said matter-of-factly, backing up against the dirty, graffiti-covered wall behind him. "He told Anton he was sorry, Gunn never meant to stick him with the job, and everybody'd understand if he couldn't handle it."

Gwen shook her head slowly. "No. That wasn't Gunn."

Kareem snorted. "How would you know?"

"I knew him. He was my..." Gwen faltered for a moment, then gave one answer she could be sure of. "My friend."

"Yeah?" Kareem said. "I never saw you around the shelter."

"I... came once," she answered defensively. "Gunn gave me a tour; there were cookies. Look, the point is that I saw the ghost too; a bunch of his friends did - but it wasn't Gunn. It was somebody trying to mess with our minds, make us feel bad, scare us."

"It didn't scare me," Kareem told her. "Nothing to be scared of, just another lame-ass grownup making excuses and dumping us because he found something actually worth fighting for."

Gwen shook her head again. "Gunn thought the teen center was worth fighting for. That's why he went there, why he left what he was doing before."

"Yeah, and he went off to get killed because he was wrong," Kareem growled. "He said so. Said he was sorry, but some things are more important. That we'd understand when we got older, and, anyway, he wasn't cut out for the charity job; probably better for all of us he got out when he did."

"Bullshit!" The word burst out of Gwen's mouth the way sparks had been bursting out of her fingers not so long ago. "That thing was not Charles Gunn. He didn't consider that place a charity or a job. It was the first time he knew for sure he was doing something right in a long, long time." She crossed her arms and shifted her hip, looking down at Kareem. "And it wasn't the see-through version of the guy who told me that."

Kareem shrugged, face still just as closed-off as ever. "Whatever, lady. He's still dead. That place is still gonna fold as soon as we run out of Spaghettios and Anton can't find anybody willing to give us another handout. One way or another Gunn walked. "

"Right, that's it." Gwen took him by the arm, and started pulling him towards the opening of the alleyway.

"Let me go!"

"No," she told him. "Gunn didn't walk, and neither are you. Not tonight, anyway. I'm betting there's an empty bed with your name on it, and somebody waiting for you to check in."

"What makes you think I care?" Kareem sneered.

She pulled him out onto the sidewalk and kept walking. "You weren't worried about when they run out of food, were you?"

Kareem struggled in her grip. "You can't make me go back there. Who do you think you are, lady?"

Gwen adjusted her purse strap, then looked down at the bag itself. She gave a little laugh. "I'm the chick you just stole enough money from to keep you in Spaghettios for at least a month. Here." She shoved the bag into his hands and let go of his arm. "You can deliver that to Anton personally."

Again, when he could have run, he didn't. Instead, he stood beneath a streetlight, brow furrowed, staring into the glittering depths of the bag. "I don't get you. What makes you think I won't just take it for myself?" he asked at last.

She studied him seriously for a moment. "Because you cared about my friend, or that thing couldn't have messed with you the way it did."

Kareem didn't confirm or deny it, just watched her warily.

She shot him a grin. "Also, because I'm coming with you; if you try to run, I'll kick your ass."

"See, now that I can follow."

---

The leather seats on Wolfram & Hart's corporate jet reclined much further than the seats in a commercial airliner. Wesley leaned back, pressing the button to release the retractable footrest. Lifting first one foot and then another onto it, he relaxed somewhat, though tension still remained in his posture.

"More scotch?" asked the attendant, appearing from another compartment and reaching for Wesley's empty glass. "Takeoff's always a bit rough in these smaller planes."

Wesley nodded to the man, but said nothing to him; he was too busy speaking into the airphone. "You're sure Kyle's spirit is completely unreachable by any means, Mr. Booth? Priest, subpoena, sideshow medium? I hadn't meant to test your spellwork quite so soon, but the individual in question rather forced my hand."

The ice clinked as the attendant set the drink alongside Wesley's seat on the window table and then departed.

The reply on the other end of the line was cut off by the beep of an incoming call. He checked the readout on the back of the phone, then said, "Pardon me; my office is calling. I'll ring you back shortly."

Outside the port-hole window, the sunlight, brighter and unfiltered at thirty thousand feet than it had been back in LA, cast shadows in the fluffy clouds. Shining through the thick pane, it danced over the bouncing ice cubes in Wesley's amber drink.

Wesley pressed the button to accept the new call. "Pryce," he answered.

A furrow of irritation creased his brow as the male voice on the other end came through the tiny speaker at a far greater volume. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce! Wow. I can't believe I'm patched into the jet. That's too cool. Is everything okay up there?"

Wesley sighed and moved the phone an inch away from his head. "Troy, is it? Yes, the flight is fine. I'm well on my way. Should be only a few more hours now."

"Glad to hear it. And can I say I'm so grateful for this opportunity? I've been waiting to get away from that reception desk for - "

Wesley finally interrupted, saying, "Troy. I don't have time for this right now. I'm very glad you're pleased with your new duties, but what I need you to do first and foremost is execute them without my intervention."

"Okay, right," Troy's voice said, "but they just pulled me up from the ground floor; they haven't given me any duties yet, just told me to call you."

"Ah. My apologies." Wesley sighed and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "Right, then. The biggest issue you'll need to work on at the moment is cleanup."

"From Angel and his guys, right. So not sorry I missed that."

"Among other things, " Wesley answered, taking a sip of his drink and swallowing before he continued. "But I was speaking more specifically of my office."

"You want me to clean your office? Sure, I can do that," Troy said cheerily.

"Just a bit of tidying," Wesley assured him. "Your first duty as my new assistant is to dispose of my old assistant. You'll find him beside my desk. See that you execute your duties and only yours, and you'll avoid his fate."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before the shaky and much subdued answer came through. "Got it. Uh, sir."

---

Spike held a set of printouts between his hands, moving them closer and further away from his face. "Next time could we get the good printer, one that makes something bigger than munchkin-sized letters?"

"It's fourteen point font," Connor said as he made several rapid clicks with the mouse and then slammed the enter key with his index finger.

Angel didn't look up from his own set of printouts as he spoke. "I could go out to the drug store, pick up some breath mints and maybe a pair of reading glasses, if anyone needed them."

"Don't need glasses," Spike muttered darkly.

"So we're not arguing about the breath mints thing?"

Spike tossed his sheaf onto the counter. "Reading though this mess wouldn't even be a bloody issue if we just used all this paper as kindling to burn Wolfram & Hart to the ground."

"Fire, pretty," Gwen said.

Startled, the men all shifted in their chairs and stared at her.

"How did you..." Connor gestured at the theater's front doors.

"Thief," Gwen smiled, pointing at herself. She was dressed like anything but, however. Though she was no longer plainly clad, she wasn't back to her usual breaking and entering attire; she wore a dark, elegant suit and carried a small travel-bag over her shoulder.

"I meant without the three guys with extra-special bat hearing realizing you were here," Connor said.

"Idiots?" She pointed at them.

Putting down his papers, Angel stood up. "Gwen, we've been over this already."

Her mouth tightened into a thin line as Gwen ran her gloved hand along the back of one of the empty guest chairs. "Down, boy. I know, and I'm still not happy about it, but I get it. I just came back to thank you."

Angel stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We just can't charge in there. We've got to take stock of the - "

"You might have to give him a couple of minutes to catch up," Spike said to her.

Angel's eyebrows pulled together as he watched Gwen. "What exactly are you thanking me for?"

She shifted her bag on her shoulder. "For reminding me to think about what Gunn would really want."

"And that is?" Angel asked.

"If he were still around, Gunn would be more worried about taking care of people who needed help than going after somebody who'd hurt him." She glanced down at the toes of her shoes and shrugged. "So I guess I'm going to take care of the kids at the shelter."

Connor's head snapped up from the computer screen. "You're going to move into the Teen Center?"

"Now there's a thought," Spike said, sprawling in his chair. "Miss Raiden's school for gifted and talented sneak thieves; very Artful Dodger."

"Or," Gwen said, looking up and rolling her eyes, "I, who cannot even keep a house plant alive, will use my ill-gotten gains to start a trust fund for the place. I got a line on a job in Sydney tonight. Just wanted to stop in and let you know the kids'll be okay."

"That's some change of heart." Angel sat on the arm of a chair. "Somehow I doubt that I get all the thanks for that."

Gwen smiled wryly. "Let's just say the spirit moved me." She headed out the door as the men stared after her.

"Well, that was... different," Connor said after a moment.

"That shelter's had worse funding sources," Angel told them. "She's good at what she does."

Spike rose to his feet. "While we, frankly, suck at this. " He picked up his stack of printouts, then tossed them down again with obvious disgust. "I say we take a break from the squirming figures here and pop across the street for a drink. Everything's clearer through the bottom of a glass."

"Or maybe we should head for the airport," Connor said, pulling a freshly inked page off the printer.

"For booze?" Spike responded, confused. "Couldn't even get you drunk on those tiny little bottles."

A grim smile came to Connor's face as he shook his head. "I found it; Wesley's flying to Ireland."

THE END