Title: Gathering Dust
Author: Ling
Posted: 08-10-2002
Rating: R (What can I say?  I've got a dirty mouth, er, fingers, er, mind.  Um.  Shit.)
Email: lifebounce@yahoo.com
Content:
Summary: "You'd write a eulogy for me?  That's sweet, in a creepy way, considering you're probably the person who'd kill me."  Cordelia removes the last pieces of her life from Sunnydale, and in the process runs across an old, familiar face, much changed by time and unhappy love affairs.  It is in mutual misery and blustering unawareness that something sparks between the two, and in L.A., at Angel Investigations, a love already blossomed is threatened by an attraction revealed. 
Spoilers:
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made. John Milton's work is, of course, his own, and used with only deep respect for one of the Masters.
Distribution: Nothing Fancy has express permission; anyone else, please inquire at lifebounce@yahoo.com before posting this story.
Notes: This story is not fluff. Go away.
Feedback:

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Part 2

"Breakfast burritos again?" Wesley said in a somewhat disapproving voice.  Gunn shrugged sheepishly, and muttered something about them being on sale.  The irritated expression on Wesley's face softened as he watched Fred dig into hers in appreciation, and his unhappiness was all but forgotten when she smiled sweetly at him.

Gunn grinned: pissing off Wesley was well worth seeing Fred happy.  He looked around the lobby, finding it very empty, lacking in green, horned demons, undead creatures of the night, half-demon Seers, or babies.  Frowning, he asked, "Hey, you guys know where the rest of the crew is?  Breakfast delivery is usually the last to arrive."

There was something of a tradition at the Hyperion in the mornings.  Considering that it was a place of business and not a residence, it was always bizarre for clients that had stumbled in late at night to find that not only did they have a place to stay for the night, that by the time they woke up, all the associates of Angel Investigations were downstairs buzzing around a coffeepot and sharing breakfast burritos.  If said customers didn't know any better, they'd have to hazard a guess and say that none of these people had any lives of their own, and that demons were the full extent of their day-to-day excitement. 

The doors to the hotel burst open and Lorne made his way in, flamboyant in a white suit with a neon purple shirt underneath.  He was smiling broadly, and absolutely reeked of liquor and expensive bars.  "Hello, dears, have I got some grapes for you!"

Wesley, Gunn, and Fred stared at him blankly.

"Grapes?" Lorne said, regarding their faces.  "You know?  Grapevine?  The grapes - "

Still nothing.  'It's too early,' the Host decided.

"Lorne," Wesley started carefully, "have you been drinking?"

The green demon looked irritated.  "Yes, but as I've already told Fred-girl over there, I can hold my liquor.  It's the firewater that's the problem."  He took a deep breath and asked, "Is Angelcakes around?  I have got some news that'll just kill him dead.  Well, deader, anyway."

Wesley looked ruffled.  "It's our assumption that he hasn't quite made it out of bed yet.  What's the news you have to share, Lorne?" 

Wes, in his neverending British-ness, was slowly dissecting the breakfast burrito, cutting it first into small pieces, and then separating the eggs from the sausage, preferring to eat it in pieces, or layers, or parts, than to stuff it so ungracefully into his mouth at once.  Fred was fascinated by the ritual; Gunn thought he needed therapy; Cordelia just rolled her eyes.  He'd tried to stop, but had itchy fingers at the very thought: the burrito needed to be taken apart, eating it otherwise was just abysmally rude and boorish, his father would never approve of whole-burrito eating.

The Host shifted his weight from one foot to the next, deciding it would be good not to be slammed against a wall or yelled at in Angel's violent pursuits of information.  If they told him together, he wouldn't have a specific target to roar and pin to counters or bruise: yes, telling Angel en masse was much better than simply surprising him.

"Grapevine and my own eyes confirm it: William the Bloody is in town," Lorne said triumphantly.  "And if you ask me," he added, his voice low and conspiratorial, "he looks awful.  That hair?  And the excessive leather?  You'd think cows would be more afraid of vampires than humans are."

This admission brought forth three different reactions all in quick succession:

"William the Bloody?  Spike?  Why in God's name is Spike in Los Angeles - unless, oh, right.  Unless he heard word of the Ring of Amara again, or, or - oh, dear!"

"William the Bloody?  The William the Bloody?  The one turned by Druscilla who was turned by Angelus himself?  The one in the charts?  That Wesley made?  In the office?  Oh, my gosh!  I've never met any of Angel's family before!"

"What?  What happened?!  Angel's responsible for Spike?  The Spike?  I'm staking Angel's ass the next time I see him!  He never tells me anything!"

...Which were quickly silenced by a soft cough from the doorway.

The four in the lobby turned about to see Angel leaning against the doorframe, a pensive expression on his face, his eyes hooded.  His thick arms were crossed over his chest, and his fingers were clasped to his own biceps as if they were gripping iron.  He did not look anywhere near as amused or excited as the others seemed to be.

Lorne swallowed.  "Top of the morning, Angelcakes."

"Lorne," Angel said, nodding.  "So.  Spike.  In town."

His voice managed to silence the rumble of questions that roared through three inquiring minds: even Wesley knew better than to let his Watcher instincts run rampant when something made Angel talk in that tone.  Fred just watched in wide-eyed curiosity, wanting to ask, to poke and prod, but figured that the way that Angel looked like he was trying to tear his own arms out of their sockets was an indication of how angry he was.

The green demon stepped behind Gunn, and said, "Yeah.  I saw him in The Red Room.  It's a club, just off of Sunset.  Very hush-hush and run by demons, but they mix an unbeatable Sour Apple Martini, and..."

Angel frowned and Lorne fell silent.

"Did you happen to hear why he's here?" the vampire asked.

Lorne shook his head.  "I got nothing.  Just overheard a few vamps talking about him and pointing.  They say he's harmless now.  You know, can't hurt people?"  Angel took two steps forward, growling, and Lorne edged back.  "Actually, not to be presumptuous, you probably out to take a page out of his book, you know, the not-hurting thing - "

Angel narrowed his eyes.  "First things, you're not human; second thing - "

"You wound me," Lorne accused.  "I still have a heart!  Left butt-cheek or not!"

" - I'm not going to hurt you," Angel finished.  "If you tell me where he is right now."

Lorne sighed, backing out of his hiding place and opening his arms.  "Look, Cupcake, the last I saw him, he was The Red Room.  You can go there - not sure if they'd want your company, you do have sort of a bad reputation among demons in L.A, can't imagine why - and ask around, but I'm not sure how much good it'd do."

"Or," a new voice interrupted, "you could just wait it out."

The motley crew of Angel Investigations turned to look up, where Cordelia was perched on the staircase, a gurgling baby on her shoulder.  She was sleep-tousled and bright-eyed, newly wakened and soft about the edges: pre-coffee, post-stretching.  Connor, on the other hand, was wide awake, slapping his small, chubby hands along Cordelia's shoulder, smiling happily, trying to get her attention by intermittently pulling at her hair.

She started descending again, adding, "When has Spike ever come to L.A.?  Oh, right, to kill you."  She motioned at Angel with her free hand and hit the last step.  "If I were you, I'd just wait.  Spike's crazy, he'll be around sooner or later."

There was general shocked silence, and Lorne looked beyond grateful: he'd seen where the conversation was going.  Had the Seer not arrived just when she had, he was certain a "Lorne, get you ass back down to The Red Room, now.  I don't care if you get hurt, who you have to pay off, and who you have to grease, just get me that information" was due.

Fred seemed to recover first, and made her way toward Cordelia, opening her arms to take Connor, and saying, "Here.  Let me get him.  You don't look awake yet."

Gunn instinctively clutched his fingers about a stake he carried in his pocket twenty-four hours a day.  His thought process was very clear:

(Angel + Cordelia)(Overnight) = Angelus = Stake his ass fast.

Wesley placed one hand on Gunn's arm reflexively, knowing immediately what the young vampire hunter was thinking, and cleared his throat.  "So, Cordelia.  I see you stayed over last night."  He cocked his eyebrow at the young woman, his tone casual, but a knife edge in his voice.  "Did you sleep well?  Sweet dreams?"

"Wesley, I really don't think that's as important as Spike - " Angel said, desperate to turn their attention away from the brunette-cum-blonde that had suddenly appeared.

Gunn snorted.  "Yeah?  Now, remind me - who was the baddest-ass vamp ever?  Spike, or Angelus?"  The vampire in question shot Gunn a death glare, and opened his mouth to say something when Fred cut him off, her tone unsure.

"You...you didn't do anything, did ya'll?  I mean," she paused, looking at the ground.  "I know I was all the way down the hall 'an stuff, but, I didn't hear anything."  Her eyes got wide and she colored dark red, staring in horror at Cordelia.  She clutched the baby to her chest protectively.  "Unless there was a gag involved.  Oh, God!  And Connor was still in the room - "

"Nobody got gagged!" Angel snapped.  He didn't think vampires could blush; apparently, he was mistaken: his face was flaming.  "Nobody did anything - "

"You sure about that, Angel?  Cordelia?" Wesley asked precisely, his tone like ice.

Angel bit his lip nervously, momentarily forgetting that Spike was wandering around his town to worry the new problem that had presented itself: he hadn't planned what to say for when the rest of AI discovered Cordelia's sleepover.  His initial plan was to somehow awaken her before the others arrived, and to convince her to change her clothing so no one was the wiser.  His backup plan was just to shut up and let Cordelia talk it out; he could handle Gunn (maybe) and Fred (maybe), but Wesley was more cunning than the former, and less coddling than the latter.  Wes would be Cordy's problem.

If someone had told Queen C in high school that Wesley Wyndham-Pryce III, failed Watcher to Cry-Buffy and Faith, could be frightening, she would have laughed in their face until she was crying in their face.  Wesley was not frightening.  The Easter Bunny was more threatening than Wes.  Of course, that was all before she'd seen him older, less clean-shaven, and unemployed.  Wesley had managed to become a formidable fighter, and underneath all that bumbling scholarly curiosity, he had an iron-glare that made her go numb when it was directed at her; the glasses did not help, they focused his accusation, like lasers. 

Cordelia took a few tentative steps into the lobby, deciding between 'humble' or 'casual.'  She came to the end result that 'casual' would be more in her favor, because no one was ever humble unless they'd done something wrong to begin with, and there had been no something-wrongs done the night previous.  Really.

She rolled her eyes, steeling herself against Wes' gaze (which was, amazingly, growing even more venomous as each second crept by).  "Nothing happened.  And yes, I did sleep well.  Which is pretty amazing considering I was completely clothed and remained that way throughout the night."  She gave Wesley The Look, her only functioning weapon against His Stare, and added, "I don't like your implication there, Wesley.  British fuddy-duddy or not," she was pushing it there, but it had to be done, people who hadn't done anything wrong had nothing to fear, "staying over doesn't equate sex, you know."

Wes just narrowed his eyes at her, not convinced and completely unrepentant.

He crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Excuse my presumptuous attitude, but Angel and sex in the past haven't exactly been very conducive to averting apocalypses or keeping people alive, if you understand my direction."

Angel managed to look angry and contrite at the same time.  "Why is my sex life always under scrutiny?"  He went to Fred, and covered Connor's ears, as if the infant could understand a single word that was being said.  "And could we please keep the s-e-x talk away from the baby?"

Everyone else in the room rolled their eyes together.

"Angel," Wesley said firmly, "sorry to crush your personal freedoms, but the Watcher's Council has an entire wing of the library dedicated to you, and yes, a section to your romantic endeavors.  There's no point in being shy now.  We've got practically every woman you've had relations with documented."

Angel gaped.

The former Watcher looked between the shellshocked vampire, and the annoyed Seer.  "You swear nothing happened last night?" he asked once more, totally serious.

Cordelia sighed and put her hands on her hips.  "Cross my heart, Wes."

And so the subject was dropped.

* * *

Sort of.

Fred had always been too emotionally invested in Cordelia and Angel's relationship, seeing it as some sort of recompense for her own failed crush on the brooding vampire.  From the early days of introducing Angel to his least favorite word in the Pylean vocabulary to more recent events, she'd always had a vested interest in anything that Cordy and Angel did to reveal their true feelings.

She wasn't an expert on love, but spending the night usually meant serious stuff.

Or, at least it had in her high school years.  College was sort of blurry: there were books involved, and probably excessive use of school labs; men were not her focus.

Angel was sitting in Wes' office, chewing on his lip nervously.

"Hey, Angel," she said cheerfully, in a practiced, light tone.  The vampire just glanced up at her and nodded, clearly wishing to be left alone.  Though hero-worship and puppy-love hadn't completely worn away, she was intent on getting to the bottom of this.  "So, I was thinkin'."  She fiddled with the hem of her t-shirt.  "If you did, you know, want some private time with...you know, anyone at all, you could always have me babysit Connor."  She smiled sweetly at him.  "It's perfectly all right, you know."

Angel rolled his eyes and held his head in his cupped hands.

"Fred, let met explain something to you: I don't have a private life."  He scowled.  "What I thought was my private life actually has a wing in a library of British geeks."

Fred grinned and sat down on the edge of Wes' desk.  "Oh, don't be melodramatic, Angel."  She nudged him.  "Come on, Angel.  Cheer up."

He frowned at her.  "I don't want to."  Pausing, he added, "And my lunatic grandchilde is apparently flouncing around somewhere.  God knows why he's here and what he's doing."  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye suspiciously.  "Why are you here, Fred?"

"Kye - !"

"Nevermind!"

* * *

Cordelia awarded herself with an evening off that day.  No visions, no clients wandering in, and Angel had gone on patrol as soon as the sun was down.  There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the vampire was hoping to get some serious ass-kicking under his belt, if only to work off that morning's embarrassment and stress.  Besides, Spike was still wandering around L.A. for all they knew, and Angel felt somewhat responsible. 

Queen C, on the other hand, wasn't about to let Wesley and the rest get her down.

The problem had been building for months.  In between scrubbing scorch-marks from marble flooring of abandoned hotels, working for ensouled-vampires, researching at all hours of night, playing surrogate mother to a miracle child, and finding her entire social circle encompassed by her workmates, she'd realized that the Cordelia Chase she'd worked so hard to become during her youth had suddenly faded, taking the bad and the good.  She didn't miss her cattiness, or her penchant for isolating potential friends or snapping at everyone who crossed her path in last season's Steve Madden's; she just wanted to have some fun again.  Not that these things were not important to her; but she was young and it was Los Angeles, the playground of beautiful people.

Dennis was occupied with some sort of playoff, and had only brushed her shoulders offhandedly when she'd announced her evening plans.

She'd asked the few normal, human friends she had in L.A. for a few suggestions, and was zipped into a skintight black skirt and black stilettos: she was stepping out. 

Cordelia stopped in her hall mirror, throwing back her shoulders and looking at herself critically.  Tonight, she would have fun.  Tonight, there would be sweaty, dirty, up-close-and-personal dancing, there would be nameless groping.  Tonight, she'd get pleasantly buzzed and fuzzy on martinis and kiss like a whore and she'd grind to pulsing music in dark, hot places.  Tonight, she would be absolutely without inhibition.

Tonight, she would rave. 

She paused a moment at her door, considering, before deciding with a firm expression on her face and pulling the pager out of her purse.  The cellphone was an obligation she couldn't escape in case the Powers decided to dole out information, but the pager was optional.  The pager was something she could leave.

And without it, she felt a million years younger, lighter.

She completely missed the figure that blended almost completely into the shadows, observing her with an indulgent smile.

* * *

There were three main kinds of nightclubs:

1. Young people clubs.  These were loud, large, and shiny-new.  They were formulated and designed to look dark and spicy with blue filters everywhere.  People in the eighteen to twenty-three age range went because they could, and it seemed new and less scary if they could blend in seamlessly with loads of other people who didn't know what the hell they were doing either.

2. Rave clubs.  The music was too loud, there was too much liquor, and too many people.  Everyone wore jeans and t-shirts or leather and fishnet.  People of all ages went there, and some practically built their homes in the dusty, grungy corners.

3. Closed Blinds.  Closed Blinds was a nightclub that hedged on raving and was much too real for that eighteen through twenty-three year old yuppie chic cult.  There were no membership cards, because that was stupid; there were no recreational drugs, because that was for wimps; but there was music, and sound-proofed walls, and plenty of professional-looking people with track marks on their arms and liquor-glazed eyes.  The blast of sound that assaulted a person's ears the moment they wandered in through the heavy doors, past the six large, angry bouncers, and into the bewildering blackness of Closed Blind's foyer had been known to throw people into shock.

Cordelia had started the evening by wandering into the first, left in disgust, trailed into the second, and left wincing, before finally finding Closed Blinds off an inconspicuous little street in the middle of nowhere. 

And then she'd lost her body, ceased to feel her skin, and the music crept into her, piled up in her mind, and bubbled behind her eyeballs.  She'd lost touch with all her physical bounds except for her fingertips, which she felt very clearly as they trailed through the crowds, brushing hair and clothes and walls.  She didn't know where she was, all she felt was the pulse-beat of music and the heavy rumbling of voices.  She could smell the heavy, thick scent of cigarettes and vodka and she almost tasted the sweat that covered everyone.  She'd tossed her shoes almost an hour ago, and was now certain that there was no way of ever recovering them; she couldn't bring herself to care.

It was then that cool, sinewy hands slid in to grasp her waist, and soft, full lips pressed to her ear, a long, lithe body flush against her own, grinding to the beat. 

"Christ, Cheerleader."

Cordelia whipped around, her eyes glassy in the dim lighting and stared with only mild surprise at Spike's amused expression.  They were still in a middle of a dance floor of writhing bodies, and neither one of them budged from their spots.

She was surprised to find that she was not afraid.

"Why are you here?" she yelled over the din.

He smirked.  "I was going to return your umbrella."

Her eyes widened.  "Keep it."

He nodded, looked around them, and turned back to her.

"Trying to forget yourself, Cheerleader?" he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him.  "I'm raving."

He grinned, deliciously wicked.  "And doing a smashing job."  He held out his hand.  "Come on, dance dirty with me." 

She cocked and eyebrow at him, but found herself slipping into the rhythm again, swaying her hips to the slower, more Latin beat that had found its way onto the speakers, her thighs brushing against Spike's at their close proximity, and their fingers touching of their own accord. 

She would blame it on the apple martinis later, she decided. 

For now, she thought, taking Spike's offered hand - throwing herself into the roaring crowd again, black dress tight against leather, goodness and vacationing evil two-breaths away from vertical fucking in a nightclub - for now, she would just melt into the moment.

* * *

Growing up in Sunnydale had given Cordelia Chase an extracurricular education that was exclusive to Hellmouth: don't stay out after sunset unless you've got a death wish; small, blonde females are always to be obeyed, especially when ridge-faced weirdos are chasing and attempting to chew on you; do not fall on rebars.  

Most importantly, of course, was that vampires were evil.  Mercy to them was useless.

The soul of the person was lost when they died, and no one knew exactly where a vampire's soul went if they managed to retain all their intellectual and emotional faculties (removing general compassion and conscience, of course).  Did the soul go to heaven, watching the body on earth?  Or did the soul go to hell on default?  She'd never really overthought the whole issue before she'd been told Angel had a soul.  Where had it been before he got it back?  In Boca?

Still, the point was that though her Sunnydale supplementary text had been very useful in avoiding premature death, being turned, or mauled, she'd never really come across a situation like Spike before.

"Seriously, Spike, why are you here?" she asked, breathless.

They'd tumbled out of the club nearly ten minutes ago, breathless with excitement and pounding with music, hot skin into cool night.  Finally, after standing around for a few moments, confused and disoriented, they'd sat down on the curb and stared into the meager traffic, comfortably (though inexplicably so) silent.

The blonde vampire smirked.  "I told you: return the umbrella."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes.  "You could have mailed it."

Spike laughed.  "Yeh?  At these postal rates, the gas to drive it here would be markedly cheaper than fedexing the thing to you."

Cordelia snorted.  "As far as I'm concerned, you're here either to kill Angel, or to piss him off."  She looked at him out the corner of her eye.  "Now which is it, Spike?"

It was too bizarre.  She should have been terrified by the vampire that sat by her side, quaking.  Instead, all she did feel was a mild discomfort, a sort of unfamiliarity that a person was apt to experience when around a new acquaintance; as if Spike could be characterized as "new" in any way, shape, or form.  Cordelia wanted to hate and fear him; loathing and terror were old friends from Sunnydale, she did them well; mild discomfort, on the other hand, was a throwback from an era before she'd needed a bra.

The vampire scrounged around in his jacket pocket, looking for a stray cigarette, deciding that this conversation could not be conducted without the aid of either nicotine, or full sex, and since there was no way in hell either he or Cordelia would be interested in indulging the latter, ancient pesticide it was.  If only he could find one...

"It's not always about the Poof, you know," he said irritably, giving up and pulling his hand out of his jacket quickly, making the leather 'snap!'  He glared at Cordelia, not so much angry with her as he was with the whole situation in general. 

The woman looked at him oddly before rolling her eyes and standing up.  "Whatever."

Spike couldn't wipe the scowl off his face.  Cheerleader wasn't afraid of him at all.

She didn't need to be, but it would have been sort of gratifying. 

By the time he'd dug himself out from underneath generous amounts of self-loathing, general dissatisfaction, and an overwhelming nicotine craving, Cordelia was gone, stumbling down the street for a cab. 

'Barefoot,' he caught himself thinking.  'She's not that tall.'

Faintly, he could hear her say, "Silverlake, please."

It was, of course, approximately two point eight nine seconds after the cab had pulled out of running distance that he remembered that he still had the umbrella.

* * *

"You know, you have a bad day - "

There was a violent 'squish!' before the sound of wood being splintered, the thick rubber sole of boots meeting flesh and connecting solidly.

" - And then you find out that the entire fucking world keeps tabs on your sex life - "

A gurgling moan, and then the fast, dry sound of a shower of dust before a roar of anger in the background, the surging of footsteps; undead racing toward a more ultimate end.

" - Not, of course, that you really have one 'cause gypsies are fucking vindictive - "

Open, terrified screaming, and cries of recognition.  "Shit!  That's Angelus!  Angelus!" 

Angel was in fine form that evening.  Gunn, with whom he had crossed paths sometime after one just leaned back against a wall, and watched Angel tear through what seemed like an ocean of vampires.  The nest had been in a quiet alleyway, pretending to be an abandoned tattoo parlor.  In all actuality, something like fifteen vamps made their home there, with drifters going in and out every few weeks. 

They were really, really not enjoying that evening's entertainments, all things considered.

Another vampire lunged, and Gunn nearly sighed in pity: sometimes, he wished that vampires had some sort of training course for not looking embarrassing while attempting to look evil.  The redheaded vamp, obviously newly-turned, had on a full gameface, and was clinging to Angel's back, yelling incoherently, his few comrades pausing their fighting to look at him in mute disgust.  The quality of wickedness was really appalling nowadays.  Angel remembered back in the day when thumbscrews were for wimps.

Without even a second thought, the Champion rammed a sharpened baseball bat backward and the would-be fighter turned into dust.  The others remained paused for a moment, looking nearly irate, and somewhat apologetic, as if to say, "Geez, man.  That was our fault; that was just sad.  But it's okay, we're restructuring next week; Benson's going to decide on all the turnings after this.  Management is going to have a cow."

And then the fight started anew.

Angel's monologue continued.

" - Yeah, and uninvited family comes to town, just to mindfuck you - "

Boom.  Slash.  Fizzle.

Gunn noted that it was the first time he'd ever heard Angel curse so badly.  Usually, the vampire chose to say something dry or witty, or obscure from one of those horrible old books in all the original languages he liked to read.  "Fuck" was more part of Wesley's vocabulary when he banged his head on his desk or something equally brilliant.

" - Oh, and lets not even get into the girl problems I have to deal with!  I mean, would it kill one's coworkers to be a little more supportive and faithful?  No, it wouldn't - "

Gunn cleared his throat and raised his index finger.  "Point of order: in your case, there is actually great potential that it could result in mass death - "

The rest of his words were cut off when Angel hurled a vampire at his head.

* * *

This was sort of undignified.

"Fucking hell!  Shit!"

Okay, really undignified.

But it was modern day L.A., and overly-pale young men in leather pants, struggling with massive, badly designed phone books in tiny, incomprehensibly badly designed phone booths couldn't be much odder than what he'd seen out on the street.  In fact, by Hollywood standards, Spike was almost normal. 

Was it really necessary for damn near a forty people who went by C. Chase to live in the Los Angeles area?  Would it have killed them to dignify their first names? 

"Silverlake...Silverlake..." he murmured to himself, scanning page after page.

He admitted it now: there was something about Cordelia.

Something inside his vampire instinct told him that if he were to have his pick of all the humans in the world to injure, the one he'd want to hurt the most at that moment was the one who was also absolutely untouchable: Cordelia Chase.  There was something about her, something dramatically changed since the last time he'd seen her in Sunnydale.  While Cordelia had always been fabulously beautiful and wonderfully bitchy, she'd never been beyond reach before.  But now...

There was something there.

And that, Spike was convinced, was what was drawing him to the Cheerleader.

There had been something about the way she smelled, how it had almost burned when he'd brushed her, fire running up through his skin.  And later, when he'd pulled his hand away from her skin, staring at it when gaping surprise, there'd been no mark, but a faint, unfamiliar pulse under the flesh, almost as if he'd had...blood pumping through his veins.

As a vampire of much repute and for many years, that was pretty much out of the question, into the land of total impossibility. 

So.  He was a bit fascinated.

Vaguely, he wondered if the Poof had ever felt that same rush.  'Maybe that's why he keeps her around,' Spike thought.  'Pretending that he's alive or something equally pathetic.'  He ignored the tiny voice in his head that asked him wasn't that the same reason he was following the Cheerleader around?

He dialed the last Chase listed.  The phone rang twice before, "Hello?"

Spike grinned in triumph. 

He threw the phone book to the ground and put the receiver back onto the cradle before stumbling out into the Los Angeles night, the air chill and clear with the darkness.

* * *

"You met who at a club?" Wesley squeaked, none of that morning's bravado remaining at nearly two in the morning.  He couldn't believe what Cordelia's sleepy voice was saying.

"Yeah," she paused, yawning, "I went out dancing tonight."

She'd thought about it extensively in the taxi, deciding that she had an obligation to call at least one member of Angel Investigations to let them know about Spike's seemingly-harmless presence in L.A., and she knew that Angel was the worst possible choice.  There were no guarantees that Gunn wouldn't rush out and stake Spike immediately, and Fred would just want to study him; no, Wesley was her best option.  And besides, he was too tired to throw a fit at her anyway; he didn't even have that quiet, angry voice going.

"And found Spike," Wesley said, completely deadpan.

"Actually, he found me."  She shimmied out of the dress, the phone cradled between her shoulder and ear.  "He didn't try to hurt me, and he didn't look like he was going to hurt anyone else either.  You can tell Angel to calm down."

Wesley thought that it was the exact opposite of what Angel would do if he so implied that the brooding Champion needed it.  In fact, the former Watcher had a sneaking suspicion that the moment Angel realized that his Seer had been out -

"Wait - were you dancing with Spike?" Wesley yelled.

Cordelia sighed.  'Crap, caught,' she thought.  "...A little," she admitted.

Wesley felt faint.  He'd always thought that his female relatives were a load of bloody fakers and idiots for swooning at bad news.  But now he was truly faint: dizzy and disoriented, and the little voice of self-preservation in him kept saying, "Tell Angel on the phone.  He'll have to make a choice between running to Cordelia or killing the messenger; and he'll probably choose the first one."

"Well.  Then," he muttered. 

Cordelia groaned softly.  "I'm sorry, Wes."  She was quiet for a moment before saying gently, "It's okay.  I know.  I'll call Angel and tell him myself, okay?"

Wesley huffed at her pitying tone.  "I'll have you know that I've got nothing to fear when it comes to telling Angel bad news - "

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

" - It's just that if you don't have to own up to it, you'll never learn," he finished.

"Sure, Wes," the Seer said, humoring him. 

"I'm serious, Cordelia," Wesley said, his tone hard as nails, gone was the fumbling awkwardness of being awakened with surprising news.

She sighed, and sat down hard on her mattress, flopping back against her sheets and closing her eyes, listening to the faint sounds of traffic outside.  Her neighbors were throwing a party, and she could hear their voices and the occasional clinking of glasses through the wall.  Once, long ago, she would have been on the other side, dressed in a fabulous designer casual outfit, schmoozing with the best of them.  Once, not quite so long ago, she had been at one of those parties, and then she'd seen someone, a faint shadow that she'd almost forgotten from an uglier past in an uglier place.  Initially, she'd wanted to turn away, to avert her eyes and pretend that they'd never met, to not wind through the crushing groups of agents and washed-up producers to yell, "Angel?"

But she knew the consequences of such aversion now. 

Every time she let herself think back to that horrible drab apartment and the blue-lit room, her chest ached and her heart contracted painfully.  Angel had been so thin, and so tired, looking as if all he wanted was the release of death, but couldn't bring himself to do it.  And he hadn't recognized her; he hadn't known her scent and his eyes hadn't lit up or glanced toward her when she'd walked into the room.  Wesley had been missing an arm, there was no Fred, and definitely no Connor.  A little demonization was well-worth Angel's sanity and safety, Wesley's arm, Fred, and more than worth Connor. 

That didn't mean regret didn't rear its ugly head every time she dreamed herself back to the paradise of stardom and fame.  She sometimes missed the thought that she could go to bed at night, and the worst thing that could ever come to find her was a simple, human stalker or the paparazzi.  She wanted the hope for something mundane.

"You're always serious, Wesley," Cordelia replied, her voice quiet. 

There was a sigh over the line.  "Well, sometimes, people have to be." 

Cordelia knew how much Wesley had to control himself in order to reign at Angel Investigations.  Naturally retreating, a scholar by birth, and a genial, kind, somewhat nervous person; Wesley was not suited to being a boss to a rag-tag group of misfits.  Oh, but he feared failure so sharply that he seemed to taste it every moment of the day, and if it was one thing he could sell his soul to avoid, it was to see disappointment or fear in the eyes of his family.  He didn't care how embarrassed or terrified he was most of the time, he'd deal with it, go through with it, as long as they'd still have faith in him, still care about him, still buy breakfast burritos even though everyone was sick of them.

"So, what did you do after work, Wes," she asked teasingly, abruptly changing the subject.  Neither of them needed to be depressed; life was too good at that without outside assistance.

The ex-Watcher coughed.  "Well, I was going to look into some of those prophecies on Connor...but I couldn't focus.  Spike, you know."

"Did any of the prophecies look, you know, ominous?"

"Not really.  I know you think I'm paranoid, but I'm just trying to be thorough."

"Thanks for that, Wes," Cordelia said seriously.

There was a long, comfortable silence before a phone rang in the background of Wesley's apartment.  "Oh, well.  That's probably Gunn or Angel."

"You should answer that."

A pause before, "Should I tell them?  Or will you?  Really?"

Cordelia almost laughed.

She would, she assured Wesley, really.

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