Contribution to the "We Will Not Fade Away: An AtS Post-Finale Ficathon"
Title: The Misty Isle
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: post-NFA
Genre: Comedy (which swiftly turns to) Angst; Spike, Illyria and a surprise guest
Rating: G
Disclaimer: All owned by ME and Joss. Poop.
Notes: Written for the We Will Not Fade Away: An AtS Post-Finale Ficathon for agilebrit who requested a gen fic with the three characters who appear, a mention of fallen heroes and that the story takes place someplace other than LA. So in answer to that, this fic takes place mainly in the Outer Hebrides (I know!) you can find some interesting info should you wish to take a holiday there. Any of you that have been there may notice one or two liberties have been taken...
Thanks so much to yourlibrarian for the ever-helpful beta job on the 1st draft. Loads of insights I would have missed otherwise. ::rolls eyes::
The Misty Isle
Two in the morning was a fine time to be sitting on a hill overlooking the sea at the end of civilization.
Or that’s what it felt like. They’d walked a few good miles to find this spot surveying the harbour. There was only one bloody ferry a day and hiding a Hell God back at the Youth Hostel in Uig, as they’d waited for the nine a.m. departure, had proved calamitous and degrading.
“What are these beasts?” Said Hell God was swatting at herself intermittently.
“Locals call ‘em midgies. Bit like vampires. Suck the blood right out of you if you’re not careful.”
“Yet I possess no blood and the little things continue.” She paused and tilted her head almost ninety degrees. “I feel….irritation and…confusion.”
“Wahay!” Spike cheered, making a little rah-rah motion with his fist, “a new emotion. We’ll chalk that up to what? Five now?”
“It is proper that you keep count of these details, half-breed,” Illyria replied. “If My Wesley were around he would do so. But you must now take up that role.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Seems to be a lot of that going around,” he muttered. He wasn’t happy. The dreary early Scottish winter bit into him, with a vengeance pure and simple, despite his best attempts at wrapping himself up in his coat. Too many moons spent in California where the heat seemed to hang in the air, no matter what the season, had dulled his tolerance to the cold. And this long grass was wet and freezing and miserable - and why was he here again?
“Explain this monument to me, Pet.” Illyria’s imperious voice cut through his inner monologue of complaints. She was directing her gaze to the stone obelisk casting an eerie moon-tinged shadow over the two of them.
Spike stood up and squinted at what was written on the base of it. “Her name will be mentioned in history, if courage and fidelity be virtues, mentioned with honour,” he read aloud.
“Who is this woman that is spoken of so well?” Illyria stood up to challenge the obelisk into a staring competition.
“Freedom fighter by the name of Flora McDonald, pet. Loved around these parts, bit of a female hero who-”
“Winifredburkle has memories of a female hero. This causes some warmth in me.”
“Really,” Spike replied, dryly, “do tell.”
“It is the one you did not meet, the girl who worked with Angel, became a demon and sacrificed herself for Angel’s advancement.”
“Oh, the cheerleader? Er…yes,” he continued, “I met her a few times.”
“Winifredburkle thought her a hero, not a cheerleader.” Illyria turned to look out to sea, as if to contemplate anything but Spike.
“I’ve a few of my own,” he whispered to himself.
***
The ferry ride over to the Isle of North Uist had been rough, but then again Spike had never been a good seafarer. Whilst Illyria transformed into something passing more for a human, and watched the spray of the sea as it hit the back of the boat, Spike found a convenient cupboard in which to hide. If Angel’d been around he would have commented on the remarkable cloud cover that would have enabled them all to stand outside, but luckily he wasn’t, so Spike could hide his distempered feelings in peace.
Illyria found him as the boat docked into Lochmaddy, woollen blanket in hand. He smiled at her, ruefully, but she remained impassive.
“Nice thought, pet,” he said.
She did nothing but hold out the blanket to him, which judging by the winter skies might not be needed. They made a dash for the first building they saw - a bright red steel edifice, covered with an equally blinding grey roof, perched on the road with the sea at its doorstep.
An old, jovial woman greeted them with a “Failte gu Taigh Chearsabhagh!” as Spike charged through the door, and Illyria strode in behind him. Her cheerfulness seemed to waver as she took in Spike’s appearance, probably the first time she’d seen hair dye other than blue or purple, he’d wager, but warmed slightly at the woman behind him. Spike turned swiftly to see Fred standing where he thought Illyria had been.
“I don’t understand,” Fred’s voice said, smiling through her treacly Texan accent.
“It means welcome, my dear. Welcome to the Museum and Arts Centre of Lochmaddy.” The burr in her accent was as strong and rough and protective as if she were stroking them with her voice.
“You speak funny,” she giggled again.
“That I do. But you speak funny to me too. Would you like a tour of the centre or prefer to wander about on your own?”
“That’s fine,” Spike interjected before Illyria’s manipulations got too wearisome, and just wishing for a place to stay and rest whilst the day was young, “we first need to get something to eat.”
“Well, dinna fear, laddie, there’s a coffee shop right through there,” and she followed her extended arm with a warm smile.
They sat down at a table away from the windows, too conspicuous amongst the elderly tourists for Spike’s liking, and sat out the day.
***
It wasn’t hard to find the pub, given there was only one in town. The large sign below the pub’s name, The Jolly Green Giant, emblazoned the words “Thursday Night is Karaoke Night!” in bright pink neon. Seemed slightly out of place amidst the grey and browns of the weather-beaten stone buildings around them.
They walked through the pub’s green doors and saw him straight away. Despite the tweed trilby hat that covered most of his face, the loud and proud red velour suit was more than a little striking. He was arguing mildly with an elderly gentleman, and Spike ventured it wasn’t about the price of hops.
“Now there’s no use, son,” the old man was saying, “when the boy’s got to gae out to sea, he’s got to gae out to sea. There’s no denying that.”
“But he was my one true amigo, my dashing boy in blue. How am I going to cope without him? It’s karaoke night, the busiest night of the week, sweet cheeks. He could mix the cosmopolitans with the best of them, and I’m not disputing his Sea Breeze prowess. Sugar pie, please tell me you’ve got a back-up?”
“Well,” he said, thinking long over the point, “perhaps Morag could give you a hand?”
“Morag’s the loveliest belle this side of the Costa del not so Sol, but I think she might be a bit too old to mix a cocktail?”
It was at this moment that Illyria-as-Fred chose to interrupt their proceedings with a sickly-sweet, “Kaya-no-m'tek.”
And Lorne turned around, his mouth performing a perfect ‘o’, before his legs collapsed beneath him and he fainted to the floor.
The elderly man looked at them in shock before Spike dashed forward, lifting Lorne up to one of the couches. “Went out cold,” he muttered.
“We should do something,” said the old man, before realising he didn’t know them. “If you twa are here for the singing, you’ll no be getting much of it.”
“Nah,” replied Spike, “we’re old friends of Lorne. Come to pay a visit, like.”
The man stiffened at his accent, then continued, irritably, “Didna know Lorne had any stinkin’ Sassenach friends.”
“Girl’s not,” Spike said, gruffly, “she’s from the U.S. Besides, don’t you think you should be directing your barbed comments toward the guy who’s green?”
“Lorne canna help his problem.”
“His problem?” Spike reiterated.
“The poor laddie suffers from terrible sea-sickness. Just the smell of the briny air makes him come over all green,” the man said solemnly.
Spike very much wanted to laugh out loud but was interrupted from that thought by Illyria-as-Fred suggesting, “Shouldn’t we help Lorne?”
The old man nodded. “I’ve got some ice out back, I’ll fetch that. Oh, shouldna we do some introductions? I’m Duncan MacLeod,” he said extending his hand.
“Spike,” Spike replied, ignoring the hand. “Girl’s…Winifred.”
He looked at the two of them, warily. “I’ll gae for the ice-pack.”
He returned moments later and Illyria-as-Fred did her best mothering impersonation, trying to coo in her implacable tones over Lorne and his dead-to-the-world body. Spike stood aside, flicking out a cigarette while the old man considered him heatedly. Lorne came to eventually, and nearly fell off the seat when he saw who was bending over him.
“Fred?” he managed to stutter out. Then blinked a few times and turned to look at Spike. He finally directed his comment to Mr. MacLeod, “Looks like we might have to cancel the evening.”
“Well, what about your friends here? Maybe they can lend a hand?”
“Maybe,” Lorne gritted out through his teeth. “Tell you what, Dunc, how’s about rustling me up some of that sweet potato broth I like so much, huh? That’ll have me up and at ‘em in no time. Then I can do some very important catching up with my friends here.”
Mr MacLeod nodded a few times, then shuffled off toward the back of the pub.
Lorne ignored Illyria-as-Fred and stood up to Spike. “Make her change back.”
Spike shrugged and said, speaking around his cigarette, “You know as well as I, it’s difficult to control the strange ways of a Hell God. Illyria wants to be--”
But he was interrupted by Lorne grabbing his collar in a stronger-than-expected hold, knocking the cigarette from his lips, and growling low and hard, “Make. Her. Change. Back.”
“Oi! No use havin’ a go at me, mate, I’m not the one you’re in a tizzy over. Could break you in two, you know, if I wanted, so I wouldn’t attempt any more funny business.”
“Oh Slim Jeans,” said Lorne, sarcastically, “I know full well why you’re here. Breaking me in two wouldn’t be part of the Angel-plan, now would it? So I’m not letting go, ‘til she changes back.”
“Illyria,” Spike said, clenching his teeth and glowering at Lorne, “we seem to be at stalemate. And Lorne would prefer if you didn’t wear the shell. Please be so kind to appear to us in your complete gloriousness.”
“I do not understand,” said Illyria, swiftly reverting to her blue armour, “the green demon should have pleasant thoughts of the shell. I was only trying to aid our mission of reclaiming him.”
Spike sighed, thoroughly put upon, “Yeah, thanks, so now you know why we’re here.”
Lorne looked between the two of them, then answered wearily, “This can’t be done without a drink in hand. Duncan’s son, Alistair, was a stellar barman, took me back to my Ramon days with his sweet disposition, but he got a call up to the North Sea oil rig. I’m a boy down and need a hand. Fancy the job you two?”
“Job? Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” Spike shrugged, “On the condition though, that we talk a bit first. Lay of the land and all that.” He sniffed loudly looking around the pub, then jerked his gaze back to Lorne. “And no bloody name tags.”
Lorne nodded but moved behind the bar, pulling out three glasses. “No fancy froo-froo stuff either,” declared Spike, walking over to stand by Lorne. “I’ll get my own thanks. And Big Blue and alcohol never mixes well. Make hers a Virgin Mary.”
Spike pulled a pint, Lorne mixed a tomato juice for Illyria and a galactic blue drink for himself and they sat at one of the tables.
“So,” Spike began, “the Outer Hebrides? Didn’t feel like getting found, eh?”
“No,” Lorne replied, shaking his head, “but that’s not the whole story, morning glory. This place is my haven, my relaxation and peace. Need a bit of that good stuff nowadays.”
“Still on the soup, though,” suggested Spike, nodding his head toward the noxious looking drink.
“Nuh-uh,” denied Lorne, “it’s non-alcoholic. Special mixture that my good friend Alistair prepared for me. All part of the regime, the new and improved Lorne.” And he smoothed down his suit for good measure.
Spike sniffed the drink and made a disgruntled face. Lorne looked at him leniently, before asking, “Now tell me, Wonder Boy, how’d he find me?”
“Angel’s a bit clued up these days. What with the lack of brainpower in the operation since Wes departed, he’s looking to outsource in the magickal community, in return for demon-fighting favours. All sorts cross our doorstep. And then he called in a debt with a fairly powerful mage and had him search out your fine self.”
“That the full story?” Lorne asked.
“Pretty much,” Spike asserted.
“So then,” Lorne began, slowly and slyly, directing a penetrating gaze at Spike, “Wes is dead?”
Spike coughed roughly on his drink, trying to pretend that he wasn’t impersonating a startled rabbit and avoiding Lorne’s eyes. “Bloody poofter and his plans,” Spike said under his breath, before continuing louder, “Yeah, sorry, Lorne. I mean, I thought you knew about the…er…final days in L.A.…”
Lorne watched Spike squirm uncomfortably before he relented by continuing, “Actually I already knew that piece of very sad news. Yeah, there are still things I hear about, even here. Global village, remember? You can never be that far out of touch, even when you want to be. I mean I’ve obviously been way out of Angelcakes’ orbit, except that now, for some reason, I’m back in it.”
Illyria tipped the entire contents of the drink down her throat then considered intently the patterns that the juice made on the glass. Both demons stared at her as she stared at the glass unwilling to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. It was over fifteen minutes before Spike ventured hopefully, “So, Lorne. You coming back then?”
Lorne finished his drink, stood up and walked over to the bar. Combining more of the liquid that made up his previous drink, he added ice and a cherry on a swizzle stick to the mixture. He walked back and slipped in beside Spike.
“Do you know when I first met Angel I had a bit of a crush on him?”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” Spike rejoined.
“It’s true. All tall, dark and handsome and give me some of that. And, baby, I don’t need to say anymore about the coat, because you’ve got that whole look going on too. I know you hate the broody thing, but that was what made him. All mysterious and gooey.
“But, Slim Jeans, our boy has issues, with a capital I, so I quickly overturned that whole idea. Instead, I supported him in the best way I could, offering good council and some sound listening power, not to mention a few stellar whiskey on the rocks. But do you know why I did it?”
Lorne paused with his story and looked at Illyria, as if in a daze. She fixed her eyes on him in response, and said, “You have my permission to continue, underling.”
“Yeah, that would be some of it,” he submitted. “Angel was a hero. To me and to all the people around him. Riding in to save the day, swirling his big, black, manly coat around him just as the baddies were getting their mojo going. He could be as selfish as my horns are red, but he was a hero nonetheless and I adored him.
“But the more I got to know him, the more I realised he sucked people in. He used and abused all their good qualities until there was nothing left. Until…there was nothing but…a shell of the person.” His voice continued on cracking in sorrow. “People I care about too are gone, Slim Jeans, and I’m not just talking about Fred, Wes and my princess Cordy. We all made a whole heap of sacrifices for him, but I lost a part of myself when I fired that gun. And Angel knew that. He knew it. So he’s not a hero anymore. He’s fallen way below that.
“So you can help me tonight, if that’s what you want. But I’m not coming with you. I washed my hands of that whole situation when Angel turned his back on me. He’s still the puppet-master, swinging those controls, but I made the break, I stepped out from the limelight and into the sun.”
Spike looked toward the bar, considering what to say, but in the end, stood up, brushed his jeans off and simply replied, “I know Angel’s not going to like it, and to be frank, I dunno if I do either. But I understand, Lorne, I understand.”
****
Lorne chose not to see them off before the ferry ride back to the mainland early the next morning before the sun had fully risen, and as Spike hovered under the shelter provided by the shadow of the terminal building, he got to thinking.
Illyria was doing her communing with nature thing - standing before the waves, her blue hair streaming behind her, caught on the frantic winds rolling off the sea, as if her mere presence, the power of her gaze would control the waxing and waning of the sea’s motion. As if her power was ubiquitous and not merely superfluous. It helped too that there wasn’t a curious audience of locals crowding around Her Magnificence. The bitter winter winds saw to that.
Spike struck up a cigarette and puffed on it solemnly. Angel would have the hissy fit to end all hissy fits when they returned to Vancouver without Lorne. It wasn’t immediately apparent to Spike why he was needed, but it was obviously all part of the Angel-master-plan. Maybe he really should have clarified the point before being talked into coming all the way over here because it was what Angel needed him to do.
Seemed to be a significant difference these days between what Spike used to think a champion meant and Angel’s current definition. Even Illyria seemed to have a grasp on the idea of heroes, given her recollection of memories that the monument of the girl in Skye brought back. And perhaps Lorne was the stronger one, because he was the guy who could well and truly turn his back when he knew he wasn’t up to the job.
Still, Spike considered, as the ferry pulled in and he walked over to Illyria, gently taking her by the hand and bringing her down from her spiritual union, he had never and would never give up on those he cared about. He wasn’t about to back away from a promise now. Just, that sometimes, seeing a plan through to its conclusion took unexpected twists and turns, you just had to bend with the road.
That’d make a nice idea for a poem, he thought, as he found a seat out of the way, beginning the journey back to whatever awaited them. A journey taking him and Illyria away from broken dreams and disillusioned demons.
Finis
Author: lillianmorgan
Setting: post-NFA
Genre: Comedy (which swiftly turns to) Angst; Spike, Illyria and a surprise guest
Rating: G
Disclaimer: All owned by ME and Joss. Poop.
Notes: Written for the We Will Not Fade Away: An AtS Post-Finale Ficathon for agilebrit who requested a gen fic with the three characters who appear, a mention of fallen heroes and that the story takes place someplace other than LA. So in answer to that, this fic takes place mainly in the Outer Hebrides (I know!) you can find some interesting info should you wish to take a holiday there. Any of you that have been there may notice one or two liberties have been taken...
Thanks so much to yourlibrarian for the ever-helpful beta job on the 1st draft. Loads of insights I would have missed otherwise. ::rolls eyes::
The Misty Isle
Two in the morning was a fine time to be sitting on a hill overlooking the sea at the end of civilization.
Or that’s what it felt like. They’d walked a few good miles to find this spot surveying the harbour. There was only one bloody ferry a day and hiding a Hell God back at the Youth Hostel in Uig, as they’d waited for the nine a.m. departure, had proved calamitous and degrading.
“What are these beasts?” Said Hell God was swatting at herself intermittently.
“Locals call ‘em midgies. Bit like vampires. Suck the blood right out of you if you’re not careful.”
“Yet I possess no blood and the little things continue.” She paused and tilted her head almost ninety degrees. “I feel….irritation and…confusion.”
“Wahay!” Spike cheered, making a little rah-rah motion with his fist, “a new emotion. We’ll chalk that up to what? Five now?”
“It is proper that you keep count of these details, half-breed,” Illyria replied. “If My Wesley were around he would do so. But you must now take up that role.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Seems to be a lot of that going around,” he muttered. He wasn’t happy. The dreary early Scottish winter bit into him, with a vengeance pure and simple, despite his best attempts at wrapping himself up in his coat. Too many moons spent in California where the heat seemed to hang in the air, no matter what the season, had dulled his tolerance to the cold. And this long grass was wet and freezing and miserable - and why was he here again?
“Explain this monument to me, Pet.” Illyria’s imperious voice cut through his inner monologue of complaints. She was directing her gaze to the stone obelisk casting an eerie moon-tinged shadow over the two of them.
Spike stood up and squinted at what was written on the base of it. “Her name will be mentioned in history, if courage and fidelity be virtues, mentioned with honour,” he read aloud.
“Who is this woman that is spoken of so well?” Illyria stood up to challenge the obelisk into a staring competition.
“Freedom fighter by the name of Flora McDonald, pet. Loved around these parts, bit of a female hero who-”
“Winifredburkle has memories of a female hero. This causes some warmth in me.”
“Really,” Spike replied, dryly, “do tell.”
“It is the one you did not meet, the girl who worked with Angel, became a demon and sacrificed herself for Angel’s advancement.”
“Oh, the cheerleader? Er…yes,” he continued, “I met her a few times.”
“Winifredburkle thought her a hero, not a cheerleader.” Illyria turned to look out to sea, as if to contemplate anything but Spike.
“I’ve a few of my own,” he whispered to himself.
***
The ferry ride over to the Isle of North Uist had been rough, but then again Spike had never been a good seafarer. Whilst Illyria transformed into something passing more for a human, and watched the spray of the sea as it hit the back of the boat, Spike found a convenient cupboard in which to hide. If Angel’d been around he would have commented on the remarkable cloud cover that would have enabled them all to stand outside, but luckily he wasn’t, so Spike could hide his distempered feelings in peace.
Illyria found him as the boat docked into Lochmaddy, woollen blanket in hand. He smiled at her, ruefully, but she remained impassive.
“Nice thought, pet,” he said.
She did nothing but hold out the blanket to him, which judging by the winter skies might not be needed. They made a dash for the first building they saw - a bright red steel edifice, covered with an equally blinding grey roof, perched on the road with the sea at its doorstep.
An old, jovial woman greeted them with a “Failte gu Taigh Chearsabhagh!” as Spike charged through the door, and Illyria strode in behind him. Her cheerfulness seemed to waver as she took in Spike’s appearance, probably the first time she’d seen hair dye other than blue or purple, he’d wager, but warmed slightly at the woman behind him. Spike turned swiftly to see Fred standing where he thought Illyria had been.
“I don’t understand,” Fred’s voice said, smiling through her treacly Texan accent.
“It means welcome, my dear. Welcome to the Museum and Arts Centre of Lochmaddy.” The burr in her accent was as strong and rough and protective as if she were stroking them with her voice.
“You speak funny,” she giggled again.
“That I do. But you speak funny to me too. Would you like a tour of the centre or prefer to wander about on your own?”
“That’s fine,” Spike interjected before Illyria’s manipulations got too wearisome, and just wishing for a place to stay and rest whilst the day was young, “we first need to get something to eat.”
“Well, dinna fear, laddie, there’s a coffee shop right through there,” and she followed her extended arm with a warm smile.
They sat down at a table away from the windows, too conspicuous amongst the elderly tourists for Spike’s liking, and sat out the day.
***
It wasn’t hard to find the pub, given there was only one in town. The large sign below the pub’s name, The Jolly Green Giant, emblazoned the words “Thursday Night is Karaoke Night!” in bright pink neon. Seemed slightly out of place amidst the grey and browns of the weather-beaten stone buildings around them.
They walked through the pub’s green doors and saw him straight away. Despite the tweed trilby hat that covered most of his face, the loud and proud red velour suit was more than a little striking. He was arguing mildly with an elderly gentleman, and Spike ventured it wasn’t about the price of hops.
“Now there’s no use, son,” the old man was saying, “when the boy’s got to gae out to sea, he’s got to gae out to sea. There’s no denying that.”
“But he was my one true amigo, my dashing boy in blue. How am I going to cope without him? It’s karaoke night, the busiest night of the week, sweet cheeks. He could mix the cosmopolitans with the best of them, and I’m not disputing his Sea Breeze prowess. Sugar pie, please tell me you’ve got a back-up?”
“Well,” he said, thinking long over the point, “perhaps Morag could give you a hand?”
“Morag’s the loveliest belle this side of the Costa del not so Sol, but I think she might be a bit too old to mix a cocktail?”
It was at this moment that Illyria-as-Fred chose to interrupt their proceedings with a sickly-sweet, “Kaya-no-m'tek.”
And Lorne turned around, his mouth performing a perfect ‘o’, before his legs collapsed beneath him and he fainted to the floor.
The elderly man looked at them in shock before Spike dashed forward, lifting Lorne up to one of the couches. “Went out cold,” he muttered.
“We should do something,” said the old man, before realising he didn’t know them. “If you twa are here for the singing, you’ll no be getting much of it.”
“Nah,” replied Spike, “we’re old friends of Lorne. Come to pay a visit, like.”
The man stiffened at his accent, then continued, irritably, “Didna know Lorne had any stinkin’ Sassenach friends.”
“Girl’s not,” Spike said, gruffly, “she’s from the U.S. Besides, don’t you think you should be directing your barbed comments toward the guy who’s green?”
“Lorne canna help his problem.”
“His problem?” Spike reiterated.
“The poor laddie suffers from terrible sea-sickness. Just the smell of the briny air makes him come over all green,” the man said solemnly.
Spike very much wanted to laugh out loud but was interrupted from that thought by Illyria-as-Fred suggesting, “Shouldn’t we help Lorne?”
The old man nodded. “I’ve got some ice out back, I’ll fetch that. Oh, shouldna we do some introductions? I’m Duncan MacLeod,” he said extending his hand.
“Spike,” Spike replied, ignoring the hand. “Girl’s…Winifred.”
He looked at the two of them, warily. “I’ll gae for the ice-pack.”
He returned moments later and Illyria-as-Fred did her best mothering impersonation, trying to coo in her implacable tones over Lorne and his dead-to-the-world body. Spike stood aside, flicking out a cigarette while the old man considered him heatedly. Lorne came to eventually, and nearly fell off the seat when he saw who was bending over him.
“Fred?” he managed to stutter out. Then blinked a few times and turned to look at Spike. He finally directed his comment to Mr. MacLeod, “Looks like we might have to cancel the evening.”
“Well, what about your friends here? Maybe they can lend a hand?”
“Maybe,” Lorne gritted out through his teeth. “Tell you what, Dunc, how’s about rustling me up some of that sweet potato broth I like so much, huh? That’ll have me up and at ‘em in no time. Then I can do some very important catching up with my friends here.”
Mr MacLeod nodded a few times, then shuffled off toward the back of the pub.
Lorne ignored Illyria-as-Fred and stood up to Spike. “Make her change back.”
Spike shrugged and said, speaking around his cigarette, “You know as well as I, it’s difficult to control the strange ways of a Hell God. Illyria wants to be--”
But he was interrupted by Lorne grabbing his collar in a stronger-than-expected hold, knocking the cigarette from his lips, and growling low and hard, “Make. Her. Change. Back.”
“Oi! No use havin’ a go at me, mate, I’m not the one you’re in a tizzy over. Could break you in two, you know, if I wanted, so I wouldn’t attempt any more funny business.”
“Oh Slim Jeans,” said Lorne, sarcastically, “I know full well why you’re here. Breaking me in two wouldn’t be part of the Angel-plan, now would it? So I’m not letting go, ‘til she changes back.”
“Illyria,” Spike said, clenching his teeth and glowering at Lorne, “we seem to be at stalemate. And Lorne would prefer if you didn’t wear the shell. Please be so kind to appear to us in your complete gloriousness.”
“I do not understand,” said Illyria, swiftly reverting to her blue armour, “the green demon should have pleasant thoughts of the shell. I was only trying to aid our mission of reclaiming him.”
Spike sighed, thoroughly put upon, “Yeah, thanks, so now you know why we’re here.”
Lorne looked between the two of them, then answered wearily, “This can’t be done without a drink in hand. Duncan’s son, Alistair, was a stellar barman, took me back to my Ramon days with his sweet disposition, but he got a call up to the North Sea oil rig. I’m a boy down and need a hand. Fancy the job you two?”
“Job? Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” Spike shrugged, “On the condition though, that we talk a bit first. Lay of the land and all that.” He sniffed loudly looking around the pub, then jerked his gaze back to Lorne. “And no bloody name tags.”
Lorne nodded but moved behind the bar, pulling out three glasses. “No fancy froo-froo stuff either,” declared Spike, walking over to stand by Lorne. “I’ll get my own thanks. And Big Blue and alcohol never mixes well. Make hers a Virgin Mary.”
Spike pulled a pint, Lorne mixed a tomato juice for Illyria and a galactic blue drink for himself and they sat at one of the tables.
“So,” Spike began, “the Outer Hebrides? Didn’t feel like getting found, eh?”
“No,” Lorne replied, shaking his head, “but that’s not the whole story, morning glory. This place is my haven, my relaxation and peace. Need a bit of that good stuff nowadays.”
“Still on the soup, though,” suggested Spike, nodding his head toward the noxious looking drink.
“Nuh-uh,” denied Lorne, “it’s non-alcoholic. Special mixture that my good friend Alistair prepared for me. All part of the regime, the new and improved Lorne.” And he smoothed down his suit for good measure.
Spike sniffed the drink and made a disgruntled face. Lorne looked at him leniently, before asking, “Now tell me, Wonder Boy, how’d he find me?”
“Angel’s a bit clued up these days. What with the lack of brainpower in the operation since Wes departed, he’s looking to outsource in the magickal community, in return for demon-fighting favours. All sorts cross our doorstep. And then he called in a debt with a fairly powerful mage and had him search out your fine self.”
“That the full story?” Lorne asked.
“Pretty much,” Spike asserted.
“So then,” Lorne began, slowly and slyly, directing a penetrating gaze at Spike, “Wes is dead?”
Spike coughed roughly on his drink, trying to pretend that he wasn’t impersonating a startled rabbit and avoiding Lorne’s eyes. “Bloody poofter and his plans,” Spike said under his breath, before continuing louder, “Yeah, sorry, Lorne. I mean, I thought you knew about the…er…final days in L.A.…”
Lorne watched Spike squirm uncomfortably before he relented by continuing, “Actually I already knew that piece of very sad news. Yeah, there are still things I hear about, even here. Global village, remember? You can never be that far out of touch, even when you want to be. I mean I’ve obviously been way out of Angelcakes’ orbit, except that now, for some reason, I’m back in it.”
Illyria tipped the entire contents of the drink down her throat then considered intently the patterns that the juice made on the glass. Both demons stared at her as she stared at the glass unwilling to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. It was over fifteen minutes before Spike ventured hopefully, “So, Lorne. You coming back then?”
Lorne finished his drink, stood up and walked over to the bar. Combining more of the liquid that made up his previous drink, he added ice and a cherry on a swizzle stick to the mixture. He walked back and slipped in beside Spike.
“Do you know when I first met Angel I had a bit of a crush on him?”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” Spike rejoined.
“It’s true. All tall, dark and handsome and give me some of that. And, baby, I don’t need to say anymore about the coat, because you’ve got that whole look going on too. I know you hate the broody thing, but that was what made him. All mysterious and gooey.
“But, Slim Jeans, our boy has issues, with a capital I, so I quickly overturned that whole idea. Instead, I supported him in the best way I could, offering good council and some sound listening power, not to mention a few stellar whiskey on the rocks. But do you know why I did it?”
Lorne paused with his story and looked at Illyria, as if in a daze. She fixed her eyes on him in response, and said, “You have my permission to continue, underling.”
“Yeah, that would be some of it,” he submitted. “Angel was a hero. To me and to all the people around him. Riding in to save the day, swirling his big, black, manly coat around him just as the baddies were getting their mojo going. He could be as selfish as my horns are red, but he was a hero nonetheless and I adored him.
“But the more I got to know him, the more I realised he sucked people in. He used and abused all their good qualities until there was nothing left. Until…there was nothing but…a shell of the person.” His voice continued on cracking in sorrow. “People I care about too are gone, Slim Jeans, and I’m not just talking about Fred, Wes and my princess Cordy. We all made a whole heap of sacrifices for him, but I lost a part of myself when I fired that gun. And Angel knew that. He knew it. So he’s not a hero anymore. He’s fallen way below that.
“So you can help me tonight, if that’s what you want. But I’m not coming with you. I washed my hands of that whole situation when Angel turned his back on me. He’s still the puppet-master, swinging those controls, but I made the break, I stepped out from the limelight and into the sun.”
Spike looked toward the bar, considering what to say, but in the end, stood up, brushed his jeans off and simply replied, “I know Angel’s not going to like it, and to be frank, I dunno if I do either. But I understand, Lorne, I understand.”
****
Lorne chose not to see them off before the ferry ride back to the mainland early the next morning before the sun had fully risen, and as Spike hovered under the shelter provided by the shadow of the terminal building, he got to thinking.
Illyria was doing her communing with nature thing - standing before the waves, her blue hair streaming behind her, caught on the frantic winds rolling off the sea, as if her mere presence, the power of her gaze would control the waxing and waning of the sea’s motion. As if her power was ubiquitous and not merely superfluous. It helped too that there wasn’t a curious audience of locals crowding around Her Magnificence. The bitter winter winds saw to that.
Spike struck up a cigarette and puffed on it solemnly. Angel would have the hissy fit to end all hissy fits when they returned to Vancouver without Lorne. It wasn’t immediately apparent to Spike why he was needed, but it was obviously all part of the Angel-master-plan. Maybe he really should have clarified the point before being talked into coming all the way over here because it was what Angel needed him to do.
Seemed to be a significant difference these days between what Spike used to think a champion meant and Angel’s current definition. Even Illyria seemed to have a grasp on the idea of heroes, given her recollection of memories that the monument of the girl in Skye brought back. And perhaps Lorne was the stronger one, because he was the guy who could well and truly turn his back when he knew he wasn’t up to the job.
Still, Spike considered, as the ferry pulled in and he walked over to Illyria, gently taking her by the hand and bringing her down from her spiritual union, he had never and would never give up on those he cared about. He wasn’t about to back away from a promise now. Just, that sometimes, seeing a plan through to its conclusion took unexpected twists and turns, you just had to bend with the road.
That’d make a nice idea for a poem, he thought, as he found a seat out of the way, beginning the journey back to whatever awaited them. A journey taking him and Illyria away from broken dreams and disillusioned demons.
Finis