Summary: Post "Smile Time." A mysterious entity shakes things up at Wolfram and Hart, fashionable anarchy ensues. Oh, and don't judge a hero by her choice in footwear.
Rating: PG-13
11.
Buffy Summers sat at the edge of a leather chair soaking up the ambiance around her. This was it, the inner sanctum. The crux of power. The prospect ahead was beyond thrilling but a herd of butterflies in her stomach tipped the scales from heady nervousness toward nauseated anxiety. She swallowed uneasily as Harmony Kendall, clad in a fitted, fringed bolero jacket and matching skirt intently perused Buffy's hastily written job application form.
Over Harmony's shoulder stood a handsome black man and a statuesque red-eyed demon. Besides looking like they'd just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine, these guys looked like they had a few neurons to rub together. Harmony had really come up in the minions department. Introductions had been made but in her state of near panic, Buffy had already forgotten their names. Adrenalin bubbled in her veins demanding attention but there was no going back. Now was the time for razor sharp communicative skills. Buffy sat a little straighter and fought the urge to chew on her lip.
"So, Buffy." Harmony raised her lush eyelashes and then a questioning eyebrow. "You want to join the Wolfram and Hart team."
"Yes. Yes, I do." Buffy attempted a relaxed smile but failed. She needed to modulate her voice better. Desperation wasn't going to get her anywhere.
"And what do you think you can offer us as an employee?" Harmony tilted her head to the side, anxious the hear Buffy's response.
The time had come for smoothness and self-confidence; Buffy took a deep breath. "Well, I was the Slayer, Harmony, as you know already."
"Yes, well, slayers are not as exclusive a commodity as they used to be." Harmony did have a point.
Buffy's stress levels intensified. The slayer angle--her ace in the hole--didn't seem to be working. The interview wasn't going well. Buffy was grateful that Harmony agreed to see her at all. They did have an unpleasant history between them, but what was a little kidnapping and attempted homicide among former nemeses? Times changed, people changed. It's called life.
Gainful employment didn't look promising but after a thoughtful pause Harmony continued with the interview. "How are your people skills these days, Buffy?" Harmony remembered a mousy, footwear challenged high school girl who did little to help herself fashion wise and who hung around with a socially stagnant substrata of person. Xander Harris and his annoying cowlick came to mind.
"Couldn't be better." At last! This was something Buffy could grab on to and run with. "I'm good with people," she asserted with conviction. "I'm a people person." Buffy pressed a smile to her lips in an attempt to sound convincing. She was eager to impress Harmony with an admittedly sudden, but deep and abiding yen to become part of the Wolfram and Hart team.
For Buffy, the steady income department had been a continual source of stress. Dawn required things like food, lodgings, hair care and feminine hygiene products on a regular basis and the bills stacked up. Sadly, there wasn't a lot of profit to be had in saving the world. Consequently, the big friendly check with lots of zeroes attached continued to be elusive. Giles finagled a stipend to tide Buffy over but most of that was coming out of his savings. It was a sweet and gentlemanly thing to do but Buffy needed to do for herself and for Dawn. Joyce raised her to be self sufficient and that's the legacy she'd give her sister. Consequently, getting her foot in the door at Wolfram and Hart seemed like the perfect solution to Buffy's budgetary quandary.
"Slaying isn't exactly the kind of interpersonal skill we value here at Wolfram and Hart," Harmony declared with a neutral stare. "We have pretty much eliminated the need to, you know, eliminate our clientele. I head a team of innovative thinkers and doers and talkers. Does that sound like something you could excel at?"
"Absolutely! I can think and do and talk, no problem." Buffy realized when a bone was being thrown her way. This wasn't a time to quibble.
"Give me a chance, Harmony. You won't be disappointed."
"Hmm..." Harmony sat back deep in thought. There were pros and cons to consider.
Buffy sat stiffly, feeling the relentless scrutiny underway. She hadn't emphasized her ability to multitask or to solve problems with a creative flair and a sizzling wit. Her characteristic verbal acuity had taken a sudden nosedive as well. Buffy realized too late she could have benefited from role playing the interview first. Perhaps it was the stress of the interview process that was hampering her. Perhaps it was the choking notion that upward mobility and a comprehensive benefits package may never be in her future. It could have been the shiny facets of Harmony's meticulously positioned crystal unicorn collection that glistened majestically in Buffy's dazzled gaze, or it could have been the breathtaking highlights that punctuated Harmony's superbly styled hair.
It was all so professionally intimidating.
Buffy tried to swallow the dry knot in her throat. No luck.
"Would you mind singing us a little something?" Harmony's piercing gaze never wavered.
The unexpected request unnerved Buffy. "Singing? Uh, I didn't prepare anything."
"It's just a formality," the red-eyed demon interjected in dulcet tones and then smiled reassuringly. "Happy Birthday will do."
They were serious. Buffy never thought there'd be singing required, but then, what did she know of the intricate machinations of the corporate world? This was the big time. She took a deep breath. "Happy Birthday to y--" Buffy warbled to a stop when the demon held up his hand. He leaned down and whispered into Harmony's ear.
"Really?" Harmony looked at the demon who continued to whisper and nod. Buffy's nose began to itch. It was all she could do not to scratch.
"That's kind of a hard song to sing," Buffy muttered in her own defense. The demon at last stood up and Harmony turned once more to Buffy. It was obvious that a decision had been reached.
"I work by instinct, Buffy." Harmony pushed herself back in her chair and steepled her expertly manicured fingernails in front of her. "And it has rarely steered me wrong. I trust the can-do vibe that throbs through the corridors here at Wolfram and Hart. I am willing to give you an opportunity and put our unpleasant past behind us. I may be soulless, but I can spot a go-getter when I see one. I sense potential in you, Buffy."
"I won't let you down, honest."
Harmony's sweet as honey smile drifted ominously. "See that you don't." She scribbled a few words on a cerise post-it and handed it to Buffy. It had a floor and office number written down in plump, curvy script.
Buffy looked down at the paper. It took the strength of her slayer resolve to hold off from squealing with delight at the incredible opportunity ahead. This was a bona fide dark clouds parting and sunshine shining through moment.
She was in.
*
As a seasoned fast food veteran, Buffy was no stranger to uniforms. After withstanding the ignominy of having a stuffed cow fixed to her head, pretty much anything short of a bejewelled thong was doable. The Wolfram and Hart greeter's visor did have two little devil's horns on it, but it was cute and cheery compared to the floppy heifer that could only be described as deeply disturbing. The absence of boiling oil fog and grease splatter was a definite coming up in the world too.
Buffy wore a green vest and skirt with a crisp, white shirt that made her look a bit like a brussel sprout, but a business savvy brussel sprout. Her friendly employee tag read: "Greeter: Hi, my name is Buffy." They were sending her to the front lines to test the veracity of her people skills on that most uncompromising of beasts, the public.
Performance anxiety was also not a stranger.
The huge atrium foyer was her territory and a genuine smile her only weapon. A pleasant cabbage of a woman named Irma gave Buffy a fine model of Wolfram and Hart's front line public relations. It was simple, honest work with no hidden agendas. It was refreshing in its Zen like absence of conflict and demon entrails. Buffy felt electrified with panic and excitement.
"Good morning! Welcome to Wolfram and Hart. How may I direct you today?" This was Buffy's new battle cry, a mantra brimming with purpose and pride. If she worked diligently and conscientiously, Buffy saw the mailroom in her future. Maybe one day she could be an intern to an intern. For once the sky was the limit.
"Good morning! Welcome to Wolfram and Hart. How may I direct you today?"
This might just be the most perfect job ever.
*
Buffy's morning passed with little incident. All manner of person and thing passed through the main lobby and each one was burdened with the same lingering uncertainty regarding which way to turn. It was a privilege to give the desperate masses the sure and confident knowledge that they had come to the right place and that Buffy Summers could point them to the correct elevator.
Proper flow of persons and things was more difficult than it at first appeared but an absolutely essential part of the business day. Most visitors were too preoccupied to convey the thanks they surely felt at seeing a friendly and competent face, but occasionally Buffy merited a grunt or wave. It was enough for now.
If Harmony Kendall could climb her way up the ladder and shatter the glass ceiling, then Buffy Summers could do it too.
A puff of smoke floated from behind an enormous granite pillar.
"I'm sorry, but this is a no smo-- Spike! Now, you ought to know better." Buffy scolded Spike softly and waggled her finger at him.
Spike's head jerked backward as he took in the sight of Buffy in her full regalia.
"A question if I may, love?"
"Shoot."
"Why are you here dressed like that, with what looks like an employee badge on your pretty bosom?"
"What does it look like, silly? I am now a member of the Wolfram and Hart team."
"Excuse me?" Spike froze halfway through a blink. Could he still be dreaming?
"Surprise!"
"WHAT?"
"Oh, just a minute, duty calls!" Buffy scampered away and diligently directed an eight foot something in dark flowing robes with knuckles dragging across the immaculately polished marble floors to the service elevator at the rear of the foyer. She then skipped back to where Spike stood, his jaw hanging open with suspicion and stupefaction.
If Spike were dreaming, Angel would have carried Buffy away on his white steed already and Spike would be off drowning his sorrows in a bottle of well aged whiskey and plotting juicy revenge. The funny thing about that dream was that Buffy never wore a uniform of any kind short of the required diaphanous scarves. If this wasn't a dream then--
"What the bloody hell is going on here?" Shock and confusion arrived right on schedule.
"I am the newest employee of Wolfram and Hart." Buffy stared at Spike with excitement bursting from her face. "I've been on the job for," Buffy checked her watch, "an hour and a half. Cool, huh?"
Spike's face seized in a spasm. Buffy...employee...Wolfram and Hart. Why were those words in the same sentence?
"The uniform is nothing great, I'll give you that, but I'm representing the company now." Buffy searched Spike's still face for a reaction. "We don't all have the luxury of just hanging around, Spike," she pointed out. "I have bills to pay. She may not look it but Dawn is very expensive."
"Buffy, you're the Slayer, you don't work here."
"Look, I know you're shocked, but it's true. I had an interview with Harmony herself! Can you believe it?"
"Not remotely."
"I know! Isn't it the freakiest? Interviews aren't really my thing but...Wow! I have so much to tell you! I have a really good feeling about this."
"Buffy."
"I have to get back and I have this orientation thing at lunch, so we'll talk later, okay?"
"Buffy."
"Look, I don't want to get fired on my first day, not after I told Harmony that I can be a team player and everything. My prima donna days are behind me, Spike. You'll see!" Buffy looked radiant and motivated. Spike couldn't remember ever seeing so earnest an expression on her face. "We'll talk later. I can tell you all about my first day in the trenches." Buffy stretched up on her tippy toes and kissed Spike. He watched her rush back toward the front doors.
Spike enjoyed watching her move. Even in badly designed polyester she was something, but a Wolfram and Hart employee? Bugger that. Spike needed to get to Angel as soon as possible and tell him that Buffy was either drunk, a pod person, an inter-dimensional doppelganger or perhaps a zombie. Granted, she was a little too coherent for a zombie, but doppelganger was looking like a distinct possibility. Spike sprinted to the elevators and jumped inside one. As the doors closed Buffy waved at him and blew him a kiss. The look on her face was so innocent and earnest it gave Spike pause.
Pod person promptly flew to the top of his list.
A/N: I want to take this opportunity to send all my Buffy friends good wishes for 2006. I am grateful for the camaraderie I have found among you. May the new year grant us all health and happiness and the wealth of stories yet to come.
Murphy's Law has many corollaries that elucidate the little annoyances of modern life. Spike found himself caught in the exasperating grip of one as he stewed in the confines of the luxurious elevator. He needed to pace but without adequate elbow room that was impossible and so he was left to sway to an agitated internal beat and stare up at the illuminated buttons that indicated each passing floor. The small lights blinked at a snail's pace. Spike figured the relationship between the speed in which a passenger needed to get to a certain floor and the sluggish rate of vertical acceleration had to have been covered by Murphy and his list of irritating laws. If not Murphy, then some constipated poltergeist must have possessed the elevators and made them do its bidding. The parameters of theoretical and mystical physics were often mind bogglingly exasperating.
It didn't help that the music coming out of the elevator speakers, a lush arrangement of "Close to You" by the Carpenters, made the muscle in Spike's jaw jangle in 6/8 time. No doubt chosen for its potential client soothing properties, the gentle arrangement had the opposite effect on Spike. The edge of his lip began to curl with revulsion. This was the kind of tripe Johnny Rotten and his pasty ilk was meant to have obliterated forevermore.
"Bloody Poof prob'bly picked this shite just to wank my chain," Spike grumbled as he willed the elevator upward. By the time the fifteenth floor arrived with a soft, almost sultry chime, he was out for blood.
Spike erupted from the elevator only just quashing a feral snarl and headed straight for Angel's office. Storming inside with an agitated flourish, he interrupted the meeting under way. "Pardon me. Won't take a moment," Spike's attempt at a civil tone could have cut glass. "Angel. Need to talk. Can't wait." When Angel made no move to accommodate the request, Spike grabbed Angel by the arm, hauled him off his perch at the corner of the desk and dragged him out into the lobby.
Angel was not amused.
"Hey, watch the shirt! Watch it!" Angel wrenched his arm from Spike's grasp and proceeded to adjust his molested silk. A quick check of the sleeve revealed no permanent damage. "What is your problem?" Angel fumed. "You can't just barge in and interrupt a serious meeting. Harmony was just going to--"
"ANGEL!" The air rang with urgency. Spike stilled abruptly when he noticed something unusual. Angel looked different. His facial expression remained chiseled in the supremely irked camp, but his physical appearance had slid into the patently bizarre. The hair, always a source of amusement for Spike, looked even more ridiculous than usual.
"Is that a bloody kiss curl on your forehead?"
More aggressively styled than usual and no longer sticking straight up, the quizzical strand practically levitated from Angel's hairline. The hair looked suspiciously like the foundation of a new style ethic. Spike stared at the heavy contrasting cuffs and collar on Angel's expensive shirt and wondered whether he was seeing things or if gay Roman centurion was a real fashion trend. And where had those god awful highlights come from?
"What if it is?" Angel's eyes darkened with condescension and a touch of eyeliner. "At least I make an effort to stay current, unlike some." He raked his eyes over Spike's familiar outfit with look of withering condemnation mixed with pity.
Priorities, Spike reminded himself. Forget the retro cartoon hair. Priorities. The music meant nothing and Angel was only being his best twiddling git self, but Buffy was in real jeopardy. Yeah, Buffy was the priority. "Look," Spike began, "I don't pretend to know all the ins and outs that you so-called corporate types ingest with your breakfast meetings of champions and the like, but what the bloody hell is going on here?"
"Wake up on the wrong side of the sarcophagus, Spike?" Angel huffed. "It's called the morning meeting. You used to attend them."
"Yeah, for a laugh."
Angel looked back into the office. Agitation bristled his upper lip. "What do you want? I have to get back in there. Harmony's--" Panic permeated his voice.
Spike took a quick glance inside the office. Harmony appeared to be arranging an army of plastic ponies and trolls on the desk. What stunned him was the look of studious fascination on the faces of Wesley, Gunn, Fred and Lorne at this odd display. "Looks like she's choreographing a dance routine with her dollies," Spike observed. He couldn't imagine any scenario that would involve such a troubling detail and yet there was the tableau before him. Spike watched with dismay as Wesley appeared to be discussing the intricacies of the doll display with Harmony. Gunn also pointed toward the arrangement and spoke.
"That shows what you know!" Angel's face strained with frustration that he was not back inside. "Those happen to be action figures, Spike, but that's beside the point. It doesn't surprise me in the least that Harmony's strategic reasoning has left you in the dust. I'd invite you in if I could be certain you'd keep your big trap shut, because--believe me--you could stand to learn a thing or two."
Spike's thought processes tripped upon hearing the words "Harmony's strategic reasoning."
"Learn?" Spike finally spoke. "From Harmony?"
Angel gritted his teeth with disdain. "Of course from Harmony, you idiot!"
"Is this the same is-it-bigger-than-a-bread-box Harmony?"
"Spike, I don't have time for your silly games--"
"Angel, I know it hasn't been that long since you were a pile of heavy gauge felt bits with delusions of grandeur, but honestly, what the fuck have you been smoking? Or maybe you've sucked up one too many skanky clots from your barnyard supply because you are not making any sense--not that you're known for making sense--but this is a kind of not making sense that would astound even idiots."
"Speak for yourself," Angel hissed. "I can't stand here arguing, damn it, Harmony's at the white board!" Angel made a move toward the door.
"Angel! Angel. Get a hold of yourself!" Spike gripped Angel's shoulders and held him fast. "Something is seriously wrong. Buffy's..." Spike swallowed a wave of nausea and plowed ahead with the distasteful truth, "...in the front lobby wearing a badge and cap and wishing folks a Wolfram and Hart kind of day."
Angel's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Yeah? So what?"
The shape of Angel's gaping mouth alone was reason for a sound thrashing, but before Spike thought to stomp the crap out of Angel something a little more ominous prickled the base of Spike's skull. "Wait-- You know this already?"
"D-u-h. Earth to Spike. Who do you think put in a good word with Harmony to get the interview in the first place? I'm done talking to you. I have minutes to take!" With that said, Angel lunged out of Spike's loosening grasp and raced back into the office. He scooted over to the desk and perched on its edge. Angel cleared his throat and looked sheepishly at Harmony.
"I apologize for that interruption. It's official. Spike's gone off the deep end again." All eyes drifted in unison toward the figure of a befuddled vampire staring through the glass partitions with his jaw hanging open.
"What do you think?" Wesley glanced at Harmony. "Could he be a liability at this point?"
"People..." Harmony pronounced with a bored sigh. "Spike marches to his own drummer. He's annoying but harmless."
As Spike took stock, staring into Angel's office, curious changes in the dTcor became glaringly obvious. It simply didn't look like Angel's office anymore. Instead of weapons on the walls there was a huge painting on black velvet of Harmony in a floor length gown. Instead of the dour, masculine black leather sofas and chairs there was an assortment of outlandish objects that bore the unmistakable stamp of a certain scatter-brained vampire. Wesley sat in comfortable ease on a clear plastic inflatable pink chair, Charles Gunn occupied a pink and black zebra striped beanbag chair, another shocking pink leather chair designed in the shape of an H held Fred and Lorne lounged on a low day bed covered in shaggy pink fur.
Harmony stood beside a white board with the words "think pink" and "synergy" written in bubble letters. She gestured to Lorne and nodded. Spike watched as Lorne moved to a side table and put a CD into a portable stereo. With an motion of her hands, Harmony beckoned the group to stand. They moved to a clearing at the far end of the office and spread out evenly, dutifully assuming starting positions. She continued to speak but Spike couldn't make out the words beyond counting down a rhythm of eight beats.
What followed was a choreographed group number that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Hustle before transitioning seamlessly into free form individual interpretations. Lorne took Harmony in his arms and began an energetic Latin number with twists, pivots, dips and aggressively synchronized hip and elbow movements. Wesley reached for Fred and she spun into his arms. They attempted a less frenzied display that appeared tentative due to the fact that both parties were counting the beats aloud and trying not to get too far off track. Charles Gunn eased effortlessly into liquid arm and leg movements and floated around the room as if sliding on ice.
Dancing. They were all dancing.
Spike stood in speechless disbelief not knowing what was weirder, that the group appeared to be following Harmony's lead without question or that Angel, throwing all caution to the wind, joined in as an enthusiastic participant. What Spike witnessed went beyond the confines of shocking. Angel willingly shook his groove thing with what looked like shameless glee and considerable coordination.
That pod person thing was definitely going around.
"Angel, come in here!" Undigested annoyance crackled from the intercom.
"Right away, boss." Angel stood, grabbed his pen and pad and hustled into Harmony's office. He found her sprawled on her furry day bed in a fog of agitated ennui and surrounded by a sea of well thumbed tabloid magazines.
"Look at this crap!" Harmony shrieked. She held up a two page spread outlining Paris Hilton's dog's work out regimen: Puppy Pilates. "I'm supposed to think that dog really does all those exercises? Where's the muscle tone? Nowhere, that's where!" She seethed with volcanic fury. "And not even one article about me and Mr. Pussy! We could so do Pussy Pilates. Shoot! I should have thought of that. At least Mr. Pussy is believable as an athlete. This mangy mutt is just selling canine sportswear. It's pitiful. Don't you agree, Angel?"
"I do. I agree. Pitiful."
"And Mr. Pussy is the cutest, most photogenic pussy in all the world, aren't you?" At last Harmony's doting gaze fell upon the preoccupied feline. Mr. Pussy crouched on the carpet and began to heave, emitting a hoarse, rhythmic retching sound until he finally coughed up a sizable wad of hair and mucus. It was only then that he looked up into Harmony's adoring face with a furry grin and began to groom once more with gusto.
"Angel." Harmony's finger waggle sent Angel straight to work removing the evidence of Mr. Pussy's indigestion. At his return Angel found Harmony puzzling over her perceived publicity problem.
"Should I call in our paparazzi?" Angel stood ready to mobilize the troops.
Harmony sighed at that suggestion. "That's too obvious. Isn't that too obvious, Lorne?" Lorne emerged from the shadowy corner, deep in thought.
"It can't be too obvious when it comes to you, lamby-kins. Hey! What about the premiere tonight?" Lorne snapped his fingers, indicating a eureka moment. "You show up on the arm of that reality show heart throb, Dink Nibbler, and the rest is Paris envy." Genius, absolute genius. "I predict five covers minimum from that dishy coup."
"Dink Nibbler?" Harmony bit her mango fever tinted lips. "Why do I know that name?"
"He's the winner of our little top rated reality show, remember?"
"The underwear model?"
"No."
"The porno guy?"
"No."
"Lorne! I just can't remember every tanned slab of man muscle you've paraded across the television. Which one was he?"
"He's the, um, pool boy."
"The guy the piranha chewed off his swim trunks?" Harmony's eyes widened at the thrilling memory.
"That's him."
"Ooooo! He's really cute." Harmony tossed the offending magazines aside and sat to attention. "All those razor sharp teeth near his thingy and he didn't even flinch. I like that in a man."
"He's the hot property of the moment and more to the point, he's your hot property, Harmony. Just picture it," Lorne held up his fingers like a director framing a scene. "You're walking into "Skin City" with fearless Dink on your arm. I predict seizures in three states from the flash bulb blast alone."
Harmony squealed with delight. "Angel, have the limo pick up Dink and bring him here for his premiere make over."
"Yes, boss. Right away." Angel whooshed out of the office already scribbling a long list of preparations for Harmony's big night out.
Just as Angel left, Marcus Hamilton swept into the office and stood in all his shining, malevolent glory in an exquisite Italian suit and hand made dress shoes. His eyebrows descended. "What's this I hear about you dating?"
Harmony swung her feet onto the carpet and stood up. "You can go now Lorne." Lorne nodded and left the office grateful to be anywhere but in the vicinity of Marcus Hamilton, the Senior Partner's corporate bogey man.
Harmony sighed and casually acknowledged the finely woven masculine obelisk that stood before her. "Red carpet is not dating, it's work, and you know we're not exclusive, Marcus."
"That's news to me, muffin."
"Really? You're always off communing with the Senior Partners or so you say." Harmony flashed an accusing look in Hamilton's direction. Being pushed aside wasn't a pleasant feeling. "What am I supposed to do? A girl has needs, Marcus." Harmony threw back her shoulders to give Hamilton a tempting view of her determined chin and deeply chiseled cleavage. "Evil, evil needs."
"Hey baby, I thought I filled all your evil requirements or do you need another demonstration?"
"You talk big, Marcus, but where does that leave me? Alone in my office with only Mr. Pussy for company." The kitten flicked its tail contemptuously from atop Harmony's pink upholstered cat tower and then started viciously clawing a roughened cylinder to sharpen its claws. One glance at the office visitor set the small kitten on high alert.
Hamilton reached out and grabbed Harmony's wrist and pulled her decisively against his chest. He held her there as the embers of sexual possession burst into flames in his eyes.
"I don't want you dancing with other men," he declared in a sultry yet venomous voice. "You know it drives me crazy."
"We've been over this before; that's a group dynamics thing I do with the team. It's part of my corporate philosophy. Dancing stimulates optimum business synergy. It's not a couples thing--well maybe with Wesley and Fred--but--"
"So you deny dancing with Sebassis the other day?" Hamilton spit out the accusation.
Amusement and disgust wrestled on Harmony's face. She did have some standards. "The Archduke?" She eased herself from Hamilton's iron grip. "No way. We did do a few yoga positions but we used separate mats, I swear." Harmony explained the harmless interlude with her pampered client.
"That guy is really tightly wound. I can't decide if it's the horns or the nostril hair but the littlest thing can interrupt the flow of energy through the body and Sebassis' inner flow is way wonky." She leaned back against the edge of her desk. "Seriously. I'm amazed he's still walking around. I've scheduled a pedicure meeting next week, but that's strictly a working pedicure."
Marcus Hamilton's jaw flexed in percussive spasms. His darkening brow perplexed Harmony. He'd seen her flow charts and knew her philosophical thrust, so what was with all this nostril flexing?
"What's the matter? Is my spanky-bum all jealous?" Harmony wiggled herself closer to Hamilton. A flash of masculine fury sparked in Hamilton's eye. He rarely showed any emotion but what was there was exacerbated by Harmony's incendiary femininity.
"Say you won't dance with anyone but me," Hamilton snarled through clenched teeth and crushed her against his mountainous chest.
"Wait, Hammy. People will see."
"I want them to!" Hamilton started to maneuver her masterfully over the carpet.
Looking through the windows from Angel's desk, Lorne sighed.
"Um, Mr. Lorne?" Angel inquired. "I'm confused. Do we get this Dink guy or not?"
"Yeah. Send the car," Lorne advised. "If Harmony changes her mind we can always plop the kid on Leno for an quickie interview and then get a flock of video vixens to walk the red carpet with him. It'll work out."
"Show business sure is complicated." Angel dialed down to the garage to relay the instructions.
"The guy's already braved a tank of piranha in pursuit of his tackle. I think he'll do just fine in Hollywood." Lorne winked and flipped open his cell phone to dial the hot commodity of the moment, Mr. Nibbler. "Dink! Baby! It's Lorne from HQ. This is your lucky day, stud..."
With breathless haste, Wesley flew down the stairs toward Harmony's office.
Angel jumped to his feet and hung up the phone. "She's in a meeting, Wesley."
Wesley slowed to a standstill and stared through the windows. He saw the entwined figures of Harmony and Marcus Hamilton executing the sensual intricacies of the tango with blood thirsty precision.
"My word, ballroom dancing?" Wesley checked his watch. Where had the day gone?
"Did you want to leave a message?" Angel grabbed his message pad and stood at the ready.
"Uh?" Wesley couldn't pry his eyes from the vision before him. He had to admit that Harmony and Hamilton made a striking couple.
"Message?" Angel repeated.
"Oh yes! I've just translated a prophecy."
"Uh huh." Angel figured it was something like that. Wesley was always translating something or other.
"I thought Harmony would want to be informed." Wesley squared his shoulders before enunciating further. "It could mean the destruction of the earth plane as we know it."
"Really?" Angel looked down at his cheery pink "While you were out" pad and knew it didn't have enough room for the particulars of a wordy Wesley message. "Why don't I just put: apocalypse pending, love Wesley?"
"Will she get the gist of ominous doom from that? And "love Wesley" seems a trifle too familiar, don't you think?"
"Trust me, Wesley, I know Harmony. She's all about the feel good team vibes. What? Don't you love her?"
"Well, I've never really thought in those terms but now that you mention it, I do have strong feelings of admiration and regard for our fearlessly fashionable leader. She's done a superb job at the helm of Wolfram and Hart and deserves nothing less than my complete and utter loyalty."
"She really does." Angel agreed.
"This prophecy needs her prompt attention," Wesley emphasized as he stared into the big office. "And sooner would be preferable than later."
"Hamilton won't be long," Angel explained. "They'll tango for a while and then move to a more, um, specific briefing then he'll be off to conference with the higher ups, or whatever it is he does around here."
"I fail to see what she sees in that man." Wesley could not contain his contempt for Hamilton. "He's insufferable."
"He is a snappy dresser." Angel wasn't above a little suit and shiny shoes envy, especially when it was Armani. No question, the man could wear a suit.
"There's no denying that." Venom seethed from Wesley.
Charles Gunn sauntered off the elevator and headed over to Angel's desk. "Hey, what's going on?"
"Hamilton is in with Harmony." Wesley's information wasn't necessary. High pitched wails of undiluted rapture rose from inside Harmony's office as soon as the dancing couple spun beyond the sight lines of the three observers.
"Again?" Gunn quirked an eyebrow. "They're going at it pretty hot and heavy these days."
Urgent squeals drifted out to the office commons. Harmony's unrestrained voice could be heard distinctly. "Give it to me! I want it! Give it to me! Now! Now! NOW!" The men looked at each other uncomfortably. Gunn traced the seam at the edge of his briefcase with his thumb.
"Harmony needs to be totally relaxed in order to work to her full potential," Angel explained needlessly. Harmony often met in seclusion with Hamilton. Inexplicably, he made her happy. Sounds of Harmony's ecstatic happiness wafted from her office.
"How have you been, Wes?" Gunn made an effort not to appear too much like a voyeur.
"I'm good, Charles. Just a nasty spot of apocalypse heading our way but other than that I can't complain. How about yourself?"
"Same old, same old. I'm up to my ears in Lorne's imploding starlets."
"Sounds fascinating. Say, we really should get together for a barbecue sometime. Fred's got this fabbo recipe for baby back ribs. It's to die for, Charles."
"Barbecue? Just tell me when and I'm there."
Angel stood stiffly as his eyes darted from Wesley back to Gunn. A barbecue sounded great but it didn't look as if his invitation was pending any time soon. When the door to Harmony's office swung open all thoughts of baby back ribs fled Angel's head.
Marcus Hamilton emerged taking a deep, calming breath. He looked immaculate. Not a fiber or hair out of place. Nothing betrayed the bout of suspiciously salacious activity he'd just enjoyed.
"We'll go over those specifics tonight, Miss Kendall." His booming voice filled the lobby.
"Okey-dokey," Harmony giggled in the doorway. She tossed her voluminous curls back over her shoulders and nibbled on the caramel nougat chocolate bar she'd successfully wrestled from Hamilton's pocket. "I'm certain I'll be able to fit you in, Marcus."
"The man never breaks a sweat," Wesley hissed a whisper. "It's inhuman."
Hamilton stared at Angel, Wesley and Gunn and then turned to Harmony. He bared his teeth and growled softly at her. Harmony blew him a kiss which he caught and placed in his breast pocket. A quick pivot turned him back toward his unintended audience.
"Gentlemen, I bid you good day." Hamilton sauntered toward the elevator and was gone.
"Harmony? Do you have a moment for an impending apocalypse?" Wesley spoke up hopefully.
"Oh, not today Wesley." Harmony managed a pout and began to close the door.
"Well, not actually today." Wesley tried to clarify but he knew the glazed look on Harmony's face too well. No more business decisions would be made this day.
"Dink Nibbler?" Angel's voice strained toward the door.
"Cancel all my appointments, Angel," Harmony ordered. "And get Toy and his team over here pronto. My hair needs to be perfect for tonight."
Angel nodded and sprang to the phone. That directive meant summoning the buff 'n' fluff squad from Harmony's favorite spa and an afternoon crammed with all manner of waxing, make-up application and hair sculpting, topped off with some personal shopping time over at Jimmy Choos 'R' Us. Angel was going to be run off his feet again. Being the power behind the power at Wolfram and Hart required single-minded dedication and commitment.
And a fully charged cell phone.
After sunset Buffy made her way back to Spike's basement apartment carrying a paper bag of take out food and a milkshake. She arrived to find Spike laying across his sofa in a listless stupor, casually fiddling with his joystick. Lurid colors flowed across the television screen as he made little attempt to engage in the game in any meaningful way. Percussive sounds of animated explosions and certain defeat casually punctuated his inertia.
"Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to be nice to people without something pointy for back up?" Buffy managed a weak smile. "It's harder than I thought."
Spike sprung from the sofa to her side. "Buffy! You're back. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Harmony really flung me into the furnace though. Greeter is a bitch of a job but I'm up to the task. I would have been lost without Irma. She even let me operate the walkie-talkie. Pretty cool, huh?" After a day of relentless cheer and smiles, Buffy looked ready to collapse. She kicked off her shoes, walked over to the sofa and sat down. Spike joined her as she pulled a burger out of her paper bag and took a bite.
"Buffy, love, you know me, right?"
"Spike. What's wrong?" Buffy licked her lips free of tartar sauce. "You look kinda weird."
"This qualified as a weird day."
"French fry?" Buffy held up her cup of fries.
"Buffy..." A helpless pause lengthened between them as Spike scrambled for words. "I don't understand why you'd even want a job at Wolfram and Hart."
"I need an income Spike, you know that. Besides, don't you think it would be awesome to meet for lunch in the employee cafeteria? That's a definite perk in my opinion." Her eager expression startled him.
"Buffy, this makes no sense. You just got into town yesterday. Don't you remember? You don't even live in the States anymore."
"Oh, I get it. Okay, I'll admit the whole job thing seems a bit sudden but I've been wanting a change for a while now. Dawn likes the whole Europe deal but I'm so over that it's not funny. I need to be home and now I am. Aren't you happy that I've come to L.A.? We can be together now. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"It's exactly what I want."
"Then why the worry face?"
"Do I even have to say it?" Spike studied Buffy's face carefully, not exactly sure what he was looking for. "Wolfram and Hart is evil, Buffy." Obviously the basics weren't sinking into her cranium. Spike persisted. "The opposite of good, which is what you are...what you fight for."
On the surface Buffy appeared willing to acknowledge the problematic glitch in her new job euphoria. This evaporated when she began to speak.
"You know, sometimes I think I've limited myself in the whole good versus evil arena by being stake girl." Buffy took another bite of her hamburger and chewed it thoughtfully. "What I've really needed is to branch out and stretch myself, explore different avenues in the struggle. And then it hit me, you know, the whole corporate connection? It was like a big, twinkly explosion in my head and I knew. I just knew." She smiled and took a long slurpy pull on her strawberry milkshake.
"Buffy--"
"Wolfram and Hart is the perfect place for me. I can work my way up the ladder just like Harmony has done. I get goose bumps when I think about following in her footsteps. She schedules in house seminars for the top performers in each department. Did you know that?" Spike could only shake his head in response. "It sounds like a master class in business smarts or something. Irma said Harmony conducts it herself. That's what I'm aiming for Spike, the top."
Spike's mouth hung open in disbelief; soon frustration filled it. "What's with this rah rah Harmony bollocks all of a sudden?"
"What? What do you mean?"
"It's Harmony, for crying out loud! That's what I mean. With the nail polish and the sparkly bits and the soddin' unicorns everywhere you bloody turn. She's...she's..."
"I know, isn't she great?" Buffy nodded her agreement. "She's not what you expect in a business mogul and that's what's so exciting. She keeps them guessing."
"Ugh!" Spike's exasperation met Buffy's calm reply.
"I've completely misjudged her, Spike," Buffy shrugged. "It's as simple as that. I'm secure enough to admit that I was wrong about her. I only hope I can be half the business woman she is one day."
"This is total bollocks," Spike muttered. "I suddenly live in a universe that worships the flotsam that spews from the mouth of Harmony Kendall. Think Buffy, have you been bitten by anything? Eaten a bad piece of shrimp? Inhaled some suspicious cloud from a glowing fissure in the space time continuum?"
"What are you talking about? No. I feel perfectly fine." Buffy frowned. "I think I'd know if something unusual was happening. I still have my razor sharp slayer skills, you know and years of up close and personal with the mystical mojo. Do you feel okay? You're not usually this freaked about anything."
"You think something's wrong with me?"
"Maybe Wesley should investigate. I hardly think we need to bother Harmony with something like this...but if it's big, Harmony may need to be informed."
"Buffy, are you telling me you find nothing wrong with the concept of Harmony being in charge of the evil asylum at Wolfram and Hart?"
Buffy paused while a thread of suspicion frayed in her mind. "Spike, for someone who's sworn he's over Harmony, you are talking about her a lot."
"What?"
"I know low man on the ladder is not as sexy as CEO but you broke up with her, remember? You're not having second thoughts about us are you?" Worry contaminated Buffy's thoughts and seeped into her expression. Why did she even ask that question? What if Spike was having second thoughts? There was no way she could compete with the sophistication that was Harmony but she thought that she and Spike had a chance at building something good together.
"Second thoughts? About Harmony?"
"You think she's prettier than me, don't you?"
"What?"
"It's her tiny, perfect ass, isn't it? Damn her vampire perfection!"
"Buffy, calm yourself. Harmony does not have a perfect ass. Believe me."
"There!" Buffy pointed a french fry at Spike in accusation. "Now you're picturing her naked. I know you are!"
"I'm not. I swear."
"I've got a good ass!" Buffy protested. "As good as Harmony's!" She stuffed her mouth with french fries and chewed at a blistering pace to ward off tears. Anger was preferable to sadness because her eyes didn't get puffy from rage like they did from crying. The restless chewing stopped as an image invaded Buffy's mind. Harmony didn't get puffy eye bags at all. Ever.
"Shit!" she exclaimed. "I knew I should have come back sooner. It's too late for us, isn't it?"
"No. Definitely not too late."
"How can you say that when you obviously want Harmony! How am I supposed to compete with her? She's Harmony!"
"Buffy! I don't want Harmony. Jesus, how could any rational person think that? I want you, Buffy. You!"
"I don't believe you. All you want to talk about is Harmony! Maybe if I was still the only slayer in all the world I'd have a chance, but--"
"Buffy! Listen to me! I don't want Harmony! I want you. I love you. I dream about you."
"You dream about me?" Buffy paused in mid sniffle. Dreaming was a hopeful sign. Maybe she was in that noggin of Spike's after all.
"Really?"
"Uh huh." Spike nodded.
Buffy took a chance. "Like, sexy, girlfriendy type dreams?"
"Oh, yeah. Very sexy."
"Aww," her forehead wrinkled with relief. "That is so sweet. I had a dream about you too."
"Care to share?"
"Well, we're at the mall shopping for shoes--and get this--Harmony is the salesperson and she tells me that the sandals I have on make my ankles look thick and then she suggests another pair." Buffy nodded her head as if she were sharing the wisdom of the ages.
Spike wisely tempered his reaction. "That's your dream about me? Shoe shopping at the mall?" With Harmony, no less. Welcome to the Twilight Zone.
"Is that too weird? Um, there was another part where we walked to the food court naked and got big gulps."
*
"Oh, oh...that's, oh yeah, right there..."
Buffy lay in a state of boneless relaxation on the sofa feeling satisfied that she'd done so well at her first day at Wolfram and Hart. Her feet lay in Spike's lap and he kneaded her left arch with his muscular thumb.
Spike's mindset was not so carefree. Wolfram and Hart was a dangerous place and as long as Buffy was there, she was in danger. He tried to think. There had to be something that could snap Buffy out of her present state of mind. Where was the Scooby brain trust when it might be of some use? Wait. Of course. The answer was obvious.
"Have you spoken to Giles yet?" He asked in a gentle, smooth tone that didn't betray his growing sense of panic.
"Hmm?" Buffy responded, almost asleep.
"Giles? Does he know your big job news?"
Buffy opened her eyes. "I didn't tell him yet. I just started today, Spike. I haven't had time." Buffy yawned and stretched. "Gosh you're good at this." Her feet felt human again.
"I have my talents."
"I'll say." She smiled and closed her eyes. "More please." She wiggled the toes on her right foot to encourage him.
When Spike was sure Buffy was fast asleep he eased off the sofa and walked to her purse. It was a jumble of receipts, old lipstick tubes, stakes, a bulging wallet shaped like a ladybug and a silver cell phone. Spike opened the wallet and searched for a phone number for Giles. There he found a crisp business card with a tiny raised Celtic knot in one corner. It read: Rupert Giles, Council of Watchers, and some phone numbers. Buffy scrawled his cell number on the back.
"Yes!" Spike grabbed the cell phone and walked into the bathroom in order to make the call. If Buffy's phone wasn't able to handle an international call he'd have to hoof it to the pay phone on the corner and there was no guarantee that one would work.
Spike opened the cell and activated it. It registered battery power and a connection. So far so good. He dialed the number carefully, cursing the teeny weeny buttons with each press of his cumbersome fingertips. The call went through with no problem. Spike's luck was holding. It should be morning in England.
"Giles here." The reception was functional but not impressive.
"Giles!" Spike squeaked. All would be well. "This is Spike."
"Spike who?" Giles spoke blandly as if he were responding to an ancient knock knock joke.
"Spike...from Sunnydale?" Spike replied. How many Spikes did Giles know?
"I see you don't have enough work to do, Andrew, that can be remedied, believe me."
Click.
As Spike scrambled to redial, the tiny phone slipped from his grasp. It clattered on the tile floor with a shocking echo. Spike fell to his knees and scooped it up, fearing its intricate circuitry would be damaged.
"Worse than a bloody sardine, that is." Spike's thumb slipped across a button and Buffy's phone directory suddenly came onscreen. He stopped cursing this tiny piece of technology long enough to scroll down past "Giles work" and "Giles home" to "Giles cell" and pressed the connection again. Tense seconds passed.
"Giles here."
"Don't hang up!" Spike hissed. "This really is Spike."
"Spike?"
"Alive and kicking...well, kicking anyway. Didn't you get the memo?" Surely Andrew would have penned a memo. "Long story short: saved the world, was a ghost for a bit and now I'm all soulful and solid again."
If polishing glasses could be heard over a cell phone connection, Spike would have sworn he heard a tell tale squeak or two.
"Yes, Spike. I am aware of your situation. Why on earth would you be calling me?"
"Just listen. Buffy's here in Los Angeles and she's in trouble."
There was the magic word at last.
"What kind of trouble?"
"Big trouble. Wolfram and Hart kind of trouble."
"I don't understand."
"Brace yourself, Rupert, this is going to be a shock--"
"I had a conference call with Harmony just a few hours ago. She didn't mention anything of the sort."
The pit of Spike's stomach crackled uneasily. "What? You...you've spoken with...Harmony?"
"Quite regularly, actually. She's proven a valuable colleague, Spike. I find her insights remarkably fresh."
The incongruous words buzzed in Spike's ears. Harmony was a valuable colleague with remarkably fresh insights. He pressed on with a voice full of foreboding. "Rupert, Buffy's taken a job at Wolfram and Hart. She's here...at Wolfram and Hart...in the lobby." Just saying it out loud sent shivers through Spike. He hoped that was enough.
Giles replied in an reasonable tone. "Buffy did mention to me that she was looking for a change and it sounds like she's found it. I discussed eventually expanding Buffy's role with Harmony. She brought up the intriguing idea of a liaison posi--"
"Did you not hear me?" Spike interrupted, frustration evident in his delivery. "This is serious. Buffy is literally opening doors for demons...and lawyers!"
"Spike, erm, have you been drinking? You sound a little odd."
A little odd? The world had turned upside down. Rupert Giles was on good working terms with Harmony Kendall and thought nothing of Buffy brightening the lobby of Wolfram and Hart. Buffy was in the next room blissfully dreaming of climbing the corporate ladder, no doubt in sequined platform shoes and hair extensions.
Armageddon was waiting in the wings in shining breastplate and horns, anxious for her curtain call.
Spike swallowed a dry gulp, pressed the end button and terminated the call. He stared blankly at the silken threads of mold discoloring the tile grout over his bath tub and tried to gain some calm. Giles obviously was not going to be any help at all. Spike sat down on the edge of the tub for a think.
It was every man for himself.
The next morning Buffy awoke on Spike's sofa having spent a restful night dreaming contentedly. For the first time in years she opened her eyes with giddy anticipation of the day ahead. She showered quickly and prepared herself for the work day.
Spike didn't sleep a wink. He'd spent a tormented night of pacing, thinking about the crisis he'd found himself in and how to keep Buffy safe from any number of unforeseen and fatal calamities. Casual morning interaction ended quickly as Spike's restlessness flowered into an argument.
"I don't want you to go in to work today. It's not safe."
"I'm a big girl, Spike. I can take care of myself." Buffy opened Spike's cupboards and found them empty. Mornings required some sustenance. At the very least a cup of coffee would do but a quick inspection revealed he had no coffee, no bread for toast, no fruit, no donuts, no miniature marshmallows even, not even a lousy stick of gum. It wasn't like she was expecting croissants and cream cheese. Spike had a documented sweet tooth and she'd seen him with the munchies but there was nothing but a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge. That would not do. Buffy needed to refuel soon. She stared at the crumpled wrappings from the previous night's fast food feast with longing. She'd have to hit the Stop 'n' Go on the corner for a coffee. Buffy wondered if it was too early for nachos.
"You can't go," Spike persisted. "I don't want you there."
"What's with you?" Buffy eyed him suspiciously. "I can't miss a day's work. I just started."
"Anything could happen. You're all out in the open in that lobby." He felt his obligation keenly. She was under some sinister influence and it was his duty to keep her safe.
"Spike." Buffy didn't want to argue. She wanted to get to the corner market as soon as possible and then get to work. Her stomach grumbled in accord.
"It's a spell!" Spike blurted out. "You're in danger."
"What danger? What's a spell?"
"Harmony's behind this. She's the bloody Queen of Sheba now, it has to be her."
"You're not making sense."
Suddenly, a solution popped into Spike's head. Hours of pacing and panic coalesced into simple common sense. Somebody up there liked him after all. "Quit your job! Then you'll be safe and we'll figure this out together."
"Quit my job?" Buffy flared her nostrils and folded her arms tightly in front of her. "I'm not quitting my job. And there's nothing to figure out. This is a new opportunity for me, Spike. I'm excited about the future again and I don't think a little support from you would be asking too much."
"You can't be there. It's all wrong. Angel and Harmony and who knows what kind of oogly-woogly is just lurking around the corner ready to pounce."
"Oogly-woogly? Don't be such a drama queen. You hang around there all the time. It's not that bad."
Pushed to the brink by mounting panic, Spike blurted out what amounted to an ultimatum. He didn't want Buffy near Wolfram and Hart, Harmony or Angel for that matter. "You don't know what you're saying, love. It's worse than a nest full of Harmony worshipping vipers in there! You need to stay away from that place and that's final."
"Oh really. You seem to be operating under the misguided notion that you've got the right to tell me what to do," Buffy asserted.
"It's for your own protection. This is no time for your slayer stubbornness to show up. I am serious about this."
"So am I," Buffy's tone hardened. "I don't know why you think this he-man crap is going to work. I run my life, Spike and I don't like being told what to do. For your information, you're not the boss of me." She spoke in the same defiant tone she'd used to challenge many a baby sitter in her childhood days. Unfortunately, the sentiment sounded ridiculous coming from the mouth of an adult.
"Well, somebody bloody well needs to be!" Spike stared at her hoping for fists. Scrapping made perfect sense. Anything was better than the prospect of Buffy hopping off to Wolfram and Hart, bound and determined to be the best greeter in history. Instead of retaliating in a predictable manner, Buffy turned on her heel, impulsively grabbing her shoulder bag. A quick stop in the bathroom produced her make-up kit and other toiletries which were unceremoniously stuffed inside the case.
"I can't believe you're acting like this." Buffy shoved her few clothes into the bag with an exaggerated flourish.
"What are you doing? Stop packing! You're not thinking clearly, that's all. That bloody building has done this to you. You have to stay away."
"I can't believe you'd actually be threatened by my job. I have goals and ambitions, Spike and I'm not putting them aside ever, ever again." She was in motion and heading for the door. For all Buffy's protestations of maturity her rash actions spoke louder than words. Stormy exits were still part of her repertoire. She gave no thought to what next or where. She simply heeded the call to be somewhere else.
"No, Buffy. Don't go." Spike blocked the door with a determined stance.
She refused to meet his eyes. Two days back and they were already at an impasse. She swallowed the initial pangs of regret as they scrambled up her throat. Once a course of action began she had no idea how to unravel its potentially dangerous strands. "I swear, if you do anything to get me fired," Buffy heard herself say, "you'll regret it." She pushed Spike out of the way and surged down the hallway with him in barefoot pursuit.
"Buffy. Please. Don't leave like this."
She turned at the exit and glared at him, her stubborn pride at full throttle. "Maybe Angel would appreciate a roommate." With a savage push she opened the door and left, letting sunlight spill into the lonely hallway.
"Buffy! No!" Spike jumped back as smoke rose from his feet.
*
When Spike burst into Harmony's office he found her dangling in a massage chair with her face wedged into a padded circle. Angel stood at her side working the muscles of her shoulder.
"What the bloody hell have you done to Buffy?" The stridency of Spike's voice disrupted Harmony's relaxing interlude and caused the muscles in her back to tighten in an all too familiar spasm.
"Ow!" Harmony complained and stared at Spike's boots.
"Spike! Get out," Angel fumed. "Can't you see that Harmony is busy? She's a very important person who doesn't have time for your incessant nonsense."
Harmony shifted slowly to a normal sitting position on the chair. "That will be all for now, Angel. I'll deal with Spike."
"I don't think you should be alone with him, boss. He's been acting really strange lately."
"It's okay, Angel. I'll be fine."
"If you say so, Harmony, but I'll be right outside." Angel wiped his fingers on a towel and walked slowly past Spike, glaring daggers until he slipped out the door.
"What is your issue, Spike?" Harmony pulled her blouse up over her camisole and rolled her shoulder slowly. Nobody unclenched her like Angel did. Well, there was Hamilton, but that was a whole different category of unclenching. "You're driving everyone crazy and by that I mean more so than usual. What is so important you had to interrupt my massage?"
"I want to know what you did to Buffy."
Harmony's forehead arched in perfect parallel wrinkles. "I didn't do anything to the Slayer, short of giving her a job and a pay check which, I might add, she practically begged me for."
Spike narrowed his gaze in accusation. "Meet any interesting demons lately, Harm? Blow out some candles? Make a wish, did you?"
"What are you talking about? I meet plenty of interesting demons, Spike. I, unlike some, have a vibrant social life and a brilliant career. You on the other hand can't seem to get over the fact that I dumped your ass all those years ago."
"You-- What? Excuse me? Who dumped whom?"
"History, Spike." Harmony waved her expensive manicure in a dismissive manner. "Ancient and uninteresting. Is there something specific that you want?"
"Did you do this?"
"Did I do what?"
"Change things."
"Change what?" Harmony looked at him expectantly. He was still pathetic at twenty questions. Maybe if he gave her a topic they could approach useful communication.
"Every bloody thing that ever made sense!"
"Feeling unfulfilled, Spike? Is that it? There's a group dynamics tune-up in the upper foyer in twenty minutes. They can lend you proper shoes. Maybe you should give it a try." Harmony's sincerity soon drifted into a blank stare. Why did she even try? He was obstinate and willfully stubborn; far beyond the reach of even the perkiest of fox-trots.
She couldn't get rid of him due to some outrageously small print in the margins of an ancient Wolfram and Hart tome regarding vampires with souls and some stupid prophecy. Frankly, all that prophecy gobbledygook went right over her head but the Senior Partners had taken an interest. Hamilton explained the particulars during the throes of an enthusiastically erotic coffee break. Spike was off limits. Like the imprints of wayward song birds who met their untimely ends against her sparkling office windows, Spike was a smudge to be endured.
Spike stared into Harmony's blank face looking for the slightest clue that she had orchestrated this whole thing. What was he thinking? Harmony was incapable of coming up with even a half-assed plan and she never could keep anything a secret. Maybe she hadn't done this. With a sigh Spike stepped toward the upholstered cat tower, a vertical play land for the prestigious mascot of Wolfram and Hart, and grabbed a length of curved wire with a fuzzy knot tied at its end. He dangled the prop in front of the self-satisfied feline and engaged him with a casual bout of swatting practice.
"You be nice to Mr. Pussy, Spike." Harmony warned.
"Keep your knickers on, Harm. I'm just saying hello to the little guy." Spike's expression softened as he toyed with the kitten. "What on earth possessed you to name him that?"
Harmony's face slanted at a stern diagonal. "I like that name and Mr. Pussy does too!"
Spike raised his hand and scratched the kitten behind its ears. "He looks more like a Bob or maybe a Spot."
"Are we done bonding for today Spike? I have some crucial meditating to get back to."
"Yeah. Finished." This was not the place for answers. Spike gave one final pat to the purring feline and left Harmony's office.
"God, I can't believe I ever crushed on that guy." Harmony stared at Spike's retreating figure. She leaned over and pressed the intercom button for Angel.
"Yes, Harmony?"
"Get me a tall glass of chilled chinchilla with a twist of lime and then bring your fingers back in here. The knot's back."
"Right away, boss."
Submit a Review!