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
16.
When Spike finally reached the Wolfram and Hart building he'd come to the conclusion that strong arm tactics weren't going to do him any good. Buffy certainly wasn't Drusilla and consequently Spike's tried and true strategies on how to deal with a possessed girlfriend weren't going to cut it this time. Given Buffy's current delusional state perhaps it would be wiser not to poke that hornet's nest of slayerly ambition.
Casual surveillance from a comfortable but not too distant vantage point seemed entirely practical. The cafeteria was a centralized location and everyone wandered in at one time or another so Spike set up shop at a table and let the usual suspects come to him.
Spike bided his time by gathering anecdotal evidence of the calamitous but oddly efficient new vibe that pumped through the jugular at Wolfram and Hart. He used the small coil bound note pad he'd lifted from Angel's dictation stash and busied himself by writing down observations that could prove useful in solving the current conundrum.
When Angel sauntered over to another table to join a gaggle of giggly secretaries, Spike's pen accelerated over the page. "Angel is a pathetic git" and "Lord of the toupees" organically morphed into a number of unflattering caricatures. These simple amusements satisfied until Buffy's entrance caught his notice. She walked toward the beverage bin and picked a refreshing selection. Spike noted the juice variety and time of purchase and duly recorded the information. At this point anything could be an important clue. As soon as Buffy noticed Spike she turned in a huff and marched out of the room.
Soon Gunn and Wesley appeared and wandered over with their purchases. Spike pocketed his notebook and pen in favor of some needed verbal interaction. Private eyeing, as it were, was proving difficult and solitary work. A casual chat was just what the detective ordered. Spike figured that pod persons could be accurate enough sources of pod information and Spike needed all the help he could get.
*
"Man, will you get over it already? Harmony's not your girl anymore." Gunn grew tired of listening to Spike drone on about Harmony. Coffee breaks were meant to be enjoyed. The only good thing about the situation was that he wasn't alone. The misery was ladled out all around. Wesley sat nursing his mug of tea and trying hard to ignore the conversation. "And besides, aren't you back with that Greeter girl who used to be the slayer, what's her name again?"
"Buffy! Yes, I am most definitely with Buffy. This isn't about trying to get back with Harmony."
"But..." Gunn interjected, indicating that the conversation was sure to return to an uncomfortable Harmony focus.
"Really, Spike," Wesley finally spoke up. Ignoring Spike was virtually impossible. "It is quite obvious you're still smitten. Unfortunately, everyone knows the whole sordid tale--" A blistering sigh disappeared into his mug of Earl Grey. Wesley spotted Fred as soon as she sauntered into the cafeteria and waved her over with a smile.
"Look! There's no sordid tale," Spike protested. "Harmony was good for a few shags back when I went sack o' hammers after Drusilla--"
"Hey guys," Fred smiled and sat down beside Wesley. She snapped open the tab on a can of iced tea and took a swallow. "What are we talking about?"
"One guess." Gunn curled the corner of his mouth down and nodded toward Spike.
"Again?" Fred looked like she'd just tasted something bitter. This topic was getting old really fast. She hoped an intervention wasn't going to be necessary. "Spike," Fred spoke in a calm and neutral voice, "haven't we gone over this in--and I'm speaking as a sometime supportive shoulder now--excruciating detail? I thought you were past the mooning parts."
"I've been mooning over Harmony?" Shock and revulsion shared an intimate moment in his expression. "Look, forget that," Spike protested. "You've got to hear me out."
"I won't sit here and listen to you bad mouth Harmony." Wesley's loyalty was obviously iron clad. "Regardless of her current dalliance with that Hamilton fellow," Wesley paused to wipe the corner of his mouth with his napkin, "she is beyond reproach."
"Hamilton is a little creepy," Fred admitted. "In that I-can't-believe-it's-a-jaw kinda way but Harmony makes him come across as almost human, you know?" Wesley's gaze tightened on Fred. She melted his agitation with a slow smile. "They have pet names for each other. I think it's sweet."
Winifred Burkle could find a ray of sunshine in a Nezzla's rancid armpit.
"I'm telling you the truth here," Spike interjected swiftly, not wanting to listen to the ins and outs of Harmony's current love life. "Something has happened. Something seriously mystical has whooshed in here and made Harmony the boss. I've been investigating: top of my list is alien pods."
"Spike, you're not making sense." Fred responded gently.
"My point exactly," Wesley nodded in agreement.
"Look, doesn't it strike anybody as unusual that Harmony leapfrogged from the steno pool all the way to CEO?"
"I see it as a reflection of her innate leadership abilities," Wesley reasoned. "Need I remind you that this is Wolfram and Hart, Spike? We specialize in the unusual."
"What are you saying?" Gunn spoke up. "That there's been a spell of some kind that we're not aware of?"
"That's it, Charlie!" Spike snapped his fingers together. "A spell. Alien pods, maybe. Dodgy seafood at the outside. Have they served shrimp at the buffet recently?" Spike looked anxiously for any clue from group.
"And you are the only one aware of these alleged changes?" From his incredulous expression it was obvious Gunn didn't believe Spike's assertions.
"That's what I'm saying. I am immune to whatever this is."
"I find that a farfetched conclusion," Wesley declared. "Really Spike, your leaps of logic are quite puzzling."
"So tell me how Harmony got to be CEO."
"Must we persist with this ridiculous charade?" Wesley was losing patience. "She earned her way to the top post--as you well know--by her superlative performance evaluations. Also, I believe she types very fast."
"And she's shagging the Senior Partner's man." Spike spoke softly, formulating a new theory as he struggled to connect the dots.
"Don't remind us," Wesley bristled anew. "Harmony could do better than that reprehensible fellow."
"That's got to be it," Spike reasoned. "The Senior Partners have got to be behind--"
"Enough!" Wesley interrupted, his patience at last exhausted. Another coffee break had been spoiled by Spike's endless conspiracy theories, which of late had become less amusing and more annoying. "I won't listen to this any further. It's tantamount to mutiny. Harmony has worked tirelessly to build up a positive corporate image for Wolfram and Hart. She's the chairperson of the SPCA's Fur Ball for crying out loud!"
"It's true, Spike," Fred added with a slow nod. "She's really turned this place around."
Spike could hardly miss the new corporate slogan. The hallways and cafeteria prominently displayed the new posters and tag line: "Wolfram and Hart, the corporation that cares". It featured a heart shaped graphic instead of the A in Hart and an action shot of a frisky feline. It wasn't exactly the Wolfram and Hart that Spike thought he knew. He wondered what other changes had occurred.
"What exactly do we do here at Wolfram and Hart?" Spike figured that was a reasonable question in light of the changes he'd observed.
"I'm heavy into entertainment law these days," Gunn replied. "Contracts, the odd A-list divorce, juggling production of movie deals, computer games, Harmony's record label and, ahem, couturier line." Charles cleared his throat and made a minute adjustment to his fabulous silk tie. "And then there's the reality show. It keeps me hopping."
"Entertainment?" Spike needed clarification. Pod people took over Wolfram and Hart in order to run Hollywood? "That's the focus of this place? What about hostile take-overs? Political assassinations? Propping up foreign and inter-dimensional dictatorships? Enslaving billions?" What was the world coming to if Wolfram and Hart couldn't be relied on to be underhanded and evil?
"Spike, you know our company no longer follows those unsavory paths," Wesley interjected. "We kill 'em at the box office now."
"So, you're telling me that apocalypses are off the table? It's just the length of a girl's skirt and the dimple in some skinny, square jawed tosser's chin that matters?"
"That's what you get for being out of the loop. Honestly, a meeting or two wouldn't kill you." Wesley aimed a pointed look at Spike. "For your information I have just determined that an apocalypse may, in fact, be on the horizon." Wesley tried not to look smug but he was tickled with his prophecy translation breakthroughs of late.
"May be?" Gunn's forehead folded with concern. "You sounded certain yesterday."
"These things are notoriously hard to predict, Charles. Ancient scribes should have developed a more useful short hand. The specifics are a bit muddled at the moment but I'm positive I'm close. More research is needed though."
"Damn! I thought I'd get a chance to get out of a courtroom and smack something big and ugly instead of some puny lawyer in a bad suit and comb over."
"Now that's what I'm talking about," Spike perked up. "We need to be on the prowl, in the trenches, tracking down the big bads and smacking them down!"
"Spike. If and when the apocalypse descends, I'll be more than willing to 'smack them down', as you so eloquently put it, along side you and Gunn and our fearless leader Harmony; but until then, I'll thank you to keep your unhelpful comments to yourself." Wesley stood up to leave. "Now if you don't mind I have research to get back to." Hoping for a few minutes of private conversation, Fred stood and followed Wesley out of the cafeteria leaving Gunn and Spike at the table.
With a smooth motion, Charles extended his arm across the top on an empty seat while he crossed his legs. He looked like a model taking a break from a photo shoot.
Spike could stand it no longer. "All right Charlie, what gives? Why are you wearing that pink shiny shirt?"
"Sunburnt salmon, Spike," Gunn corrected. There was no question, he looked debonair. "Part of the new men's line Harmony's developing...with accessories." Gunn took great pleasure in holding up his wrists so that Spike could see the heavy, studded cufflinks. "Check these out, Spike. Aren't they sick?"
"I'm definitely feeling queasy, if that helps."
Gunn took no offense. Spike was simply fashion phobic and Charles remembered his own dreary days of triple XL fashion disasters. "Listen man, I can hook you up with some samples, no problem."
"I don't think so." Spike would be dust before sunburnt salmon touched his lukewarm skin.
"If you change your mind just let me know." Gunn persisted, knowing first hand how updating a wardrobe can open up a world of possibilities. If anyone needed the help of a born again fashion recruit, it was Spike and his tired, outdated wardrobe.
Silence from the fidgety vampire ended that conversational thread.
"You serious about all this spell stuff, Spike?" Gunn tilted his head in question. Spike nodded. "Okay. You've got me curious. If Harmony's not supposed to be in charge then who is?"
"Angel."
Gunn choked on the last sip of his coffee. "Angel? Now I know you're joking. The guy can't even type."
"He's not supposed to bloody well type."
"What's he supposed to do then?"
"Fight the good fight. Agitate from the belly of the beast."
"Spike, man, I love ya and everything but you've got it all wrong. Wolfram and Hart is a different kind of business. Harmony's got his whole good and evil flow chart. It was a revelation, man. You need to see that flow chart. We're profitable and doing good works. You know about the SPCA thing, right? That's an A-list, black tie affair. Very posh. Plus, we're in the middle of negotiating a stable alliance between the demon factions. It's historic, man."
"So you're telling me that Wolfram and Hart is no longer the bastion of everything evil?"
"You can't believe everything you hear on CNN, Spike. You should start watching the company's cable network. Harmony does this Pet of the Week show on Fridays. It's inspirational." Gunn ignored the scowl that deepened on Spike's face. "Hey man, maybe you need a pet. It's a scientific fact that pet ownership reduces paranoia significantly. I can't begin to tell you what my Shi-Tzu, Ghengis Khan, has done for my peace of mind. Really. Think about it."
Gunn stood and left the table. He wasn't going to be any help. Spike didn't want a pet. He needed to cling to his paranoia and stay sharp. He was not going to get sucked into this Stepford world where Harmony was queen. A shudder slithered up his spine.
He needed to stay focused.
Try as she might, Buffy found it hard to relax at Angel's apartment. She hadn't really intended to end up at his place but he ran into her in the employee locker room when her eyes were reddened by emotion. There was some spontaneous situation spillage on her part and Angel offered hosting duties like a perfect gentleman. He had more than enough room at his place and Buffy gratefully accepted.
"Thanks so much for letting me crash, Angel." Buffy perched on the edge of an expensive leather sofa. The room looked immaculate but felt emotionally chilly. Angel's surroundings suited him but weren't exactly inviting. As vulnerable as Buffy felt, the starkness of the room got under her skin and made her shiver.
"I want you to think of this as your home, Buffy." Angel always knew the polite thing to say.
"Are you sure? Maybe I should go to a hotel. I'm putting you out, I know I am."
"Nonsense." Angel reassured her with an easy smile. Company would be nice for a change. "I've got DVDs," he stated with a nod to his extensive collection. "And microwave popcorn."
"Really?" Buffy looked surprised. Angel wasn't a popcorn fan or a human food fan for that matter. Maybe he did have a social life. Buffy hoped so, for Angel's sake.
"I had some of the guys over for the Stanley Cup finals," he explained. "They seemed to like it." Angel sauntered over to the sleek black sofa were Buffy sat. "Care for a beer?"
"Okay," Buffy answered quickly and then reconsidered. She didn't have the greatest track record with booze but she wasn't a total novice anymore either. "One won't hurt," she decided. Perhaps a little wallowing would do her some good.
"Excellent!" Angel rubbed his palms together with relish. "I've got some imported Bavarian specialties that I've been dying to share." He flared his eyebrows and promptly disappeared into the kitchen. "Go ahead and pick the movie."
"Okay." Buffy approached the entertainment center. It was much bigger than Spike's little set and the movie choices were numerous and meticulously organized. What did she feel like? The titles flew past as she searched. Western, noir, samurai, musicals... Curiously, there were a lot of musicals. Mindless action films were fairly standard for a guy's repertoire but she hadn't anticipated Elvis and Gene Kelly alongside Vin Diesel and Bruce Lee.
"Have you picked something?" Angel returned with two tall glasses of beer.
Buffy looked up at him with a start. He held her beverage in invitation. It was opaque and black in color. That was beer? Her eyes dropped back to the movie in her hands. "You have 'Yentl'?" She hadn't meant to mention it but he returned to the room just as she came to it. Streisand was a surprise.
"Hey, don't knock it. It's a good movie and I can prove it." There was a challenging twinkle in his eye as he set down her drink on the coffee table.
"Um, no, that's okay." Buffy slid the case back to its original position. "I'll take your word for it."
Angel stood looking down at Buffy. He'd predicted long ago that Spike would foul up any reunion and here was the proof. Buffy was in his apartment rifling through his movies. This was great. It had to be a sign they were meant to get back together. He felt a pleasant tingle ripple through his groin.
"Angel?"
"Hmm?"
"Your pants are buzzing."
"Oh!" Angel blinked back to reality and shoved his hand in his hip pocket. His cell phone was certainly agitated about something. A quick glance at the read out provoked an immediate response. "I need to make a call," he paused for dramatic effect. "It's Harmony."
"Of course. Take all the time you need." Buffy understood perfectly well the demands of a heroic lifestyle.
With an abrupt nod, Angel set down his beer and strode into the bedroom to call Harmony. Buffy quickly chose something escapist with car crashes, sweaty five o'clock shadow and an incomprehensible plot. She settled on the sofa and tried to get comfortable.
Angel's place had a totally different feeling than Spike's. The furniture was shiny, ultra modern and save for a few curiously phallic chrome items, predominantly black. Diffused lighting spilled in somber columns against the walls. Buffy hoped Angel wasn't aiming for a post modernist funeral home vibe but he'd hit it right on the nose. The leather sofa was a little too squeaky to be comfortable.
Buffy would have liked a fuzzy afghan to curl up in and wallow but Angel wasn't the fuzzy afghan type. Spike wasn't the fuzzy afghan type either but, inexplicably, he had one. Spike had draped it over her the night before as she slept on his sofa. Angel didn't hold the patent on hospitality. Spike was also a thoughtful host. Buffy's thoughts inevitably wandered back toward Spike.
No. No Spike pining. Spike was being a total jerk about this whole thing. She was a modern woman perfectly capable of making her own decisions. Cave man may work when her hormones were bursting but in the clear light of day Spike's brand of 'me Tarzan, you Buffy' wasn't going to make her budge. They needed a little breathing room. Buffy stared at the television. She hardly noticed when Angel returned to the room.
"Well, that's another crisis averted," he sounded a note of triumph to catch her attention.
Buffy looked up. "There's a crisis?"
"Well, not really, but there could have been." Angel emphasized the possibility. He was on-call guy, available twenty-four hours a day at Harmony's convenience. "You never know. Things are always humming at Wolfram and Hart." Angel picked up his glass and sat down next to her. Buffy took her first swig of the dark liquid. The thick texture surprised her and made her cough.
"Are you okay?" Angel sprang to action and patted her back gently.
"Is it supposed to taste like that?" Buffy was never going to be a beer connoisseur.
"I've got American if you'd prefer."
She shook her head. "It's just different. Kinda musky." She took another tentative swallow and stared blankly at the movie. The television screen filled with frantic images of simulated sex while a cheesy power ballad wailed on the soundtrack.
"Are you sure?" Angel looked at her with those eyes; those deep, dark Angel eyes, full of empathy and concern.
It was too much for her. The dam was bound to burst sooner or later. "Oh, Angel," Buffy blubbered in misery and buried her face in his chest. Angel set down his beer, leaned back into the squeaky comfort of the leather cushion and automatically put his arms around her. This was an interesting development. Reconciliation appeared imminent, complete with orchestrated musical accompaniment.
"Oh, Buffy," Angel's tone edged a fraction past purely supportive.
"What am I going to do, Angel? What if I've ruined it with Spike?" Her lips trembled with piteous agony.
Wait a minute. Spike? She needed consolation over Spike? "Huh?"
Buffy's thoughts raced off her tongue. "He was so wonderful..." She paused at the recollection of their romantic reunion. "And then, right out of the blue, he was such a jerk. What did he expect? Giving me orders...telling me what to do..."
"Don't upset yourself," Angel spoke gently. "You're better off without him."
"No, I'm not!" Buffy yelped. "I'm misera...buh-huh huhl..." Huge tears cascaded down her cheeks. She couldn't help it. Her mouth contorted with paralyzing pain.
Angel held her tighter. It felt so right holding her. She needed his help and guidance and Angel was prepared to offer all he could. "Spike's an idiot," he declared in a sharp voice. It was liberating at last to be able to say that to Buffy. She seemed open to the suggestion too.
Her eyes widened with what looked like agreement. "And you know what he told me? To quit my job."
"What?"
"Can you believe that?"
Nothing Spike said shocked Angel anymore. "Oh, you don't want to be doing that."
Buffy's eyes flashed with defiance. "Yeah, no kidding. Not 'cause he says so."
"I always knew Spike was a maniac but that's beyond selfish. Wolfram and Hart has an amazing benefits package and he knows it."
"Spike doesn't care about that!" Buffy blurted between anguished sobs. "Don't I deserve...a dentist?" A bubble of mucus formed in her left nostril. Angel grabbed a box of tissues just as it looked like Buffy was ready to blow her nose on his fitted dress shirt. She blew her misery into a plush, three-ply tissue with moisture infusion instead.
"It's head games." Angel declared, tightening his jaw in condemnation. "Spike's favorite past time." Spike was even more unhinged than Angel suspected. What kind of a fiend would stand in the way of that magnificent dental coverage? Buffy and Spike were imploding at light speed. Granted, it was a little quicker than Angel had predicted but, really, it was all good. He made a good show of hiding his mounting delight.
"I told him I made my own decisions," Buffy tried to regain control of her breathing. Anguish gave way to anger and with it, a focused clarity.
"Yes, you do," Angel agreed. "You're an independent woman."
"Yes I am. I don't need Spike or anyone to protect me."
"No way! You're the slayer. You kick ass. I've seen it."
"I am," she mumbled, her resolve wavering yet again. "I do. You have." Buffy took a deep breath and thought about her options. She'd come back to the states for Spike and unexpectedly ended up with a great job. She didn't want to lose her job but losing Spike wasn't an option either, not when they had just got back together. It was a horrible situation. Dream jobs didn't just pop out of thin air. Her thoughts lurched back and forth with abandon.
"Maybe he just needs a little time to deal."
At that first hint of capitulation, Angel's bias elbowed forward to take a stand. "He's stubborn, Buffy, to a fault and he can hold a grudge."
"I...might have reacted badly."
"Honestly? I think you did the right thing," Angel concluded. "Leaving like you did? It serves him right."
The solemn cadence of his words hit her hard. "Do you think Spike would take that personally?" Buffy pondered what she knew of Spike's abandonment issues.
She glanced again at the screen. The movie lovers ran hand in hand through the dark, rain soaked streets, sheltering for a moment in the ethereal glow of a mineral water machine. The hand holding reminded her of Spike. The punishing rain reminded her of Spike. The driving percussive music reminded her of Spike.
The product placement reminded her of Spike.
"Nah," Angel's lips pulsed with smugness. "Spike is a big boy. I think he'll survive."
The sudden metallic screeching of car tires caught Buffy's attention. A car sailed across the screen in slow motion and exploded into a ball of fiery metal. The meaningless cinematic mayhem reminded her of Spike. Her tears returned.
"He's not worth it, Buffy," Angel sensed an opportunity and went for it. "A clean break, that's the way to go. Think of your career because Spike certainly isn't."
"But I love him."
She loved him? Angel valiantly fought the urge to roll his eyes. He bit the lining of his cheek instead. "You love him?"
"Of course I do." The truth shone in her teary eyes.
"Buffy, think about this. He makes you miserable." Angel was prepared to speak the awful truth. Someone had to keep his wits about him and make Buffy see sense. She simply wasn't thinking straight. Breaking up was the best thing, the only thing. Their eyes met again. Momentous thoughts surged forward on both sides. Surely the weight of Angel's earnest declaration was hitting home.
Buffy flexed her eyebrows and frowned. "No he doesn't." She grabbed another tissue and wiped her eyes clear of tears.
"But you're breaking up with him." Angel looked perplexed. He followed the logic of the whole melt down closely and hadn't missed a thing. Spike was clearly standing in the way of Buffy's happiness; therefore, Spike was the problem to be eliminated. Yep, the equation worked out nicely when Spike was subtracted. Why then was it that Buffy's calming facial expression reflected something close to hope?
Wasn't this the first meeting of the We Hate Spike Club?
"What? Where did you get that idea?" Buffy stood up and stretched. Emotional purging always built up her appetite and Angel had mentioned microwave popcorn. She was hoping for extra buttery flavor. "How about some of that popcorn, hmm?" She wiggled her eyebrows at him and wandered into the kitchen.
Angel sat on the sofa lost in thought. What about anger and outrage and retribution? Logically, this was a scene that should have ended with the villagers, namely, Buffy and Angel, grabbing their pitchforks and setting off to destroy Spike on the outskirts of town but Buffy didn't even sound upset anymore. From the sofa Angel could see her standing in the glow of the microwave, idly flipping through his latest edition of "L.A. Interiors" magazine and humming. If he had to label her disposition at this moment it would have to be perky. Yes, humming tipped the scales to the perky side.
This was one of those moments when Angel had to admit that he didn't understand women.
Not even a little bit.
Morning eventually arrived, letting Angel breathe a welcome sigh of relief. With another full work day ahead he'd at least be assured of maintaining some reasonable distance from Buffy. Her Spike flavored conversation was honestly starting to chafe.
Angel hurried into Harmony's office as soon as he arrived at work and immediately froze in place. Charles Gunn sat on the fuzzy day bed with his open briefcase beside him. An early meeting? Had Angel forgotten an early meeting? The day wasn't starting out well at all. Breakfast had been another excruciating round of Spike focused anecdotes, awkward silences and pained smiles. And Angel thought vampires had cornered the market on torture.
He slipped into the closest chair and flipped open his steno pad. Harmony had dictation face on and Angel knew his duties well. Here was the one woman on the face of the earth that Angel had no problems understanding. Harmony Kendall did not over think things. She administered with an uncanny instinct utterly devoid of shades of gray. She said what she meant and meant what she said and Angel sorely needed that.
"Angel?"
"Ready, boss."
"It appears that my embrace of a new perspective has been totally ignored by certain employees." She waved a few papers in her hand before tossing them on her desk top. "Ritual evisceration of vestal virgins is, like, so cliché! Accounts receivable isn't beyond my reach. Those weasels must think they're on the varsity squad or something because I've practically memoed myself to exhaustion--"
"Ahem," Gunn cleared his throat softly. "Kinder, gentler?"
His words put Harmony back on a positive train of thought. "What? Oh, right. This annoying crap is aggressively counter to my awesome plans for a kinder, gentler Wolfram and Hart." Harmony tossed her hair back and settled her hands on her hips. "So, to that end, I am amending the execution and dismemberment clauses in the employee handbook." She looked over to Gunn who nodded his agreement.
"Amendments..." Angel whispered and jotted down the title in his spiral pad.
"Non sanctioned killings of any kind by an employee of Wolfram and Hart will absolutely not be tolerated by the executive branch." Harmony stepped to Angel's side and looked over his shoulder. "That will need to be in bold type, Angel, and maybe underlined as well. We embrace professional standards of conduct here at Wolfram and Hart, damn it!"
Angel's pen scooted across his note pad, accentuating Harmony's wishes with several exclamation marks. After the last demonstrative stroke he looked up, poised for more words of wisdom. Harmony was on a roll.
"Also, from now on no employee of Wolfram and Hart can reclassify him or herself as a deity in order to change assigned spaces in the employee parking garage." Harmony smiled sweetly at Gunn, thankful that he'd brought the situation to her attention. "That kind of stunt is so junior high."
"Good call, boss," Angel scribbled down the edict. "That loophole really needed to be sewn up."
Gunn looked at his watch and quickly gathered his papers together. "You'll have to excuse me Harmony, but judges are sticklers for punctuality and I'm due in court in twenty minutes."
"I have every confidence in you Charles."
"Thanks, Harmony. That means a lot." Gunn left the office with a smile on his face.
"Anything else, boss?" Angel looked up from his pad.
"I've got a message for the entire accounting department, Angel." Harmony gazed at her collection of limited edition faux Faberge unicorns.
"Ready, Harmony." Angel sat poised for her pronouncement.
"Casual Fridays are a privilege and not a right," Harmony declared in measured tones. "They should think Tommy Hilfiger casual and not surfer dude, beach skank casual. Would you scan a few pictures and include them in the memo? Those guys and gals need a few reference points."
"Got it, boss."
"Maybe you could put something in there about plastic flip-flops too," Harmony added. "You can get all sorts of diseases from poor quality footwear, you know, and if I've learned anything about warm blooded employees it's that they are disease magnets." Harmony paused at the odd look Angel gave her. "Don't be so naïve, Angel. Foot fungus effects the bottom line."
"I didn't know that."
"Would you want to add stuff up if you had itchy feet?" Harmony adeptly wrestled logic to its knees.
Angel couldn't argue that point. "Probably not," he admitted.
"Precisely! Productivity will plummet! Ipso-fatso, the bottom line."
"Wow, Harmony. I never thought about it like that."
"I wouldn't expect you to," she spoke with an air of detached corporate superiority. "That's CEO thinking, Angel. I won't bore you with the details. It's very complicated."
Angel stared in awe for a few seconds and then wrote down "no plastic flip-flops" before underlining it several times.
Harmony smiled from over his shoulder and continued. "I swear, Angel, those numbers guys need a short leash. This is a place of fashionable business, not all you can spew tequila shooters night at the frat house." She snorted with incredulity. "If they don't get it together, I may have no other choice than to clean house."
Angel nodded in agreement. He'd seen some frightening fashion crimes while trolling the corridors of Wolfram and Hart. This was a chance to encourage the extended corporate team to embrace clean lines, user friendly fabrics and up to date color palettes. It was exciting to be privy to the lightning flashes of brilliance that frequently erupted from Harmony's crack business mind.
"Anything else, boss?"
"It's time for the Y and R. Don't interrupt me for an hour, Angel."
"Right, you'll be incommunicado for the time being."
"No, Angel. I'll be right here in my office, just no calls, you know the drill." Harmony wiggled her fingers, urging him to leave. She needed a little mindless down time with her fictional community.
"Of course." As Angel left the office, the sweaty, hairless torso of a pouting actor appeared on the plasma screen. The emoting was about to begin.
"Bonus!" Harmony reached into her mini fridge for a creamy bloodsicle. "The pool party isn't over."
*
Later that day the familiar buzz of the intercom met with a swift reply.
"Yes, Harmony?"
"I've set up the easel, Angel."
"But you have a meeting scheduled in ten minutes."
"I can do both. The muse has returned and I can't ignore it."
"Of course not."
"I've got your costume ready."
"Um, haven't you already finished that part?"
"One does not argue with the muse, Angel. One obeys."
"Of course, Harmony. I'll be right in."
The ever present strain of leadership pushed Harmony into pursuing her innate artistic abilities. Fred assured her that a little left brain-right brain cha-cha was just the thing to strengthen her impeccable managerial skills. Artistic endeavors activated the best of both hemispheres. Business issues were handled with creative zest and Harmony got something sparkly to look at in the bargain.
When the team arrived for their meeting they found Angel posed on a faux granite pedestal squeezed into a pair of teeny white leather shorts. His pale, hairless epidermis shone with the luxuriant texture of ultra suede. In his palm balanced one of Harmony's delicate crystal unicorns.
"Okay, I think everyone's arrived. Should I get my note pad, Harmony?" Angel shifted on his pedestal.
"Agh! Don't move Angel! Look at the unicorn and think happy thoughts. I'm painting your forehead right now!" Angel froze in his original position and stared at the fragile prop.
"Um, should we come back later?" Wesley tried to catch Harmony's eye. She spoke without acknowledging the interruption.
"I'm in the zone, Wesley, therefore I can create beautiful art work and carry out an efficient business meeting at the same time." Another studied stroke of the paintbrush ensued. "I'm not letting the clay sculpture incident alter my artistic journey."
"When did she do sculpture?" Fred whispered. This was news to her.
Lorne angled his whispered reply directly into Fred's ear. "You remember...the lump the Paragon of the Order of the Trembling Whatsits stubbed its big toes on?"
"Oh. That didn't look anything like Angel."
"There were some clay consistency issues," Lorne acknowledged delicately.
"Do you think I made his eyebrows look too much like a caterpillar?" Harmony looked at her team, anxious for some feedback.
Wesley stepped closer and took at critical look at the painting. It was a reasonable likeness of the barely clad and clearly uncomfortable vampire. "That looks exactly like an eyebrow to me. Your technique is certainly impressive, Harmony."
"You really think so?" Harmony gushed a smile. Gunn, Lorne and Fred moved closer to take a peek.
"She's got the hair exactly right." Gunn admitted.
"It's uncanny." Lorne nodded his admiration.
"Angel!" Harmony turned a stern face to her model. "I said DON'T move your forehead. Put it back like it was. What is with you today? Concentrate!"
"Sorry Harmony."
"Okay people, let's begin." Harmony nodded at Wesley. He immediately dove into the latest crisis.
"I've received reports of an alarming nature. Something large is targeting recreational baseball diamonds in the valley and dragging off unsuspecting little leaguers."
"Yeah, I heard that on the news," Gunn nodded. "They think it's a cougar."
"Wild animals in the suburbs? Don't they have cougar, um, guys for that in the police department?" Harmony knew that containing the local wildlife population was a little beyond her purview at Wolfram and Hart.
"It is not a cougar, Harmony." Wesley's voice slowed with the gravity of the situation. "I've examined photos of suspicious scat left behind."
"Pouring over snap shots of unknown demon poo?" Lorne interjected with an wandering twitter. "Wesley, you've got to get out of the office more often."
All eyes turned to Harmony. As leader of this band of heroes, she set the tone. "Demon? Oh, that's bad." Harmony wrinkled her forehead dramatically and hoped that the child eater involved wasn't a valued client of Wolfram and Hart because Wesley definitely had his sexy I-want-to-kill-it-face on and there could be some potentially sticky conflict of interest repercussions.
She squeezed out a large dollop of titanium white onto her artist's palette and began mixing it vigorously with the medium umber. Angel had a tricky skin tone that Harmony was determined to get right this time, demon crisis be damned.
When she realized that the assembled team was waiting for her to continue, Harmony thought of a useful question. "Um, what is it again?"
Wesley began to detail what they knew so far. "A large loping quadruped with long greenish fur or scales. There are conflicting eye witness reports. The excrement evidence leans towards fur."
It didn't sound like any client Harmony was familiar with. "Munching on kids is so not cool," she pronounced to her like minded colleagues.
"Indeed. I believe there was a snippet of amateur video making the rounds as well."
"I saw that on the news, too," Gunn added. "It's shaky and out of focus. Totally containable."
"What's the plan?" Harmony bit the end of her tongue and tackled the expanse of Angel's forehead with easy flowing strokes.
Wesley did indeed have a plan ready for implementation. "Nothing less than prompt removal with extreme prejudice."
"Sounds reasonable. You've got the go ahead." Harmony knew the strengths of her team members.
"Discretion and surgical accuracy will be required."
"Yah-huh," Harmony nodded her approval. "It's your project, Wesley. I have full confidence in you and your team." Harmony sparkled a smile toward Wesley. She saw his shoulders straighten in response to her praise.
"What about your thingies, G-Dawg?" Harmony continued down the curve of Angel's jaw. "How goes it in the courts?"
"Oh! That's me," Gunn responded a few beats too late. "Corporate-wise, no problems. Nothing that a couple rounds of cricket won't iron out."
"Cyuh Aaal," Angel groaned, trying to speak without moving a muscle.
"What's that, Angel?" Harmony asked.
Angel took that as permission to move his face for communicative purposes. "Cyvus Vail?"
"Oh, yeah! What about the Cyvus Vail issue? Angel tells me his people have been leaving all kinds of messages."
Gunn nodded in response. "That paternity suit is dead in the water. Cyvus is a sweet talker for sure, but I'd wager it's been a few centuries since his little swimmers have even attempted the dog paddle."
"Excellent. And science...Fred. What's up, girlfriend?"
"Well, as you know, I've been working on sustaining a stable threshold between dimensional planes using Heisenberg's model of molecular elasticity." Fred's unbridled enthusiasm bounced off Harmony's dazed expression.
"Ooo-kay." Harmony didn't sound like she knew too much about that particular project. "And where are we with that elastic thing?" Instead of paying attention to the answer, Harmony shuffled through some papers until she came to the one she wanted.
"It's coming along quite well actually. The experimental phase has exceeded all expectations."
Harmony held up the piece of paper. It had a couple of lines highlighted in neon chartreuse. "The numbers don't lie, Fred. It's an expensive little vanity project and frankly, I don't see a wider profitable application. Every department has their budgetary restrictions." Harmony set down the paper. Her sunny expression darkened for a moment. "Just 'cause we took that pole dancing class together doesn't mean that I'll overlook you monopolizing our financial resources. Get it under control, or I'll find someone else who can."
The pole dancing reference caught Wesley's attention. His curious look fueled a furious blush on Fred's cheeks. She did her best to maintain her composure.
"Yes, Harmony," Fred responded with scientific precision and a nervous tug on her suddenly too short skirt.
Harmony resumed her cheery vocal tones. "Awesome! Go team! Now that wasn't awkward at all. Lorne?"
"Yes, mon capitain..."
Cafeteria surveillance, while relaxing and tasty, yielded questionably successful results. Spike learned some useful information but mostly his evidence notebook filled with doodles of a decidedly anti-Angel bent. Wesley supported Harmony and her suspect business acumen with iron clad albeit delusional loyalty, Gunn embraced haute couture dandy pants and bling with near religious zealotry and Lorne had a marked weakness for iced cappuccinos. Buffy stuck her pretty nose and posterior in the air at every opportunity, an obvious ploy to pique Spike's already rapt attention. The girl's tactics were as transparent as the scarves she barely wore in Spike's dreams. One dynamic became glaringly obvious; Wesley and Fred were much more than merely colleagues. The only consolation, and it was a small one, was that Angel was still a raging git with bad hair.
Eager to remain proactive, Spike thought a different location might yield better results. The foyer in front of Harmony's office afforded some interesting sight lines. Watching Angel tackle the intricacies of computer hygiene maintenance proved momentarily diverting but ultimately unsatisfying. It took a while for Spike to settle in but he finally decided on a relaxed lean with one boot raised to the wall. Amazingly, no one questioned him or even acknowledged his presence, save for a few affectionate ankle rubs from Mr. Pussy Galore as he passed by on his daily inspection of the territory.
Harmony's office remained the hub of activity. Department heads came and went with anxious regularity. Wesley arrived wearing a camouflage jacket, hoisting an impressive weapon and looking like the Crocodile Hunter's strong chinned English cousin. Through the windows Spike saw Wesley speaking with Harmony. His animated gestures indicated success in whatever it was he had accomplished. Harmony bounced in her chair and clapped in response to the details. Spike wasn't surprised that he'd been excluded from yet another excursion; still, it would have been nice to be asked. A little mayhem would have been a welcome change of pace but he needed to stay close and alert.
Time passed leisurely and uneventfully until Lorne whisked down the hallway in a wild-eyed dither. He snagged Spike's elbow and gave it a muscular yank moments before Spike finished counting the indentations on the textured surface of a handsome recessed fire extinguisher closet.
653, 654, 6-- "Hey!" Spike protested the jolt of sudden movement. "Have a care. Can't you see I'm doing something?"
Lorne stopped and angled a look that was both apologetic and beseeching. "Spike, you are needed in Herself's office, like, right now." Panic practically squirted from Lorne's tense face.
"I'm busy," Spike sighed and turned back toward his leaning spot. His concentration was broken. So much for counting; no matter, he had a number of significant thoughts to meander through and this was the perfect place for a quiet meander. Besides, Spike had seen the Chicken Little act before and figured that Lorne needed to add a few new routines to his repertoire. Flapping his coat tails at a gallop was getting a tad predictable. Logically, Spike knew that the sky couldn't be falling every damn day, no matter how sincere Lorne's twitchy upper lip might be.
"I'm quite sure that wall can hold itself up for a few minutes while you're away." Lorne used both hands and dragged Spike toward the big office. They paused outside long enough for Lorne to take a calming breath. He tried to remember his current centering mantra. "This is an emergency, and when did you start turning your nose up at helping out when your talents are sorely needed?"
"Hang on a minute, what talents of mine is Harmony in need of, exactly?"
"Well, frankly, she's running a bit low on testosterone at the moment." Lorne opened the office door. Spike met the expectant stares of Gunn, Wesley, Angel and Harmony.
"Spike?" Angel sputtered in disgust. "That's all you could muster?"
Lorne made a face in Angel's direction. "I was working against the clock, Angel. I couldn't get just anybody." In the midst of the emergency he had thought of snagging Flewellyn, who was currently misting palm fronds in the atrium, but the mission was for testosterone and plenty of it. It was a good thing that Spike happened to be loitering in a useful location at that moment.
"Spike is a team player, aren't I always saying that?" Lorne spread a wide grin across his face and aimed it directly at Angel. "Turn that frown upside down, sunshine, and get your team vibe on. We are a manly selection of Wolfram and Hart's finest and we're ready to rumble!" Lorne gave a confident tug to his form fitting plaid jacket and fluffed up his satin pocket square for good measure. "Oh, quick question, fellas. There won't be any actual rumbling, will there? I just got my horns waxed."
"Not to my knowledge, no," Wesley responded. "Research indicates that physical contact is not required. The staging is of cultural significance."
"Perfect! Sounds all kinds of groovy to me." A deep breath of relief expanded Lorne's wide chest before he sauntered across the office with a practiced macho gait. Spike stood in the doorway for a few awkward seconds before wandering inside, a skeptical look plastered on his face. Angel harrumphed and crossed his forearms over his chest.
"I suppose this will have to do," Wesley surmised. "I wonder if there's a specific positioning we should assume for the meeting proper?"
"Just stand tall, guys," Harmony interjected with a cheery grin. She paced back and forth across the carpet, smoothing her outfit in restless anticipation. "I know it's going to go great. Gosh, I can't believe I'm going to meet a legend! I went for the suede platforms instead of the metallic." Harmony stared down at her feet. "Do you think that was the right choice? Do they make my feet look too conservative? I don't want to seem too extreme or too behind the times."
"Calm yourself," Lorne soothed. "Deep breaths-- Or, um, something." What exactly did vampires do to break the tension? Bloodletting was out of the question, too messy, but-- Lorne gave a thought to Flewellyn in the atrium. Perhaps this was the opportune moment for him to prove his mettle and sacrifice himself for the greater good of Wolfram and Hart.
"Does my hair look okay?"
Lorne pushed those thoughts out of his head. He didn't need mayhem for back up, he had charm, poise and the velvety words of a Svengali. It was time to start earning his pay. "The mane of a corporate goddess," he gushed with awestruck sincerity. Lorne busied himself by inspecting Harmony's tousled mane and reporting on its flawlessness.
"I used to be a legend," Angel mumbled miserably while taking up his position as a chorus boy. It wasn't that he longed for a return of his Scourge days but, on occasion, executive secretary did feel like a curious deflation in demon rankings. Redemption was, as he knew intimately, a twisty and perilous path. Who was he to quibble with the way of things? Perhaps he should work harder on his office efficiency quotas and his typing speed. Champions came in all guises and fought with a variety of weapons.
Even at the keyboard, Angel was still a champion.
Spike caught the pouty aside and sidled up to Angel. "Disgruntled, are we, toner boy?"
"Shut up, Spike!"
"Both of you shut up!" Wesley spoke with fierce authority and glared at the squabbling vampires. This was no time for the Spike and Angel show.
"Angel, I'm counting on you," Harmony batted her lashes with pubescent fervor. "I know you won't let me down with your silly quarreling."
Angel ground his molars in response. What was he thinking? Spoiling for a fight when Harmony needed him on his toes. He deserved to be upbraided by his boss but in front of Spike? The scowl at the edge of Angel's brow deepened considerably.
*
Harmony sat behind her desk flanked by her underlings. She stood when her client arrived. The office door flew open and an imposing Amazon of a demon with feathered shoulder epaulets breezed inside. Three severely muscular males who looked like they'd gone missing from a bondage fashion show attended her. Each of the demons wore what looked like painted on leather apparel with glistening, muscular flesh peeking through strategic slices in the fabric. The female stood with her hands at her hips, swishing her prehensile tail and assessing Harmony with a critical eye.
Harmony stood with her mouth agape, dumbfounded by the vision before her. The demon queen had at least a foot on her in height and the most fabulous buckled up boots Harmony had ever seen. They were hot. And the tail? Whoa. The whole tail swishing vibe edged dangerously close to Charlize Theron territory. It was like looking at a one of a kind, fairy princess Barbie made flesh, except instead of Malibu castle goodness there was a dark, vicious dominatrix thing going on.
If pink wasn't already the new black, Harmony might have seriously reconsidered her color commitments, but the boots were definitely doable.
The demon entourage had that togetherness vibe of an efficient team with matching, devastatingly sexy wardrobes. Harmony's eyes dazzled at the magnificent display. Feathered epaulets were a revelation, to be sure. She had to get the number of this demon's stylist; but first, introductions.
"Mistress Otilla, I'm Harmony Kendall and I am so pumped to meet you." Harmony's smile briefly eclipsed the span of her face.
The demon's reptilian eyes roamed the room slowly, finally coming to rest on the eager, welcoming face of her host. The mighty Mistress paused. Necessity compelled her presence but the slender, pale creature with blunt teeth and painted skin hardly engendered a feeling of confidence. "There was a meeting scheduled with Li-lah Mor-gan. She did not honor her commitment." The demon spoke in a slow, gravelly voice of evident contempt.
Harmony managed a tight, embarrassed smile. Lilah had ruthless ambition in spades but also some wacky personal issues that led to her demise. "Yeah. She, um, was killed. Sorry about the postponement there. We're all about the punctuality now."
Mistress Otilla drifted around the lavishly decorated office, taking in both the curious display of dainty unicorns and the wall of men standing at attention behind Harmony. The demon stepped behind them and appraised them, almost as if she were reviewing the troops.
Spike met her gaze with a curl of his lips. Never mind the back up singers, he figured this one had testosterone in spades.
"I see you keep a fine stable of eunuchs," the Mistress observed. Her demeanor relaxed in recognition of the respect paid to her traditions. Wolfram and Hart had done its homework. "I approve."
Perhaps Lorne should have mentioned the role Spike was to play in this little impromptu charade.
"What? What'd that bint say?" The response burst from Spike's mouth. Angel promptly elbowed Spike in the gut and wiggled his meaty eyebrows to convey his displeasure. Apparently, not much was required of the male Wolfram and Hart team beyond possessing a Y chromosome and standing upright. Spike rolled his eyes just as he observed Angel flex his chest.
"These are my colleagues, Mistress," Harmony explained sweetly. "And they're not, um, to my knowledge, eunuchs." She whispered the last word shielded by her palm.
"Really? Interesting." The Mistress' gaze floated down the line of potent male flesh and zeroed in on Lorne. His Adam's apple began to bob nervously.
"We are a team of finely honed professionals," Harmony spoke with confidence, echoing her favorite pamphlet quotable. "I value the skills my team brings to the table. You won't find better representation anywhere." Harmony perched on the edge of her desk and drew her fingertips together in a splayed and arched configuration. "I understand that you are in need of our services. How may we assist you?"
The Mistress was satisfied. They could proceed. "I require...arbitration."
"We have experience in these matters," Harmony assured her. "Please tell me more."
A/N: This chapter contains excerpts from "Walk on the Wild Side" by Lou Reed and "Anarchy in the UK" by the Sex Pistols.
It seemed everyone had a place in this brave pink world. Spike served both as office jewelry and silent observer and it was a toss up as to which role was worse. No, that wasn't right; being a pretty bit of stuff on display was nothing compared to not being heard and believed. Not even being seen. Invisibility never rankled so much in Spike's long and checkered career.
As much as he prided himself on his lone wolf status, Spike came to the begrudging admission that lone wolf was far too solitary for his temperament. Funny, it never came up before. Decades of living on the edge, reviled by human society and rebelling against demon society had never felt as empty as this. Drusilla was high octane maintenance but at least she was good company.
Unable to keep the stress inside anymore, Spike came to the conclusion that he needed to break through the pink haze of Harm-o-blivion and there was only one candidate for what he had in mind. With renewed purpose, Spike strode down a hallway toward his selected ally.
"Lorne, we need to talk."
Lorne looked up from his desk to see Spike framed in the doorway. This was a first. Spike hadn't visited Lorne's office before.
"Spike! Golly, what a pleasant surprise." Lorne's hospitality gene activated instantly. "Welcome to my world. Come on in and set a spell. We haven't had a chin wag in ages." Lorne opened the mini refrigerator beside his desk. "I've got a presumptive little merlot with your name on it."
Spike glanced nervously down the corridor and then spoke with urgency. "You need to come with me, Lorne. Right now. And no questions."
"Right now?" Lorne glanced at his daybook to check his schedule.
"Yeah." Spike took hold of Lorne's forearm in an iron grip and yanked him to standing. "Now."
"Okay, now works for me." Before Lorne realized it he was trotting swiftly at Spike's side to the freight elevator, through the parking garage and into a sewer opening. As a gentlemen of intrigue, Lorne's interest was piqued, but as the tense minutes ticked silently by he began to detect the disturbing whiff of abduction.
Ten minutes later Spike pushed Lorne through a sewer exit into an alley. A battered and leaflet plastered rear entrance to a darkened hallway was the next signpost on Lorne's impromptu journey. By the odor of the place it was a bar and from the mystery stains on the leatherette booth seating Lorne eventually sat down upon, a low rent one. The activation of a sparkling disco ball and the appearance of an abnormally buxom woman in close proximity to a shiny and well used pole connected the rest of the dots for Lorne.
This was not a Wolfram and Hart establishment.
A waitress wandered over to take their orders. In the shadowy depths of the booth Lorne's unusual pallor and prominent horns didn't even get a second glance. The only green that registered was the color of money. Before Lorne could inquire about the possibility of a refreshing Seabreeze, Spike ordered beer. The room filled with the rhythmic sounds of a hypnotic dance mix. The gathered audience watched as the dancer went through her practiced and limber routine. Spike sat motionless, staring at his beer and scratching a corner of the label.
The undulating pole dancer held Lorne's rapt attention. The throbbing bass line and blinding spotlights on her glistening skin made it impossible not to look. Lorne bobbed his head in time to the engrossing music. "Pretty girl. Good muscle tone," he observed. His gaze followed her erotic contortions. "And apparently undeterred by gravity--how convenient." Lorne pointed an easy grin at his morose companion. Abduction came with a floor show but precious little conversation. Spike seemed anxious to speak privately but now appeared unable to find any words. It didn't matter, Lorne was a patient demon. Sometimes anonymous strip bars made for funky little oases in the sandstorms of life.
Finally, Spike began to mumble. "Everyone thinks I'm nuts. I'm not nuts, Lorne. Something has happened. You have to believe me."
Lorne had heard a few things from Fred. The skinny was that Spike was losing it. Now, apparently, was Lorne's turn to experience Spike's revolving delusions up close and personal.
"Of course you're not nuts...who would say that? Certainly not me." Lorne chuckled nervously. Despite a placating smile his peripheral vision was working overtime. Where were those beers? Lorne gratefully took his drink from the waitress when it finally arrived. A spectacular hands free pole drop complete with sporadic audience hooting indicated the end of the dance routine. The dancer walked off the stage to swiftly dwindling applause. Lorne was persistent with his clapping as athleticism should never go unappreciated no matter what the venue.
A lull in the volume of the room gave Spike his chance. He didn't want to draw too much attention so he began in a low speak-singing voice:
"Holly came from Miami FLA,/ Hitchhiked her way across the USA..."
Lorne swallowed his swig of beer. A prolonged gurgled cough signaled the struggle to free his trachea of the unwanted liquid. Despite this distress, Spike's subdued voice filtered into the deepest recesses of Lorne's cranium. Unbidden images stampeded his thoughts. Bravery...heroism...and Harmony, happy as a clam and covered in post-its, taking dictation from Angel in an office completely devoid of unicorns and synergy. There was also a pissed off dragon nosing in at the periphery but that was hardly the feature presentation.
Lorne recognized the familiar stink of mystical manipulation.
"...Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side..."
A nearby wolf whistle drowned out Spike's voice as another thong clad dancer took to the pole. Spike stopped singing and waited. There was no immediate response.
"Lorne?"
"Holy crap! My mother told me there'd be days like this." Lorne pinched the bridge of his nose trying to lessen his cranial strain.
"And?" Spike hoped he'd been successful.
"And I thought the prospect of being measured for leather britches by Mistress Otilla was bad..."
"Would you bloody focus? This is important--"
"And my virtue isn't? Did you happen to catch the tongue on that viper? I like my skin where it is, thanks. On me."
"Right," Spike lost his patience and launched into a snarling version of an old favorite. "I am an antichrist/ I am an anarchist/ Don't know what I want/ But I know how to get it--"
"Okay! Uncle! Uncle!" Lorne raised his hands in helpless surrender. "You're right. Something's definitely happened."
Spike took a few moments to let his relief register. It was a sweet moment but brief. "I've pretty much eliminated the pod people angle. What do you think?"
"Spike, I need a minute to unfreak myself. Despite this sophisticated and ridiculously gorgeous exterior, my innards are freakified in the extremis." Lorne puzzled the incongruities he just experienced. "Give a guy some warning why don't you? For the love of Liza Minelli, how can Angel and Harmony both be CEO? I mean, Harmony's truly competent, but Angel? The guy has serious people, or demon, or-- Heck, the guy has serious issues, period. Have you caught his telephone etiquette? I've seen executioners with more tact."
"Angel is supposed to be the CEO. Harmony's gone and mucked it up. She's--" Spike took a deep breath. "Ah, bloody hell, I haven't the foggiest idea what's happened."
"Oh lordy, I'm getting dizzy and I can feel the crow's feet creeping up my temples." Lorne closed his eyes and smoothed the skin at his temples with his finger tips. "This is going to play havoc with my complexion, I just know it is. And where the hell is Rod Serling when some helpful exposition is in order?"
"The thing of it is, I can't figure out how Harmony managed it."
"Whatever this is, Harmony did not do it." Lorne held up his hand to quash Spike's next statement. "Listen to me. I've spent a great deal of time with Harmony. The gal gets fidgety and starts singing. Mostly dreck from the Wang Chung school of musical mayhem that was the eighties but do I complain? Honey, I once read a Fyarl with a penchant for Yoko Ono. Now that was painful."
"Lorne."
"Yes, yes, I digress. Harmony has an incredibly open and elastic mind. Her obsessions center around finding the perfect pair of shoes and the perfect lipstick shade; strangely difficult, yet engrossing tasks. Believe me, I would have picked up on a yen for the sinister mojo by now. I'll admit to a bit of a crush, but who wouldn't? She's--"
Spike interrupted quickly. "Devious and cunning. She's a vampire. Don't put anything past her."
"Hello? Devious and cunning? The girl TiVos "Bananas in Pajamas" for crying out loud!" Lorne raised a finger in warning. "Now, that's not general knowledge, and you didn't hear it from me, but..." Lorne took a quick glance over his shoulder and then spoke with discretion. "They're bananas," he gestured succinctly to make the point clear, "in pajamas! Have you met Harmony? Weren't you two an item back in the stone age?"
"Yeah, for a microsecond." Spike shifted uneasily at the memory. "Okay, I'll admit there's a possibility that Harmony hasn't done this--"
"Spell, incantation, or enchantment. Somebody's definitely got their mojo working," Lorne confirmed. "Harmony's got a boat load of talent but conjuring isn't on board."
"What do we do? We have got to break it."
"Hold on there, fella. Just who do you think I am...Endora? I don't mix it with the mojo." Lorne played to his strengths--fashionista and truth teller. Tinkering beyond that was just asking for trouble. "Besides, who's to say that your reality is better than this one? From your little ditty I saw some deep dark paranoia and a trip to Apocaloozaville, which is something I'd personally like to avoid."
"Lorne."
"I just read 'em as I see 'em, Spike."
"Please...I need her back."
"Whoa! Hold up, tiny dancer. That train has left the station." Lorne leaned forward to share some privileged information. "In case you're not up to speed, Harmony's got this mad thing for Hamilton. Something about the sinewy expanse of his relentless thighs." Lorne paused for an audible shudder. "Yeah, be glad you're not on the receiving end of those choice tidbits."
"Not Harmony, Lorne," Spike spoke through clenched teeth. "Buffy!"
"Oh, Buffy..." Lorne nodded through a brief pause before he realized exactly who Spike was referring to. "Ah, new girl in the lobby. Very courteous. Lovely teeth. Used to be a slayer, right?"
"There's no used to about it, Lorne."
"But she works for us now. I did a reading on her at the interview. Yes, yes, it's all coming back to me. She's a real go-getter. I see a bright future for her. How's her typing speed? There's spaces opening up daily in the steno pool, you know. Hey, don't knock the steno pool, that's where our illustrious diva launched her empire from after all."
Spike's head hit the table with a solemn thump. "This is Harmony's revenge on me, I swear."
Lorne's sigh was equally solemn; heartsick Spike was going to take a while. "I spend a great deal of time with Her Pinkness, Spike, and your name doesn't come up that often or, to be honest, at all."
"I don't know what to do." Spike stared blankly at the surface of the table. "I've been taking notes and investigating and it's going nowhere. I'm just banging my head against a brick wall."
From personal experience Lorne knew that misery did not, in fact, love company. Misery made company extremely uncomfortable and anxious for the nearest exit sign. He tried a supportive smile but it wandered of its own accord.
Spike caught the tail end of Lorne's waxy grin. "And all of you have that same look; that plastic coated, toothy sincerity. It's enough to make me puke."
Lorne's left buttock suddenly went to sleep. He shifted to ease the numbness. "Now Spike, there's no call for mud slinging."
"My Buffy's got that vacant smile," Spike admitted. "I can't lose her. Not to that. Not to Wolfram and Hart," Spike pined. "She doesn't know it but she needs me to save her."
"Okay, now we're getting to it. Speak the truth, Romeo."
"I love her and I want her back."
"So why are you here talking to me?"
"I want her back the way she was: cranky and complaining and busting my balls."
"Ouch. That's got to be a vampire thing."
"And with less smiling. She's practically become a Harmony clone."
"There are worse role models out there, Spike." Lorne didn't see the problem with emulating Harmony. Spell or no spell, she was spectacular. "Although, not everyone can carry off a tiara and your little sweetie--no offense intended--ain't one of them."
"There's a bloody tiara now?"
"No, no...I was just saying." "
She's staying at Angel's and I know he's taking every opportunity to turn her against me. I've seen them in the cafeteria all chummy and chatty. Smug bastard."
Witnessing this naked emotional devastation tweaked something within Lorne. He was privy to a piece of news that could prove helpful. "Well, on that front I do have some news."
"What? Tell me."
"I had the misfortune of being cornered in the gents the other day by Angel--not something I'd recommend, by the way--"
"And? And?"
"All is not well at Casa Angel."
"What's he done to her? I'll rip his head off if he's--"
"Calm down. It's not like that." Lorne quickly got to the point. "Buffy is wearing out her welcome."
"What?"
"She's pining for you something fierce and apparently eating Angel out of house and home."
"Really?" Spike let out a gasp of air.
"On a side note, 'Hungry-Man' frozen dinners are apparently not a gender specific item--a salient factoid I did not know--but more to the point, Angel's getting a heaping helping of lovesick slayer and, well, Dr. Phil he's not."
For the first time in days the fog started to lift. "So she's..."
"Driving Angel bat shit crazy, excuse my French. That little gal has talent, I tell you. I haven't seen Angel this rattled in...well, ever. Say, where has that little pixie disappeared to?" Lorne craned his neck looking for the waitress. "Does this fine establishment have a menu? I'm getting the munchies. Care to go halfsies on a basket of deep fried zucchini, hmm?"
An astonished grin spread slowly over Spike's face. The world may well be dangling from a string on Harmony's pinky finger but Buffy still loved him no matter what Angel's covert smirks and asides tried to convey.
Zucchini sounded wonderful.
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