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Chapter 17:

A/N My updates are likely to become a lot less frequent these next couple weeks. Not only am I really busy, but last night my laptop died, and it’ll probably be a couple weeks before it’s fixed. Sorry.

Cursing, Spike wandered through the halls of Wolfram & Hart. He should have been happier. He had more than enough money to take Buffy out, and Accounting had offered to set him up with an account in Sunnydale so he would have ready access to his money if he needed more. He'd also raided his safety deposit box to get a gift for Joyce. Having an inter-dimensional law-firm handle his interests was handy. It meant that he could access the same box from any of their branches, in this realm or any other.

Still, the place made his stomach turn. The L.A. branch was sterile, very unlike the distinguished offices in London. But the lawyers were more or less the same. Humans running hither and thither trying to accumulate power at any cost.

Not to mention the idea of the place brought back unpleasant memories from his mortal life. Memories that he should have been able to shake.

The lift couldn't get to the underground garage quick enough for him. And yet the damned thing seemed determined to stop on every floor. At least now he was the only one on the thing. Maybe no one else would get on.

No sooner had he thought it, when the lift stopped again, the doors opened and two women and a man entered. Spike's eyes went wide. All of his senses told him that all three of them were normal humans, but the woman in the center he recognized. He would have known her anywhere. Even her scent, although it was now human, was the same. Darla.

The man glared at him and said, "Would you like to take a picture? It would last longer."

Spike nearly laughed at the man's protectiveness. First of all, he had only one arm, the other was artificial. Secondly, the idea of anyone defending Darla was laughable. And yet she seemed to be human, which would have been strange enough if she wasn't also supposed to be dust.

"You know, Lindsey, you really should do your own research from time to time," the other woman said. "Do you prefer Spike or William the Bloody?" she asked him.

Spike turned his attention to the woman who had just spoken and wondered that he hadn't noticed her more when she'd entered. She was a tall, beautiful brunette that dripped of power, ambition, and confidence. Very much his type.

He gave her his best sexy smile. "Spike'll do just fine. And you are. . ?"

"Lilah Morgan, Special Projects. I do hope we can count on you not to tell anyone about our friend here?"

"Oh, I don't think Spike will tell. You wouldn't want to spoil Angel's surprise, now would you?" the woman who looked like Darla said.

If Spike had had any doubts as to who she was, they were gone when she spoke. Only Darla could promise pain and torment in that sweet smiling manner.

"Don't suppose you'd run him through with a hot poker for me?" Spike asked her.

"You always were such a sweet boy," Darla said. Inwardly Spike flinched, he hated it when she called him that. "I'll see what I can do."

The doors to the lift opened and they started to leave.

"Don't worry. Mum's the word, Grand-mum," he told her.

She spun around and glared at him. Even when the doors to the lift had closed, he could still feel her eyes boring into him.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"Buffy, you're not going to wear that are you?" her mother asked.

Buffy looked down at her clothing. She was wearing jeans and a tank-top with a white button down shirt that wasn't buttoned.

"Why not, mom?"

"Shouldn't you dress up for your date?"

"Mom, it's Spike. If he's going to be wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I don't see why I should dress up. Besides, he'll probably take me to some run down demon bar, and end up getting me in a fight. Oh, maybe you're right. Maybe I should wear something that the blood stains will come out of more easily."

Joyce sighed and gave up. Obviously her daughter was not going to take this seriously. She couldn't help but wonder how Buffy could misunderstand Spike so thoroughly. But then Buffy had always been something of a mystery. All of Joyce's hopes that after high school she would start to understand her daughter better, had been dashed.

At a quarter to seven the doorbell rang. Buffy looked up from the magazine she was reading on the couch.

"We have a doorbell? Who knew?" she joked as she got up to answer the door.

Joyce was in the kitchen, and she heard Spike say, "Hello, pet. Sorry I'm early."

"Spike. I, um, yeah, I'm not ready yet, I'll be down in a second," Buffy stammered. Joyce herd clumping as her daughter ran upstairs.

In an attempt to make up for her daughter’s lack of manners, Joyce went to properly greet Spike. When she saw him, she stopped dead in her tracks. She had more faith in Spike than Buffy had, but still she wasn't prepared for what she saw.

Instead of a black t-shirt, he wore a dark blue, button-down, silk shirt which brought out the color of his eyes. His jeans and duster had been replaced by a pair of dress pants, and a suit jacket. Their color was somewhere between a light black and a dark grey, and the fabric had just a slight sheen to it. He even wore a tie, which was a dull yellow with black diagonal stripes. Had she seen that tie in a store, Joyce would have wondered who would wear such an awful thing. And yet, it added just the right amount of color to his outfit and was just bold enough to make the outfit fit Spike.

In fact, it wasn't so much the stylishness of the suit that made Spike look good. It was how comfortable he looked in it. As if he wore that sort of thing everyday. His attitude, the way he stood, made it seem as if this was just him.

In one hand he held a dozen red roses, and in the other, what seemed to be a poster. Joyce smiled at him and said, "Let me find a vase for those."

She took the roses to the kitchen and put them in a vase of fresh water. She sighed, trying to remember the last time anyone had brought her flowers. She carried them back to the living room and placed them on the mantle.

"Joyce, I wanted to thank you for helping me out the other day, and.. . well… just in general." He handed her the poster in his hand.

Surprised by his gesture she took it from him, noticing with her curator's eye that it was not a not a modern poster, but rather an older lithograph. As she unrolled it, her eyes went wide. In large red block letters at the top it read ‘Moulin Rouge’. Underneath danced a blond woman with her leg kicked high into the air as her skirt spun around her. ‘La Goulue.’

"Where did you get this?" she asked, examining the paper and the ink. It seemed to be authentic.

"Off a wall in Paris," he replied, with a cocky smile on his face.

"Oh Spike, it's wonderful. I'll have to get it framed right away."

"Something else I wanted to show you," he said reaching into his jacket pocket.

He pulled out a small frame which held a napkin in it. On the napkin was a portrait of a young man. Straight away Joyce noticed the artists work. Although she had never seen the piece before, if it wasn't Toulouse-Lautrec, it was a damn good imitation. Joyce gasped as she stopped analyzing the line drawing, and took a look at the actual picture. There was no mistaking those cheekbones, it was Spike.

"You're not saying you knew Toulouse-Lautrec?"

"’Course I did. Darla, Angelus, Dru and I used to go to the Moulin Rouge all the time, till Dru ate one of the dancers."

Fascinated, if a little unsettled, Joyce sat down with Spike to talk about the artistic life of Paris in the 1890's.





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