Part Nineteen  

Lorn was grinning at Wesley in a way that made Gunn uncertain if he 
should rescue his lover, or leave him to the consequences of his 
actions. As long as it didn't cross the 'details' boundary, he was tempted 
to leave him where he was. 

"Wes?" Angel called over, and his tone of voice told them the jokes 
were over. 

"Yes?" 

"Do you want to talk to your mother?" 

Wesley didn't reply, immediately. Then he shook his head. "Best tell 
her I'm out. I don't--" 

But Angel interrupted with, "She knows." 

Wesley stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Then he grinned. "Good 
one, Angel. I didn't think you'd be able to really pull a joke off -- now 
we need a train, and jail, and rain -- was there something else in that 
verse?" He asked Lorn, only semi-seriously. 

"Wes," Angel said again, holding the phone with one hand over the 
mouthpiece quite firmly. "It really is." 

Wesley went back and forth between a worried frown and a strange little 
smile, before he finally nodded, and held out his hand for the phone. Lorn 
shot Gunn a look-- which told Gunn all he ever needed to know about how 
close they'd been. Close enough for the look to *almost* match the one on 
Gunn's face. 

Then he let Wesley down. Gunn was expecting him to do what he usually 
did when he had to speak with one of his parents-- head for Angel's office 
and shut the door. Instead, he stood there uncertainly in the lobby for 
another few moments, before finally lifting the phone to his mouth. 

"Hello, mother." A pause, then a nod -- the same kind of nod he'd given 
Spike over the phone earlier today. This time he caught himself nodding, 
though, and shook his head, frowning. "Yes, it's me." Then the frown 
deepened. "No, I-- No, nothing's wrong. It was...er, well, it was 
intended. Part of a spell to--" He nodded again, then glared at no one in 
particular, in a way that let Gunn know it was *himself* Wes was angry 
with. "Yes. No, I'm sorry, you and Father were never supposed to be 
bothered with this..." 

Gunn was walking over to him, now. He didn't want to interrupt -- but 
he didn't like the look on Wesley's face. The anger that shouldn't be 
there, and then, as Wesley said, "Of course, yes, I understand" there was 
no emotion on his face at all. Wiped clean. 

Gunn was to him and picking him up, before he could decide it was a good 
idea. Angel picked up the receiver as Wesley dropped it; Gunn saw him 
bring the receiver to his ear, listen for a moment, then his face clouded 
over and he hung up without saying a word. 

"Wes? Man, what--" Gunn broke off his question. He could see Wesley's 
eyes -- wide, staring at nothing, and his face so tightly controlled Gunn 
knew it was taking all of Wes' will to hold it steady. 

"Come on," Angel said quietly, and Gunn looked over to see him leading 
Lorn out of the room, towards the dining room. Gunn took Wesley over 
towards the stairs, intending to get him up to the privacy of their room. 

"She said they received a phone call from a man saying I'd been turned 
into a child. That they needed to come fetch me and take care of me...." 
His voice was inflectionless. Gunn brushed his finger across Wesley's 
cheek, wondering what she'd *said* to do this to him. "She was rather upset 
at the suggestion. She explained she and father were entirely too busy to 
drop everything and come to California to rescue me." 

"You don't need rescuing," Gunn said, feeling totally bewildered. His 
mother had said all that? Besides who had called her -- what sort of 
mother reacted that way to hearing that her son was in trouble? 

"She--" 

Gunn held Wesley close, hugging him tightly. "She what?" He could feel 
Wesley's hands clinging to his shirt, feel the tension in his entire 
body. But he didn't answer. "Wes?" 

There was a small intake of breath, and a tiny shudder, then Wes said 
very carefully, "She said it was an upperclass Englishman. That at first 
she'd thought it was Rupert Giles, because the accent was so similar, but 
the voice was different, and Rupert would never participate in such a 
stupid, childish prank. That no real Watcher would spend his time playing 
infants' games, actually, is what she said." 

"Funny, 'cause I seem to remember him being pretty short, the last time 
I saw him. And just about to stick a flag on a Lego castle." 

Wesley didn't respond to Gunn's comment. He was disappearing somewhere, 
behind his eyes, and Gunn didn't know how to reach in and pull him out -- 
his big, manipulative eyes were flat and expressionless now. Very, very 
quietly, Wesley spoke. "She said... she said... that she hoped I'd someone 
here to deal with whatever mess I'd gotten myself into, because they 
certainly weren't about to take care of a child at their age." His voice 
dropped. "Because once was enough." 

Then Gunn was hugging him too hard for Wesley to have said more, if he'd 
been going to. Wrapping his arms tighter around Wesley's back, hand 
pressed against the back of his head -- as if he could push hard enough to 
force him inside Gunn's body where he could feel what Gunn couldn't bring 
into words: I love you, love you so much you don't *need* them. 

Of course that wasn't true. It didn't matter what Gunn felt -- it 
didn't change the look in Wesley's eyes when he explained that his parents 
didn't want him. He felt a shudder pass through Wesley's body, heard a gasp 
of air that preceded a sob -- which didn't come. Instead Wesley buried his 
face harder against Gunn's chest. 

Gunn went faster up the stairs, towards their room. Towards their room 
and the chair where he could sit and hold and rock and tell Wesley that 
when it stopped hurting enough to look around again, someone would be 
there, loving him. He heard Wesley gasp, again, and choke back a 
cry. "Wes, don't -- just cry all you want, baby. Ain't nobody here to 
hear you but me." 

"No... doesn't.. doesn't matter. Stupid. Don't need them to take care of 
me. Don't...want them...to." So why was Wes having to take a deep breath 
before each word? Why was he shuddering in Gunn's arms as the door shut 
behind them? 

Gunn carried him over to the rocking chair and sat down. Shook his head, 
and wondered which of them was gonna break down first. Seriously giving 
odds that it wouldn't be Wes. "Yeah, you do. It's okay. It matters. It 
matters, and it's wrong, and... damn. " 

Gunn put his head down against the top of Wesley's skull, lips pressed 
to soft tousled hair, because he couldn't let Wes turn his face up and look 
at him or he might do what Wesley wouldn't do. So he rocked them both, 
slowly at first, then as his anger and hurt demanded he do something, he 
found himself pushing against the floor harder. Told himself not to tip 
them over, but he couldn't sit here and be gentle about it. 

Not until he heard the first escaping cry - then all his emotions rushed 
out of him and left only the need to be tender and solicitous, and cradle 
Wesley as tenderly as he could. Hold him close as his small body began 
shaking, like the first tremors of an approaching earthquake. He kissed 
Wesley's head again, pressed his lips against every part of Wesley's head 
and face and shoulder that he could reach, while Wesley finally let go of 
what Gunn knew was a lifetime of held-in pain. 

They sat there for what felt like an hour, or more. It was, at times, 
loud and wailing, other times stifled and shuddered, but Wesley didn't stop 
crying in Gunn's arms until he was gasping for air and too exhausted to 
keep his tight grip on his lover. Gunn continued rocking, continued 
stroking Wesley's back and wiping tears from his face, and continued 
leaning down and pressing his lips to Wesley's forehead and telling him to 
let it all out, let it go, I'm here and I've got you. 

Wesley finally looked up at him, with eyes so red Gunn knew they had to 
be hurting as much as anything else. He traced his fingers along Wesley's 
cheek, down across his chin, up again to trace the line of his 
eyebrows. He wasn't entirely sure why he was doing it. He just felt a 
need to touch everything he could, as if reminding himself that Wesley was 
in there, somewhere. 

"I..." Wesley's voice sounded like he had laryngitis, or had been 
walking out in the desert for a few hundred years. Gunn looked at him, 
waiting. "Could I have a drink of water?" 

"Yeah." He started to get up; realized he was still rocking, and had to 
put out a foot to stop himself, he'd become so used to the motion. When he 
stood up, it was like the room was still moving, and he was half afraid he 
would drop Wes. Gunn's legs ached, too, whether from rocking for so long, 
or sitting in the same position, he didn't know. When he'd poured Wesley a 
cup of water from the bottle on the bureau, he sat down on the bed, Wesley 
still in his arms, and stretched out his legs. 

Wes drank as if he'd cried out every drop of water in his little body, 
and maybe he had. When the cup was finally empty, he set it down on the 
bedspread next to them, but didn't say anything for a moment. Then he lay 
his head back against Gunn's chest, and whispered, "Thank you." 

"Love you," Gunn replied. 

There was a light squeeze, and Wesley said, "I know. I...appreciate 
it. Especially now. I love you, too," he ended in a softer tone. They 
sat there quietly, for a bit, and Gunn thought he might be willing to lean 
back and curl up with Wesley and sleep the rest of the day 
away. Angel-baiting aside, it hadn't been all that restful of a day. 

Wesley was toying with one of the buttons on his shirt, and when Gunn 
looked down, he could see the worried expression that generally preceded a 
complex conversation that involved things one normally never discussed. He 
just waited, holding Wesley and making sure he didn't say out loud any of 
the uncharitable things he was thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce. 

"Is...this is going to sound dreadfully childish, but...could I please 
have Rupert?" 

It took Gunn a moment to realize Wesley meant his bear, and not his 
fellow-four-year-old countryman. "Of course," he said calmly, and tried to 
remember where they'd left him. He finally saw the bear up by the 
headboard of the bed, and leaned sideways towards it. He grabbed Rupert by 
a foot and pulled him over, handing him to Wes. 

Wesley immediately held the bear in his arms, resting his chin on top of 
its head. "It's nice, being bear-sized again," Wesley whispered. 

Gunn settled his arms around Wesley, and actually felt a small chuckle 
escape his lips. "Yeah. You make a good bear." He rested his chin on top of 
Wesley's head. After a moment, Wes let out something that might have been a 
very tired attempt at a laugh. Or just a yawn. 

"No one did this with me, when I was little. The first time, that is," 
he said, snuggling back against Gunn. "Well, no, my Aunt Sarah used to, 
sometimes, when she came over. But Father didn't really approve." 

"He was stupid. All kids need to be bear-hugged. It's in the Parent 
Handbook." 

"I don't think they got their copy. Or perhaps they didn't think it was 
appropriate reading material, if it wasn't written in Latin." Wesley was 
playing grown-up again, but it seemed to be a pretty big effort for him, 
and finally, he sighed. "Why don't they want me?" 

"Because they aren't parents," Gunn replied. "Not everyone is. Makes 
you think there ought to be an application process, before you can conceive 
a kid." Another hug, another kiss to the head. "Not everyone knows how to 
be a parent. Not everyone wants to. Doesn't stop the bodies from making 
more." 

There was a pause, then in a tone once more too-adult, Wesley said, "I 
think that's the most understandable explanation I've heard." 

"Yeah. I thought that one up for Alonna when mom decided she couldn't 
handle us anymore." He shook his head -- Wesley knew all his stuff, 
already. How it had been the drink and the drugs she couldn't handle, or 
the wild-ass boyfriends who spent more time driving and hanging, than 
noticing that their woman had a couple of babies, already. 

Wesley's voice was softer, when he said, "I like it. It makes it sound 
as though it were their fault." As if it had never occurred to him that it 
might have been. Gunn squeezed his eyes closed. 

"Wes, babe, you... man, you know you *were* brought to me by an 
angel. You are the handsomest man I have ever known. You are the smartest 
and funniest and best person I know, the cleverest and the most *perfect* 
damn man I have ever had the honour to fall in love with." 

He heard Wesley sniffling, and reached over for another tissue. After 
Wesley had wiped his face and blown his nose, he said, "And you'll buy me a 
new bike, I presume?" 

"Maybe just the sidecar for your old one. And you find a place to store 
the horses, and I'll get you as many as you want." Wes shook his head 
slightly, and Gunn assured him. "No, really. Might take a paycheck or 
thirty, but hell, it's worth it. Plus I think Angel's just about to cave." 

Wesley gave a small laughed. "No, it's just I don't really want a pony-- 
I can't ride." 

"You gotta be kiddin' me. I thought all proper little English boys got 
taught that at their proper little all-boys prep schools." 

"Didn't say I don't know *how* to. Just can't. I must have tumbled off 
every horse in the stable before they finally despaired of me and sent me 
to go write a paper on equine anatomy during equestrian studies period." 
Gunn was silent, picturing Wesley sitting alone in the library, watching 
the other kids outside through the window... After a moment, Wesley nudged 
him. "You can laugh, you know." 

"Why would I wanna laugh?" 

"Because it's funny. There I was, being sent in disgrace away from 
something I couldn't stand, to be punished by having to do something I 
loved..." 

This time Gunn did chuckle. Then before he could stop his mouth from 
opening, he was saying, "But you ride really well." His mind screamed 
'Four-year-old! Bad mouth!' at him, and he groaned inwardly. "Uh, the bike, 
I mean." Among other things. 

"Well, of course -- a motorbike doesn't know when you're afraid of it." 
Wesley paused for a moment, then added, "Nor does it decide to defecate on 
your foot when you're braiding its tail." Gunn mostly stifled his 
snicker. But Wesley just smiled up at him. "As for other riding, it helps 
when your mount is as distracted as you are." 

Gunn sputtered for a moment, before snapping, "Don't be *saying* shit 
like that when you're four! What am I supposed to do, go make a pass at 
Angel? Uh -- I didn't just say that, did I?" 

Wesley blinked, looking innocent enough that Gunn knew he ought to set 
Wesley down...and run. "I can pretend to be Angel, again, if you like. 
Role-playing--" 

"Please, please, can we have the conversation when you're bigger? 
Older? Can we not have this conversation at all, I mean?" 

"Do you really think Angel would let me get a horse?" Wesley asked, 
throwing Gunn completely off-track as his expression changed from amused 
and lecherous -- which just looked wrong -- to thoughtful. 

"Wes, right now, you could get Angel to do *anything*." Among other 
people. God help him if Wes made the logical leap away from the pony he 
didn't really want, and started asking Gunn to buy him a 
Harley. Again. "Um, if you hadn't set him up on a date with the 
Host. Maybe you should hide for a while." 

"Yes, I could stay in here for a day or two. You could bring me 
breakfast in bed and I could pretend I'm all worn out and want to hide 
under the covers and not see anybody but you." 

The tone of his voice was asking something more, and Gunn answered, 
pulling his arms closer around Wesley's body. "Yeah, we can pretend that." 

Wes rested his head against Gunn's arm, then went on. "And you can wait 
on me hand and foot. And bring me lime jelly because my throat hurts, and 
bring the tv in here and let me watch cartoons all day." 

"I thought that stuff was trash?" 

"No, *Thundercats* are trash. I'm talking about the Tex Avery Hour. And 
I want tea with peppermint. And lots of sugar." 

Gunn just hugged him again, and closed his eyes. He had Wesley entirely 
wrapped up in his arms, pressed against his chest, legs dangling over the 
side of his lap. Almost completely encased within the borders of Gunn's 
body. "Yeah, we can do that. But lime jelly? Wes, man, that stuff is so 
*gross*." 

"Won't matter," Wesley said, in a tone that said he was winding down, 
would be asleep soon if they both stopping talking. "Since you won't be 
kissing me...not with tongue, at any rate." 

Gunn smiled. "Good point. You can eat all the lime jelly and raspberry 
flavoured junk you like." Wesley shifted, a bit, on Gunn's lap. He felt 
Wes yawn, again. "How 'bout we crawl into bed?" he asked, trying not to 
startle Wesley in case he was already dozing. 

Wes responded by burying his face against Gunn's chest, and reaching up 
with one arm, to grab onto Gunn like he was doing to the bear, with the 
other. Gunn sighed, weighing the benefits of actually getting ready for bed 
and sleeping perfectly comfortably, against hearing Wes make those little 
sleepy noises of protest that always sounded to Gunn like he was being 
viciously abused by a tall, rude man with absolutely no care for his 
comfort or well-being. 

In the end, he kicked off his own shoes, then carefully slipped Wesley's 
off, resisting the urge to tickle the small feet as he did so. Mostly 
resisting. After the first accusatory squeak from Wes had him promising to 
buy a new sidecar, *and* wear the pink helmet for a week, he resisted harder. 

Then he leaned sideways, resting his head on the pillows as best he 
could, and drew the blankets over them, wrapping them up like a 
Wes-and-Gunn taco. Minus the spice. Then he was on his back again, with Wes 
curled up against his chest, eyes closed, smiling slightly, as Wes slipped 
his thumb into his mouth. 

Gunn gave Wes, then Rupert, one last head rub, then he lay back, one arm 
under his head and the other wrapped tight around Wesley so that no one and 
nothing could get to him. 

Part Twenty  

"Hey..." 

Wesley looked up from his book and shot Gunn a small glare. When that 
produced no effect, he poked his head out of the small cave he'd made of 
the bedclothes and looked around, so he could give his lover a *proper* 
glare for disturbing him. "What?" he asked perfectly clearly despite the 
presence of his thumb in his mouth. 

"They're doing the Wolf and Red episodes next. You know, those Droopy 
ones, where..." 

Wesley glanced up at the television that Gunn had dutifully carted up 
the stairs and installed in their room. "I know that." 

"Oh. You just looked kinda into your book, and you said you like Red Hot 
Riding Hood, so I didn't want you to miss 'em." 

"I like when the wolf's eyes pop out of his head. I've seen you do that. 
Complete with the whistles and the steam coming out the ears. But I'm 
perfectly aware of what's happening on the television, thank you. They just 
finished off the Pioneer Droopy cartoon, and the bullfighting one before that." 

Gunn was sitting alone in the rocking chair, devoting his full attention 
to the TV, which still made Wesley's mind boggle. Especially when Gunn 
shook his head and said, "I still don't see how you can read and watch TV 
at the same time. Freaks me out." 

"Obviously, you read during the adverts and the boring parts." 

"Yeah, but how do you know the boring parts are over?" 

Wesley rolled his eyes. "You just *do*. Because it stops being boring, 
of course." 

Gunn just gave him one of those 'I know you're not speaking English, 
because I don't understand a word' looks that he used so often. Wesley 
just returned his attention to the TV, in time to see a few moments of 
non-boring cartoon, then burrowed back into the blankets to read. 

He felt the bed dip as Gunn sat down behind him. A few seconds later, 
Wesley said, "Do it and I'll tell Cordelia you want her to make us lunch." 

"How the hell can you tell I was gonna do anything?" Gunn sounded aggrieved. 

Wesley had to stick his head out of the cave of blankets, again, and 
looked back at him. "Charles -- if *you* were wrapped in blankets, reading 
and watching TV, and I had sat down behind you--" 

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Caught." Gunn leaned on his elbow, and laced 
his fingers together as if to show that he *wasn't* going to do 
anything. Wesley knew he was, but he also knew he didn't mind. He simply 
couldn't let Gunn get away with not being as clever as possible. 

He went back to his book, once more, and began reading about centuries 
old techniques for ridding villages of ghosts, and how those techniques 
could not be used on towns with populations greater than ten thousand. It 
was fascinating socio-economic-paranormal theory, really. "Eep!" He 
squealed, dropping his thumb and jumping into the air. 

Someone had put a cold teaspoon of lime jelly against the back of his 
neck. Someone who must now die, especially since it had *almost* landed on 
Wesley's book. Wes opened his mouth to protest, loudly, and Gunn inserted 
the spoonful of gelatin. It also had whipped cream on it. It was hard to 
scowl with whipped cream in one's mouth. 

Rather difficult to plan the murder of one's smirking lover, as well. 
Wes licked his lips. *Then* scowled. "You're not going to let me 
concentrate, are you?" 

"On which -- Droopy, or the book?" 

"Both. Either." 

"Just didn't want you to get bored." 

"Ah. I appreciate that." He turned back to his book -- and closed it, 
and leapt out of the tangle of bedclothes onto Gunn. The cartoon was going 
to be in boring parts for several minutes, anyhow. 

They wrestled on the bed, tickling each other -- for which Gunn most 
unfairly used his superior size and strength to hold Wesley out of reach -- 
until Wesley was shrieking so loudly and laughing that he was afraid he'd 
pass out from lack of oxygen. They only stopped when someone knocked on the 
door; Gunn sat up, letting Wesley go free, and Wesley crawled up onto 
Gunn's lap, again, so he'd be within range should Gunn need tickling some more. 

"Yeah?" Gunn called out. The door opened, and Cordelia poked her head in. 

"Are you two killing each other?" 

"Um...shall I plead the fifth?" Wesley asked, looking up at his boyfriend. 

"You can't, you're not a U.S. citizen." 

"Ah." Wesley nodded, and leant back against Gunn. He was still 
breathing hard, and he felt better than he had, all morning. 

Despite that, as Cordelia asked what their plans for lunch were and Gunn 
tried to tell her 'tacos' without letting her think he was agreeing that 
she should *make* lunch, he let his thumb slip back into his mouth. He 
knew Gunn wouldn't say anything, and he also knew Cordelia had caught him 
at it twice, this morning, already. No one had said a word, to tease him 
or chastise him, or even ask him about it. Most importantly, it kept him 
from crying, so he did it. He felt Gunn's hand on his head, and looked 
around to see if he could spot Rupert. The bear had lost the tickle war, 
some minutes previously. 

"So, I can make tacos," Cordelia was saying in a false-bright tone of 
voice. 

"No, make Angel go buy some," Wesley spoke up. "He'll buy too many, and 
we can eat them all afternoon." 

Cordelia's smile got a little more genuine, as she considered his 
suggestion. "Hmm. Less work, more food, *and* I get to make Angel get out 
of the hotel and stop looking all smug and mysterious about how his date 
with Lorn went... I don't see a downside here." 

Wesley looked at her. "He did go, then?" 

"I made him. You didn't want him hanging around here brooding all night, 
did you?" 

Wesley shook his head. "No. I just think maybe I should stay in here for 
a few more days, then." 

She grinned for a second, then frowned. "He's not mad at you, Wes. You 
know that, right? Nobody's mad at you." 

"Well, I did rather ruin dinner." 

"Pfft. They went out to get something before the show, and I got to pig 
out on all the Kung Pao chicken I wanted, with nobody stealing my eggrolls 
for a change. Now... I can't say Angel's not planning *revenge* -- he did 
mention something about owing you one. Or eight." 

"Eight?! He can't possibly owe me *eight*. I barely did six things 
which he... er, four that he knows about and two of which I won't claim 
credit for and can I go back to hiding under the blanket, now?" He asked 
that last of Gunn, trying not to consciously look too pitiful. 

"It won't help. Vampires can detect humans even through cotton." 

Wesley looked over at the doorway, where Angel was now standing behind 
Cordelia. He hoped, for a moment, that Cordelia would bar his way long 
enough for him to get someplace safe -- behind Gunn, for example. But she 
simply stepped to one side. 

Wesley summoned up his best cute look, but Angel held up one hand. "I 
actually just came up here to...um, I wanted to find out what...." He 
sighed, and looked apologetic. "Buffy called, and I was telling her about 
the phone call last night. She wants to know about the man who called your 
mother -- they think it might be related to the woman who tried to grab 
Willow and Tara." 

"Someone tried to grab Willow and Tara?" Wesley asked. Cordelia gave 
Angel a sharp look. 

Angel looked sorry, but firm. "We had to tell him sometime. Yeah, there 
was a weird...incident, I guess you could call it. A woman tried to take 
the two of them in a department store, and claimed they were her kids. Not 
just a random crazy -- she had papers, and she knew their names. She caused 
quite a bit of trouble with the management, before Willow finally got 
desperate and threw a whammy on everybody so Spike and Xander and the kids 
could sneak off." 

Wesley blinked, not sure what to say. "So that's why you were contacting 
Bertie Rodgers about papers for Spike. I *thought* it was a weird time to 
worry about it-- now, after he's grown up again. I just figured you'd 
suddenly started feeling fatherly." 

Angel looked uncomfortable. Actually, everyone looked uncomfortable -- 
but Angel's at least had an edge of humour to it, as he tried to decide 
whether he wanted to deny that was part of his motivation, or not. "Yeah, 
we got papers for all of the kids -- you and Giles too, though only Buffy 
knew about the ones for Giles. Just in case. But Spike has really needed 
some decent ID for a long time, and Xander asked, so..." 

Wesley waved the rambling explanation away. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

Angel didn't reply right away. Cordelia finally sighed and said, "We 
didn't want you worrying. You're a kid! Or mostly. You're supposed to be 
enjoying yourself, not worrying about kidnappings." 

Wesley frowned. 

"If we'd needed you to help us figure out what was going on, we'd have 
told you," Gunn said. "Like now," he added, sounding proud as he realized 
they had, in fact, told Wesley because they needed his help. As if Gunn 
had been in on the decision. 

It was difficult to be too upset with them, because Wesley understood 
why they'd done it. It still rankled, and -- "That's why all three of you 
have been staying with me, at all times, isn't it? Why we haven't left the 
hotel unless all three of you are there to chaperone." 

This time Cordelia looked sheepish, too. "It wasn't so bad, though, was 
it?" 

No, in fact it had not been. It had been nice, being watched over -- 
and spoilt -- by his friends. Instead of admitting it, however, he said, 
"She said it was a man with an upperclass London accent. He knew me, knew 
them...she thought at first it was Rupert, but she knew he wouldn't-- er, 
have called." He frowned, though, as he realized, "It might have been 
Spike. Playing a joke." 

Angel's expression turned dark. "He wouldn't have any problem doing the 
accent -- that's for sure. If it was him, trust me, I'll start feeling a 
lot more parental. In that 'I get to kick your ass because you're my kid 
and I can't believe you'd act that way' kind of way. If he really *did* do 
it." He shook his head. "What am I saying -- he's evil -- of course he'd 
act that way." 

Wesley felt the need to stick up for his partner in Angel-tormenting. 
"He isn't, really. I mean, not on any kind of global scale, not anymore. He 
wouldn't have done something like that if he'd known about-- if he'd known 
what my family are like. If anything, it would've been him saying 'Wesley, 
have you called your mum lately?' So he could watch me hem and haw about 
not being a mother's boy." 

"You're not a momma's boy," Gunn told him. 

"Thank you." 

"You're *my* boy." 

Wesley was hoping Cordelia couldn't see his ears turn red from where she 
was standing, though he knew bloody well that Angel could tell without even 
looking. "Thank you again. Remind me to bite you later." 

"You bite him now," Cordelia pointed out. "Why let the fact that we're 
watching, stop you?" 

If she couldn't have seen his ears turn red, she surely couldn't miss 
the way his face, neck, and possibly entire body blushed. He tried 
glowering at her, and she smiled like he'd done something adorable. Bloody 
hell. He would be glad to be grown, again. Mostly. 

"We'd better call Deadboy, Junior, and see what's up," Gunn said 
blithely, as though Wesley weren't eyeing his hand, for biting. If 
Cordelia wanted to watch, he could accommodate her. 

"I'll call," Angel told him. "I want to talk to Spike." 

"Perhaps someone *else* should ask if he rang my parents?" Wesley wasn't 
all that fond of Spike, and normally wouldn't mind seeing him get in 
trouble with Angel. But he felt somehow responsible, for this. 

"Why don't I call?" Cordelia offered, giving Angel a slightly worried 
look. Angelus he might sound, but surely the chance to righteously thump 
Spike didn't make him *that* happy. 

"I told Buffy I'd call her back," Angel objected. "She's expecting--" 

"She's expecting someone to talk to her, not to yell for Spike to get 
his dead ass on the phone so you can scold him." 

Angel -- dear lord, was that a pout? Wesley blinked. Angel backed off, 
and let Cordelia use the pizza-ordering-device (as Wesley had dubbed it 
when Gunn pointed out that such was all they ever used it for) to ring the 
Magic Box. 

She waited for a moment, then said calmly, "Hey, Buffy. Tell Spike to 
get his dead ass on the phone, NOW." After a pause during which Cordelia 
wrinkled her nose and said "Ewww! -- no, not literally, and thank you for 
*that* image," she launched into a tirade that made Wesley feel quite 
justified in having called her...er, having his imaginary father have 
called her, a razor-tongued harpy. He was just glad she was *his* harpy. If 
Spike got a word in edgewise, Wesley would have been flabbergasted, because 
Cordelia didn't even stop to breathe. 

"And how could you *do* that to a little kid -- I mean, there's evil, 
and there's evil!" she finished off. She finally did stop, but only, Wesley 
suspected, because Spike was yelling at her. He could hear it from where 
he was sitting. 

She looked confused, then asked, "What do you mean, you didn't call 
anyone's parents?" Wesley was surprised -- he hadn't realized she'd managed 
to get the details out of Spike's offense, during her rant. Rather, he 
wasn't surprised she had -- but was surprised Spike had been able to 
decipher it. "Well, if you didn't, who did?" 

But Angel took the phone from her, before she could get an 
answer. "Spike, did you call Wesley's parents and tell him about the 
Urdeku?" Another pause, and Angel's thunderous expression grew into a more 
familiar slightly confused one. But he still sounded angry when he said, 
"Spike, if you're lying...." 

Wesley could picture Spike rolling his eyes, and saying 'yeah, yeah, if 
I'm lying you'll thump me. Shaking in my boots.' 

"Um, no, she said...it was a man with a London accent. We thought...no 
one else but you and Giles could have...well, no, we didn't think he 
had." There was a pause. "Because he would have sounded like a four year 
old, Spike." Another pause. "Yes, all right, because it's the kind of thing 
you'd do, dammit." Then Angel looked slightly more confused. "You're welcome." 

Wes almost giggled, in spite of the seriousness of the subject. Only 
Spike would be worried about whether his father-figure still thought of him 
as evil enough to torment a small child for the sheer joy of it -- even if 
he *wasn't* that evil anymore. 

Angel listened for a moment longer, interjecting a 'but' or a 'look, I'm 
*sorry*' every so often, then held the phone away from his face and turned 
back to look at the rest of the people in the room. "Spike is insane. He's 
complimented by the fact that I suspected him of doing this, then he tears 
my scalp off for thinking he'd let anything happen to one of the kids, 
without somebody's innards steaming on the floor in front of him first. I 
paraphrase." 

Wesley didn't want to know what Angel *hadn't* said, if that was the 
paraphrase. Cordelia, however, was laughing. "Oh, god! Spike really 
*has* turned into a dad!" She collapsed against the doorframe, laughing. 

"Oh, and you're any better?" Gunn demanded. 

"Me? What did *I* do?" 

"'Don't let go of Gunn's hand while we cross the street, Wes,'" Gunn 
said. "Don't talk to any strangers, Wes. Don't--" 

"Look! That was just so he wouldn't get kidnapped!" 

"That was the first *day* he was a four year old." 

Wesley watched the two, like a tennis match, and wondered if he ought be 
offended. Angel was watching, as well, looking like he wanted to be amused 
but was afraid Spike would misinterpret his amusement and start harangueing 
him all over again. 

Wesley leant back against Gunn, stuck his thumb back in his mouth, and 
wondered if they'd be done and clear out before the Powerpuff Girls came on. 

Part Twenty-One  

Spike was still protesting that of *course* he hadn't called Wesley's 
parents. The only trouble was, no one was listening to him except Rupert, 
and *he* was about to bitch-slap Spike if he didn't shut up. Because they 
all *knew* he hadn't, that in fact he'd been sitting on the couch with 
Willow, a grape lollipop on his lap and a giant bowl of popcorn in his 
mouth -- or so he'd sworn on the third repetition of his story -- when the 
call had happened. 

So he was just blathering on about it to get attention, which was 
utterly unfair, because it was *Rupert's* turn to get attention. At least 
everyone was ignoring Spike and looking at *him*, which was good. It was 
just that the distracting whining Spike-noise in his ear was making it hard 
for Rupert to concentrate on what he'd been trying to say. 

"Spike! Shut up! Now!" he ordered. Spike looked up in surprise, then 
grinned. 

"Right away, Little Master Ripper, sir." 

Rupert said something quite nasty in Fyarl. 

"Watch it!" Spike snapped back. "Or somebody will get his mouth washed 
out with soap!" 

"Can we please get on with this?" Rupert said in an aggrieved tone -- 
which, he was sorry to see, actually worked. Sorry, because it meant he'd 
never be able to do it again once he changed back. "Now, this could be 
quite serious. Whoever is doing this knows a great deal about us." 

"Giles is right," Buffy said. Rupert wished he'd had a tape 
recorder. "We have to find out who's doing this. So they haven't done any 
permanent harm--" 

"Except for getting my ears chewed off," Spike groused. 

Rupert sent him a nasty look. "Like that's new." 

"But I didn't do it, this time! That hurts my feelings." Spike gave 
them all a pout. Only Xander and Anya seemed to notice, 
though. Unfortunately that meant they had to see both Anya and Xander 
giving Spike a kiss. 

Luckily, Rupert was feeling young enough to not mind saying, loudly, 
"Eeeeeeeew!" He was joined by Tara, who wrinkled her nose. 

"Heh. You won't mind so much when you're older," Xander teased her. 

She looked straight at him and shook her head. "Nope. Parents aren't 
supposed to kiss. It's gross." 

Xander nodded. "Well, yeah, it was when *my* -- Oh, ewww. Thank you for 
that image. Hey, waitaminute! What parents?" 

She walked over, held out her arms, and Xander automatically picked her 
up and put her on his knee, still waiting for an answer. She just looked at 
him, grinning. "Hi, Papa." 

"I say again, eeeeew!" Rupert commented. "If we could get back to the 
topic at hand? To whit, who's trying to mess about with us? As Buffy said, 
no major damage has occurred -- but it *could* have. All sorts of havoc 
could have happened just from us being turned into children the first time, 
when we didn't know what was going on. Spike could have been arrested, at 
the mall -- not that *that's* a rare situation, but still. And now this 
call to Wesley's parents. Who are the *only* set of parents among our group 
who are still around, and would be likely to believe a stranger who said 
their child had been turned into a ... child. Whoever is behind this knows 
too much." 

"Do you think they meant for Willow and Tara to get taken? I mean, were 
they trying to get Spike arrested, or trying to get ahold of Willow and 
Tara?" Buffy asked. "And maybe they were trying to kidnap Wesley, too?" 

"But then they would have simply impersonated his parents, or 
something. We don't know," Rupert sighed. 

"If they wanted to kidnap Willow and Tara, they would have just grabbed 
them. Most children who disappear are simply taken off the street, enticed 
with promises of sweets or a ride home, and they climb into the car on 
their own. If they aren't taken by their own relatives, in which 
case--" Anya stopped, and looked at the group, who were all staring at 
her. "What? I saw a documentary on the Lifetime channel. It was very 
informative." 

Rupert saw Xander and Spike both turn a little paler. 

"She does have a point, though. I don't think the woman was *trying* to 
actually get Willow and Tara. All they would have done was get them put 
into foster care while the cops tried to sort everything out." Buffy 
looked at Willow and Tara, a worried expression on her face. 

"Do you think whoever it was, knew how Wesley's parents would react?" 
Xander asked. "It must have been pretty bad -- Cordelia was pretty 
upset. If she'd been here, Spike would be wearing a new look - dust to dust." 

"Edgar Wyndham-Pryce is an arsehole," Rupert said succinctly. "I don't 
know his wife very well, but if she's anything like him at all, I imagine 
it's *them* whom Cordelia really wants to stake." 

This time there were no comments about mouth-washing-out from Spike. 
Just a glance at Xander, then a nod back in Rupert's direction. "Guess I 
won't eat her this time, then." 

"Errrgh!" Dawn said, slamming a book shut. "This is *useless*. Worse 
than Calculus." 

Rupert looked at the volume. "The Kelin Grimoire? I should say so; it 
was written by a group of students in the nineteen thirties, as a practical 
joke. I keep it around as a curiosity piece." 

"No," she said, the frustration evident in her voice, as it was in 
everyone else's. "This whole meeting conversation brainstorming thing. 
We're just going in circles. It's like whoever this is just wants to cause 
as much trouble as possible in our lives." 

"Yeah, but it's not all bad. Most of it's kinda fun. Except for the 
kidnapping part. That was scary," Willow said, shuddering. 

No one responded at first. Then Buffy said, "So -- we're looking for a 
guy who knows us, speaks in an English accent, and just likes causing trouble." 

"Oh, bloody hell." Rupert rubbed his eyes. The group was staring at him 
when he looked up, and he made a face. "Ethan." 

"But how would he...." Willow began. "Oh, no, that part would be 
easy. But then how would-- no, he could do that, too. And he knows most 
of us. He probably knows *about* all of us, considering how much time he's 
spent sneaking around Sunnydale." 

"Why, though? Why send us a statue that turns us into kids? And why 
didn't he do anything the first time around?" Buffy didn't sound fully 
convinced. 

But Rupert, who knew Ethan better than any of them, had a sinking 
feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with a lunch of potato chips 
and ice cream. "Perhaps because he was hoping the effects of the Urdeku 
would cause sufficient havoc on their own." 

"And when it didn't...he decided to take a more active part in the 
chaos-having?" Buffy nodded. "Yup, that sounds like him. So -- I guess 
we start looking for Ethan, then." 

"What do we do with him, once we've found him?" Tara asked. Then she 
giggled. "Make him stand in the corner!" 

Willow joined in the giggling. "Nope. The Initiative tried putting him 
in time-out. He just went *poof* and disappeared. He doesn't play fair. I 
think we should spank him." 

Rupert glared at his friends. "I have *no* idea why you're all looking 
at me." He sniffed. "I'm not big enough, anyway." 

"*I* am," Buffy said grimly. "Not that I'm gonna...do *that* to him. 
Exactly. So, aside from going out on the front steps and yelling 'Hey 
Rayne, we're onto you, come out with your hands up,' any suggestions for 
finding him? I don't suppose we'd be lucky enough for him to have checked 
into a hotel under his own name." 

"We could do a locating spell," Tara suggested. "Those are simple 
enough...oh, but I guess we'd need something he owns." She frowned. "I 
suppose that wouldn't work, then." 

Rupert thought very hard about keeping his mouth shut. But if they 
didn't find Ethan, chances were the next thing he tried would be dangerous 
-- intentionally so or not. "How long ago must he have owned it?" 

Well, he certainly had everyone's attention now. Tara glanced at 
Willow, who said, "I think...as long as it was his -- and not something 
that, you know, he sold or something, it should work. Well enough to 
narrow down the search, anyway." 

"Um, Giles? Why?" Buffy looked like she didn't really want to know. 

"Because I have something that belonged to Ethan." Rupert stopped 
there. Then sighed, because they were all still looking at him. He 
*ought* to just tough it out...except Willow was looking at him. Wasn't 
that look not supposed to work on other four-year-olds? "I have a pair of 
his pants. They have sentimental value, and it's not what you're thinking." 

Some of them looked confused -- but Spike laughed. "You've a pair of 
his unmentionables? What'd you do, steal 'em and run 'em up a flagpole?" 

"Unmentionables?" Xander asked. Then he looked at Rupert, eyes 
wide. "You have a pair of his *underwear*?" 

"If someone will take me home, I can get them and we can get on with the 
locating spell." 

"You have a pair of his *underwear*?" Buffy asked. 

Rupert sighed. "Look, it's important we find--" 

"You have a pair of Ethan's underwear?" Willow asked, scrunching up her 
nose like she was imagining that he hadn't washed them, either. 

Rupert looked around at the rest of the group, daring them to comment. 
He glanced up at Dawn, who looked utterly innocent. "Who, me? Why would I 
care that you have a pair of your alleged worst-and-most-annoying enemy's 
underwear, which you keep for sentimental reasons?" 

"Xander used to be my enemy, back when I was a vengeance demon and 
Cordelia was my client, and I keep all *his* underwear for sentimental 
reasons," Anya offered helpfully. 

"Thank you, Anya," Xander said, without even a trace of sarcasm. "Except 
you don't -- you threw away my He-Man Underoos." 

"They were twenty years old, Xander. They had moth holes in them!" 

Rupert had never in his life thought he would ever be grateful for a 
conversation about Xander's delicate-washing items in his presence. Too bad 
it couldn't have lasted longer. Xander shook his head, apparently aware 
that he couldn't win an argument with Anya, and turned back to look at 
Rupert. "You've been holding out on us, Mister." 

Rupert blinked, astonished. "You don't...actually think I... I was 
forced to borrow them when he turned me into a Fyarl demon. Once I turned 
back, it was wear his clothes or go about naked." He glared, daring them 
to suggest he have done so. 

"And you kept them for sentimental reasons?" Buffy asked. 

"It's a very fond memory -- watching the Initiative manhandle him into 
the car, taking him away...." Rupert smiled, remembering. That part had 
made it all worth-while. 

"Yeah, but -- you were still wearing pants. Trousers. And pants. I 
thought you just borrowed a shirt?" Buffy asked. 

Rupert fumbled with the book he was holding, and muttered, "My own were 
quite stretched out of shape." 

"Oh, yes," Anya said brightly. Rupert considered hiding under the 
table. "Fyarl genitalia are quite large and impressive." She looked at 
Xander and Spike. "Not *more* impressive than human or vampire sized ones." 

"Not threatened," Xander assured her. 

"Yeah," Spike agreed, but looked over at Rupert with a devious 
expression. Rupert considered spelling a hole in the ground, to disappear 
into. "But only when aroused, dear Rupert. Otherwise they're quite tiny." 

Rupert didn't reply. He was trying to remember a suitable spell to 
inflict on Spike. Or a teleportation spell, to send himself someplace 
else. Like Essex. 

"Spike? How do you know what they look like?" Xander was asking. 

"Well, they're textbook demons, aren't they. Don't tend to walk about in 
trousers like some of your more anthropomorphic types." 

"Yeah, but how did you know the bit about impressive versus tiny?" 

"Hey, not my fault if everyone who sees me wants to shag me. That 
doesn't mean they *did* shag me, mind. I've got some standards. Never boff 
anything with an IQ under 60. Which means you just made the cut, 
monkey-boy." Spike grinned and thumped Xander on the head. 

"No foreplay! No foreplay!" The cry came from Willow and Tara, and was 
swiftly echoed by Buffy and Rupert. Dawn was suspiciously silent, and Anya 
was grinning happily. 

"That was *not* foreplay," Xander complained. "He *insulted* me and I'm 
not speaking to him for the rest of the night." 

"Are, too," Spike cajoled. 

Rupert looked for something to throw. Light enough he could pick it up, 
and heavy enough it would hurt Spike. He couldn't find anything suitable. 

"There are *children* present," Willow snapped. 

"Look, Red, just because *you're* going a month without, doesn't mean 
the rest of us should suffer," Spike told her. 

Rupert nearly opened his mouth to say 'Can we please get back to finding 
Ethan' -- then realized they were no longer talking about his underwear, 
and kept quiet. 

"But aren't they used to it? I mean, don't lesbians stop having sex 
after the first year or so?" 

Everyone stared, or gaped, at Anya. Willow stomped her foot. "That is 
not true! Lesbian bed-death is a myth! We have sex all the time...just not 
when we're four!" 

While it was *nice* they weren't talking about Ethan's underwear, Rupert 
wasn't sure he preferred the current topic any more. He wondered if he 
shouldn't just call a taxi to take him home to fetch the garment, and leave 
everyone else here. 

"Oh. See, Xander? You were wrong-- they still have sex. So when they 
grow up, we can invite them to--" Anya's words were cut off by a large hand 
over her mouth. 

"You actually believed that?" Willow looked up at him. 

"No, I just wanted *Anya* to," Xander whined. "Did you *really* want her 
inviting you over for swing night?" 

Rupert did *not* want to hear the answer to that. Desperately. "Stop! 
Dawn, take me home so I can pick up Ethan's...things, and while we're gone, 
the rest of you can talk about whatever you like. Preferably the 
introduction of saltpetre as a regular part of your balanced breakfasts." 

"Oh, that's *definitely* a myth," Anya started in. "I don't see why 
anyone ever even bothered trying it, when it's so much easier to cause a 
man to lose interest in sex by making his parts fall off." 

"Wonderful. Fine. Feel free to discuss it in detail, while we're 
gone." Rupert climbed down off his chair, and walked over to Dawn. "Once 
we leave the shop, may we drive very slowly?" 

Dawn smiled. "What if we just stop for ice cream on the way?" 

"Excellent." 

"Rupert! Naughty boy," Spike chided. 

"Er? What?" Willow and Tara were giggling, and Spike and Xander were 
grinning like they were up to something. "Never mind, I don't want to 
know. Come on, Dawn." 

"Hang on -- Buffy, can I have some money?" 

"Why don't you just get some from Giles?" 

"Because he already bribed me once, today. It's your turn." 

"Then why don't you use your bribe money to pay for it?" Buffy asked her. 

"D'uh! Because I already spent it." 

Buffy frowned. "What am I supposed to be bribing you for?" 

Dawn rolled her eyes. "So I don't tell them what you told me about how 
much you saw when Ethan turned Giles back into a human, and those pajama 
pants fell off..." 

"That's not bribery, that's blackmail." Nonetheless, Buffy dug into her 
purse, while Rupert covered his ears and considered whether or not to throw 
a tantrum. 

"Maybe we should invite *Buffy* to swing night," Anya suggested. "Since 
Giles won't accept my offer. Then she can tell us stories, and -- " 

Willow was glaring up at Xander. "I don't see you objecting to *that* 
invitation." 

"Well, no. I'm always up for stories about Giles and his underwear." 

"That's not what I --" 

He'd had quite enough of this. Rupert swung his head around to look at 
the adults in the room, narrowed his eyes, and began the mental 
preparations necessary to cast the ancient Lithonian spell of silence on 
them. Then he thought of a better idea-- and pouted. 

Everyone just looked at him, momentarily speechless. Then Spike began 
applauding. "Oh, very nice. Love it--" Rupert looked directly at Spike, 
who stopped clapping. Then he stopped smiling. Then he fidgeted in his 
chair. Finally he said, "Oh, what do you want, already?" 

Rupert held out his hand. Spike reached into Xander's pocket for his 
wallet before Rupert could even say, "So we can stop for french fries." 

"Wimp," Xander taunted Spike. 

"S'your money, isn't it?" 

"Yeah, Xander. Why aren't you yelling at him for stealing your 
wallet?" Willow asked, as Spike brought Rupert a couple of five dollar bills. 

"Oh, right," Xander said. "Spike, don't ever grope me in front of my 
friends. Bad Spike." 

Rupert narrowed his eyes. "Just for that, I'm not bringing you any 
fries." Then he turned and walked out of the shop. 

Part Twenty-Two  

"Ahhh...ahhh...choo!" Tara just managed to grab the kleenex that Willow 
was holding out, in time. 

Xander looked up from the TV and blinked at her. "That's the third time 
she's sneezed in the last half hour," he said to Spike. 

"Yeah, I know. I know." Spike was staring at her like he thought she 
might suddenly dissolve into a big pile of sneeze-goo. Honestly! 

"You think we should take her to the hospital?" 

Willow looked around at them while Tara wiped her nose between giggles. 
"Are you guys nuts? She just has a cold." 

"Yeah, but... um..." Xander didn't look very well himself, Tara decided. 
He looked all hyper and freaked-- especially when she sneezed again. "See! 
There she goes again. What if it's something worse than a cold?" 

Tara rolled her eys, then decided that she may as well make the best of 
what was apparently going to be a hysterical set of pseudo-parents. "I'm 
sure if I had some tea, I'd feel much better," she said, looking cute and 
just a tiny bit pathetic. 

"Tea? OK, I can make tea. It's just boiling water, right?" Xander 
jumped up and was heading for the kitchen. 

Spike, however, was looking at her with some alarm. "You, er, don't 
feel well? How sick do you feel? Bugger, I can't -- Red, put your hand on 
her forehead, tell me if she's got a fever." 

Tara tried very hard not to giggle, as Willow did as requested. She 
pressed her forearm against Tara's head, then kissed her forehead. Then 
shook her head. "Nope. Fever free." 

Spike was giving Willow a decidedly skeptical look. "Thought you were 
supposed to use your hand?" 

"It's more fun my way," Willow replied. 

"Hmm." Tara couldn't tell whether he was storing the information for 
future use, or deciding if he believed Willow. "We got a thermometer around 
here? Just in case?" 

Xander put his own hand on Tara's forehead. "She doesn't feel warm to 
me. Well, warmer than you, duh. Um... I think there's a thermometer in the 
medicine chest..." 

"Aren't you supposed to be making tea?" Willow asked. 

"Please-- Yank-boy couldn't make a decent cup of tea to save his life. 
Boiling water..." Spike snorted, and headed for the kitchen, still casting 
worried looks in Tara's direction. 

"Great-- by the time he's done, we'll be hip-deep in crumpets," Xander 
said, glancing after him. Then he looked back at Tara. "Are you sure you 
don't have any achey joints? It could be the 'flu." 

"Xander, I'm sure. I've had colds before -- and influenza. I know the 
difference." 

He didn't look convinced, but Tara figured it would just take her speedy 
recovery to convince them she wasn't seriously ill. At least Willow wasn't 
freaking out -- she was sitting beside Tara, looking supportive and 
smiling, and ready to steal the blanket the moment Tara let her attention 
stray. Just like always. 

"Um, Okay, so -- do you need anything? Besides tea, I think we have 
cough syrup and aspirin and -- or are you not supposed to give aspirin to 
kids with colds? Or is it fevers?" Xander jumped up and headed towards 
the kitchen. "Spike! Hell, why am I asking you?" He began pacing towards 
the phone. "Maybe I should call...umm... Buffy might know. She never gets 
sick. Dawn? Would Dawn know? Or--" 

"Xander!" Willow threw a pillow, which bounced off Xander's head. "You 
could ask me. I've had colds before, you know. Or - here's an idea. You 
could ask Tara. She's had colds before, too." 

Tara gave Willow a grin. Xander just looked marginally less 
freaked. When Tara sneezed again, Xander jumped for the box, but Willow 
was already holding another tissue out. 

"I knew we shouldn't have let them help," Xander was saying. "When it 
started raining, we should have brought them straight home." 

"Don't be silly -- you needed us to make the spell work right." 

"Since the spell didn't *work*, I don't think Anya's gonna buy that, 
somehow." 

Willow frowned at Xander, then stuck her tongue out at him. "Dorkhead. 
It's not our fault he wasn't *here*. It only works if the person's within a 
mile radius. He could've gone out of town to see a movie, or...um..." 

"Gone to Wal-Mart to buy some new underwear," Tara giggled. "That's more 
than a mile away." 

"Anyway, why are you worried about Anya?" Willow asked. 

"Because it's another thing we managed to fu-- screw up, on our own. 
She's gonna think we can't take care of you two." He actually looked like 
he believed what he was saying. Tara glanced at Willow, and they shared a 
private giggle. "What?" Xander asked, putting his hands on his hips. 

"First of ahh ahh achoo!" Tara took the kleenex that Willow had at the 
ready. "First of all, it's not your fault it rained. Anya's not gonna be 
mad at you for me catching some germs, either. And second of all..." She 
looked at Willow, and giggled again. 

"What?" 

But they were both giggling too hard to answer Xander's now-whiny 
question. Oh yeah, Anya was *all* about thinking Spike and Xander couldn't 
raise kids! Even *Giles* had caught those looks she'd been giving them when 
their backs were turned, and he'd made barfing noises about it to Willow 
and Tara. Loud, realistic-sounding barfing noises. 

Willow reached over and patted Xander's hand. "Why don't you go see if 
Spike needs help with the tea?" 

"Spike's threatened to make me sleep in the utility room downstairs if I 
ever 'help' with the tea, again," Xander muttered, but he walked over to 
the kitchen, regardless. 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Tara and Willow began laughing, 
harder. "He doesn't have a clue!" Willow whispered. 

Tara shook her head. "I think Anya's gonna spring it on him." The 
thought just occurred, and she sat up suddenly. "Oh, you don't think 
she'll...um, do it without warning him, first?" 

Willow stopped laughing, and frowned. "I don't think so. It's kinda a 
big thing to spring on a guy, that you're making him a dad." 

"And Anya is all tact and good-planning," Tara said sarcastically. 

"Oh. Hmm, good point. Well, we *could* warn him," Willow began. Then 
they grinned. 

"Nah!" they said in unison. 

Tara was just getting out of the early-sneezing phase of her cold -- 
which never lasted more than a couple of hours, and she'd been sniffling 
since they got home -- when Spike emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray 
of tea things. And yes, when Spike made tea, Spike *made tea*. He was worse 
than Giles, which Tara had never thought possible. 

"I really think it's 'starve a cold and feed a fever, Spike," Xander was 
saying. But that was probably only because he wanted all the cream horns 
for himself. Tara smiled happily as Willow snatched two and handed one to her. 

"That's about temperature, moron. Not food. You starve a cold by taking 
away the cold air, and feed a fever by giving it warmth." Spike handed Tara 
a cup of hot tea, with lemon and sugar -- no cream. Just the way she liked 
it. She smiled at him, then dipped the end of her cream horn into it, which 
got her a look almost as pained as some she'd seen Giles give Anya. Tara 
stuck out her tongue at Spike and munched happily on her dripping pastry. 

Xander snatched one of the cream horns for himself, then frowned. "But 
that means..." 

"Means you do the same thing, yeah." 

"How'd you know that?" 

Spike rolled his eyes. "I *did* have a mum once, you know." 

Xander shrugged. "Mine wouldn't have known that." Then he looked at 
Tara. "Hey, doesn't that mean she should have some blankets on her?" 

Spike blinked, then nodded, looking distracted. "Yeah, s'pose so. I'll 
get some." 

"I already have one blanket," Tara pointed out. 

"Not for long. Willow's already got half of it," Xander pointed to the 
innocent looking girlfriend snuggled under the blanket beside Tara. 

Tara looked sharply at her. "Stop that, I'm sick!" 

Willow rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you're dying, I can tell. Move over, I 
wanna be coddled, too." 

"You don't get coddled, you aren't sick." 

"I can be! I bet if I kiss you, I'll catch your cold." She moved 
forward, and Tara saw Xander leap forward and put his hand over Willow's face. 

"You're not getting sick, too. And you're not kissing in front of me 
when you're too young to look anything but adorable. Um, I 
mean...hell. Spike! Get out here with those blankets!" 

"Keep your bloody shirt on!" Spike yelled back. Tara thought he sounded 
a bit cranky -- could vampires get colds? When Willow got sick, she got 
cranky, which was a good reason *not* to try to give Willow her cold. 

Even with Spike, Xander, and Anya around to take care of them, they'd 
put them in bed together and Tara would have to listen to her. She loved 
Willow, with all her heart and soul, but if she prefered being far away 
when Willow had a cold. She realized Xander probably knew how Willow got 
when she was sick -- which explained his quick reflexes. 

"Here's the blankets," Spike said, coming back into the living 
room. Tara stared in disbelief -- it looked like he'd grabbed every 
blanket in the apartment. 

"Spike, I'll suffocate!" she protested. He rolled his eyes, and tossed a 
fluffy blue blanket on top of her. Willow immediately started tryng to 
steal it. This time Tara let her, though -- because Spike was already 
shaking out a quilted comforter and spreading it over her. "That's enough-- 
really!" 

He frowned. "You sure you don't need another?" 

Xander studied her, then took the rest of the blankets from Spike and 
piled them on a chair. "Let's give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, 
Anya won't be too thrilled if we end up smothering her, either." 

"Sure, all you warm-blooded types just stick together," Spike said 
grumpily. When Tara stuck her tongue out at him, though, he smiled, and 
handed her another cream horn. Xander suddenly grinned, and grabbed Spike, 
pulling him close. Trying to, anyway, but Spike brushed him off and gave 
him a dirty look. "What are you doing?" 

"I was trying to stick to you," Xander replied, with a hint of a pout. 

Tara ate another bite of her cream horn, and watched, avidly. Willow 
was right -- this was better than watching soaps. 

"I'm not doing anything of the sort, not in front of the kids." Spike 
glared at Xander, and Xander responded by pouting even more. 

"We can go in the other room," he suggested. 

"And leave Tara out here all unsupervised, while she's sick?" Spike 
demanded. 

"Hey!" Willow put her hands on her hips and jutted out her lower 
lip. It would have been more effective, Tara thought, if she hadn't stayed 
lounging on the couch under two stolen blankets. "I can supervise her just 
fine!" 

"See, Willow can--" Xander frowned. "What am I saying. This is the 
person who tried to reenact _The Cat In the Hat_ when she was six. And 
she's only four, now. You're right, Spike." 

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Anybody get that on tape?" 

"Hey, buddy," Willow protested. "Just who was the one who dared me to do 
it, huh? Whose summer reading list was that book on? Not mine-- I was 
reading _Huckleberry Finn_." 

"Yeah, well... Do you do everything I say you should do? If I told you 
to jump off a -- " Xander stopped, and smacked himself in the forehead. 
"Help me-- I have become Willow's mother." 

Tara looked him over. "Um, no. She has bigger boobs than you." 

"Thank you. Much appreciated." Xander looked down at his t-shirted chest 
and flexed uncertainly. 

"Tara, have you been looking at my mother's boobs?" 

Tara's jaw dropped, and she tried to think of what she was supposed to 
say. No? Yes, but not that way? Yes, and I can see where you get yours? 
Then she sneezed, and Spike was holding her nearly-dropped mug of tea, and 
she didn't have to say anything. 

"Maybe we should call the doctor. Just in case," Xander said. 

"Boys!" Willow sighed. "Why doesn't one of you go down to the store 
and get some echinacea?" 

"Echiwhaticha?" Xander asked. 

"It'll make her get better, faster, without making her all dopey like 
regular cold medicine will." 

"But I don't like the way it tastes," Tara said hesitantly. She'd been 
hoping four-year-old Willow wouldn't have remembered the homeopathic cold 
remedies. 

Willow looked sternly at her. "It will make you better." 

"Right, then, I'll go to the store," Spike offered. "Er, which one will 
have it?" 

"Yeah, because it has to be one he's allowed to go into," Xander said 
with an evil smile. 

Spike sneered at him, then reached for his jacket. "I'm sure I can 
manage to act like a grown-up for an hour, without your unsavoury 
influence. Willow?" 

"Just about anywhere with a pharmacy should have it on their 
over-the-counter shelves. Walgreens, K-Mart, Wal-Mart..." 

"Got it." Spike was straightening his collar and heading out the door, 
while Xander was still blinking at the quickness of his departure. 

"You sure you're okay to drive in the rain?" he called out. 

"Walking. Not like *I'm* gonna catch cold." Then Spike was out and the 
door was shutting behind him. Xander stared at the front door for a few 
seconds longer. Then Tara sneezed again, and was once more confronted with 
too much comfort and care. 

She wasn't sure how she survived it until the front door opened, 
again. She'd managed to distract Xander a little by telling him what she 
really needed was the TV on, so she could relax and not do anything. Robot 
Wars kept them all amused for nearly an hour, then the door opened and 
Xander leapt up. 

"Anya! You're home." 

"Yes, I'm home. You sound disappointed." 

"No! I thought you were Spike. He went to get echi..something I can't 
pronounce. For Tara -- she's sick!" 

"Sick?" 

Tara looked over the back of the couch, waved, then sneezed again. "I 
have a cold," she explained. 

Anya walked over, and looked down at her and Willow. "Is Willow sick, too?" 

"Nope! Just stealing blankets," Willow answered proudly. "And I'm the 
official tissue hander-overer." She handed a tissue over, as she spoke. 

Anya surveyed the scene -- Tara could see her take in the number of 
blankets, the tray of tea, and the glasses of orange juice Xander had 
brought out once the tea was drunk. "You did a very good job, Xander. I'm 
impressed with your parental instincts -- apparently the Harris genes 
haven't completely obliterated them." 

Tara saw Willow wince, but Xander just smiled, like after all this time 
with Anya, he was able to listen to what she meant, instead of what she 
said. "Thank you, Mrs. Harris. I'll be sure to call my grandma and tell her." 

"Isn't she dead?" 

"Good point. I'll call collect." 

Anya smiled, and Tara was surprised. She hadn't really noticed, before 
now, how readily Anya got Xander's jokes, nowadays. Perhaps Anya was just 
indulging Xander, smiling when she knew he'd *made* a joke, even though she 
didn't get it. Tara looked over at Willow. It wasn't totally unheard of 
thing to do. 

"Here, got your echinacea," Spike was saying, handing her a paper 
bag. Startled, Tara took it, and pulled out a box of echinacea tea, a 
bottle of alcohol-free essence of echinacea, and a jar of echinacea tablets. 

"Um, thanks," she managed, wondering if Spike expected her to take *all* 
of this in the next two days. She hadn't even seen him come in, though it 
wasn't too difficult to gather from the grin he gave her that he was used 
to sneaking up on people in that annoying, stealthy vampire way. And that 
he enjoyed it. 

"Take the liquid," Willow was saying in her imperious mommy-tone, which 
had lost must of its commanding air when she'd become four. Tara stuck her 
tongue out, and took the bottle of tablets. 

"I'm taking one of these." 

"But the liquid is absorbed much faster, Tara, and you'll feel better 
sooner." 

"Except for when I'm gagging on the taste. I'm taking these." 

"Tara," Willow began. 

"Willow, let her be," Xander said. "She'll get well soon enough. For 
now, why don't we give you some more juice to wash that down with." Willow 
stuck her tongue out at Xander. "Your face will freeze that way," he warned 
her. He was grinning, though, so Tara didn't think they were about to be 
subjected to another round of "Help, I'm a grown-up." 

"Oh, is that what happened to you?" Willow asked, snuggling into her 
corner of the couch. Xander stuck his own tongue out at her, then 
disappeared into the kitchen. 

Anya turned to Spike, who'd been standing there, his hands still in his 
duster pockets. "Aren't you going to take your coat off?" she asked, as she 
pulled her own off and hung it up next to the door. 

Spike glanced at the girls for a moment, then fished around in his 
pocket. "Oh --here, forgot this." He handed Tara a small package. 

"Echinacea chewing gum?" She blinked. "Um. Thanks." 

"Spike?" Anya was reaching out for his coat, but he shook his head. 

"I'm gonna head back out and help the Slayer look for Rayne, some 
more. Rupes didn't want her to go alone, but if I don't go she'll end up 
towing Dawn and the mini-Rupert, around." He headed for the front door, 
with the air of someone who was just stepping out for a pack of cigarettes 
and a game of pool. 

"Here. Drink all of this." Xander was holding out another tall glass 
of juice. Tara couldn't tell for sure, but she thought he was a little 
subdued by Spike's leaving. He wasn't saying anything, though, so Tara 
decided to worry about more immediate problems. 

"I can't drink all of that." 

"Excuse me?" Xander blinked at her, and was no doubt thinking about the 
five sodas she had downed in one sitting. 

"I'll have to pee all night, if I drink all that, now." 

"You'll be up all night, anyway, coughing," Willow pointed out. Tara 
stuck her tongue out at Willow. 

Then she heard, faintly, "Er, yeah. So I'm off. Be back later." She 
looked over and saw Spike, just now walking out the door. She hadn't 
realized he'd still been standing there, and guessed, from Anya and 
Xander's confused expressions, that they hadn't, either. 

"Spike seems a little distracted. Do you think Tara being sick made him 
uncomfortable? It used to make *me* feel weird, being around sick humans." 
Anya asked. "Not counting you, of course." She smiled brightly at Xander. 
"You're sick all the time, so I got used to it." 

"Hey, I catch things easily. And *so* not my fault I got syphillis, I'll 
remind you." 

"I meant in the head." She frowned. "Did I say it wrong? You always 
laugh when Spike makes jokes like that." Then Anya paused. "Of course, the 
syphillis could have made you sick in the head. In fact, you could still be 
suffering from lingering complications. That might explain your bizarre 
shopping patterns..." 

"And that, Ladies and Germs--" Xander stared sternly at Tara, as if the 
germs in question were hiding under the blanket with her, instead of 
invading her nose and throat -- "was my wife attempting to be humorous." 

"No, it wasn't. Well, only the first part." But Anya was still smiling, 
looking at Xander expectantly. 

"You weren't trying to be humourous?" Xander asked, and Tara giggled, 
muffling it behind her hand in case she wasn't supposed to be laughing at them. 

"I wasn't *trying*," Anya replied. "It was successfully 
funny. See? They're laughing." She pointed to Willow and Tara. 

"Yes, they are," Xander agreed. He leaned in and gave Anya the kiss she 
was so obviously waiting for, her reward for making a joke. Even if it 
wasn't funny. Tara laughed, again, and sneezed once, then coughed. "If he 
wasn't uncomfortable being around a sick kid, what do you think it 
was?" Xander glanced at Tara, then Willow. "Did he say anything weird? I 
mean, for Spike?" 

Willow shook her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. It made her 
look adorable, Tara thought. She watched Willow for a moment, then blinked 
when someone waved a hand in front of her face. 

"Earth to Tara...you can stare at your girlfriend on your own time. Did 
Spike say anything odd to you?" 

"No. Not odd for Spike," Tara admitted. As long as she had known the 
vampire, she couldn't read him well enough to guess why he'd left. She 
wasn't worried, though, because Xander and Anya hadn't gone chasing after him. 

"He'll tell us when he gets back. Even if we have to have sex with him 
for seven hours before he tells us." It was freaky, Tara thought, how Anya 
could make that sound like it was just another household chore. Like 
stripping wallpaper.... 

"Um...Anya..." Xander was jerking his head in Willow and Tara's 
direction, in that universal 'not in front of the children' gesture. Tara 
recognized it not only from her own childhood, but from the number of times 
she'd made it herself in the last month. 

"Oh. Right. Somebody needs to be able to get up and check on Tara every 
so often. Plus you have to work tomorrow. So we need something that takes 
less than seven hours. Hmm." Anya looked thoughtful. "We could spank him. 
That would take less than seven hours." 

Willow sat up straight and made a face like she'd just tasted some of 
those echinacea drops. "Hello! Children present! Lesbian children present! 
Don't want to hear about naked male vampires being spanked..." 

"I didn't say anything about nakedness," Anya told her. 

"Oh. Well. Good." 

"I mean, he'd *be* naked, but I didn't *say* that. I figured it was 
understood." 

"Anya!" The chorus came from both Willow and Xander. Tara was too busy 
trying to laugh and cough at the same time. 

"What?" she asked, sounding as innocent and confused as she always 
did. Tara was beginning to suspect it was at least partly put-on. 

"Maybe we should just *talk* to him," Xander suggested, with another 
significant glance towards the children. 

Anya pouted. "Very well. It doesn't seem like as much fun. We're 
going to have to think of something else, though, when we have kids of our 
own. I'm not going eighteen or more years without talking about having sex 
with you and Spike." 

Tara tried very, very hard not to cough or sneeze -- drinking in the 
sight of Xander, eyes as wide as they had been as a magically-turned 
four-year-old, and mouth gaping like he'd been hypnotized into thinking he 
was a frog and had to catch flies. He was apparently trying to say 
something, because she could see his throat working, and his jaw moved, 
slightly, every so often. Tara glanced over and caught Willow winking at 
her, then they both went back to watching Xander have a heart-attack. 

"You..buhwah..yubuh," Xander finally said. 

"Yes?" Anya asked. Again sounding so innocent and guileless that Tara 
had to wonder if she had *ever* been truly clueless. 

"Please tell me you are speaking hypothetically," Xander managed. 

Anya favoured him a small smile. "If you're asking if I'm pregnant, the 
answer is 'no'. I thought about becoming pregnant without informing you, 
but I have decided, from watching you and Spike behave as parents, that you 
will be fine making the decision beforehand. You two will make excellent 
fathers. I chose well." 

Xander was gaping, again, only this time he was starting to grin. Also 
starting to look at Anya like someone was going to have to remind him there 
were children present. 

"I get to be godmother," Willow declared. "And you have to name it 
after me." Without removing his gaze from Anya, Xander picked up a pillow 
and smacked Willow dead-center in the face with it. 

"You can't be godmother," Tara said. Willow watched, frowning, while she 
blew her nose, then said, "I get to be godmother. I'm the one who blew up 
Spike's crypt so he had to move in with Xander and Anya in the first place." 

"Like you did that on *purpose*, Ms. 'I don't need a measuring spoon, I 
know just how much henbane to add, poof poof oops' ?" 

"The ways of a witch are mysterious and...ah... ah... choo! Not to be 
questioned by mere ...ah choo! " Tara peeped up at Willow, who was trying 
to look stern, and *still* looked adorable. "Um... I think maybe I should 
take the liquid echinacea after ah... ahh..." She caught that last one, and 
watched the adorable look change to one she recognized all too well -- nyah 
nyah told you so... 

"See what you get for questioning the ways of a witch?" Willow asked. 
Tara narrowed her eyes, remembering a certain sneezing-powder-in-a-spell 
rhyme Willow had sworn would be sooo much fun at parties and Scooby meetings... 

"I'll tell you what you get," Xander interrupted. "An early bedtime." 

"What?!?" they both protested, in identical tones. 

Xander nodded at Tara. "You're sick, you need plenty of rest." 

"And what about me?" Willow demanded. 

"You?" Xander grinned evilly. "You're four. You go to bed at seven." 

Tara glanced at the clock, and tried to laugh. She coughed, 
instead. Maybe going to sleep *would* be nice, she thought. Wrapped up as 
she was, she was warm enough and comfortable enough...for the moment...to 
sleep. 

Willow was pouting, though. "I'm not tired. I don't wanna go to bed." 

"Then you can lie next to Tara, and be ready to get her anything she 
needs." Tara gave Willow a pitiful look, and Willow sighed. The mommy 
expression didn't quite look the same on a four-year-old face, but Tara was 
happy to see it. She snuggled in her blankets, then reached out one hand 
towards Willow. 

Willow took it, crawling over with her two stolen blankets, and snuggled 
beside her. "Do you need anything?" she asked. 

Tara shook her head. "I'm fine, for now." 

"I can get you more juice," Willow offered. 

"No, I'm fine." 

"Tissues?" 

"Nope." 

"Another blanket?" Though even Willow looked doubtful, when she asked, 
that Tara could possibly need more. 

"Xander and Anya are sneaking into the bedroom," Tara told her. 

"I'm shocked and dismayed," Willow said. "Just think of the children..." 

They both giggled, though Tara was getting a little groggy, and the 
giggling was half slap-happiness on her part. She blinked at Willow and 
yawned. "Huunnnnh... you *really* didn't want to hear about 
naked-spanked-Spike?" 

Willow pursed her lips. "Well... not when I'm not old enough to 
appreciate the image." 

"But..." ...yawn... "You can always store it up for later." 

Willow opened her mouth-- then closed it, and pouted. "I didn't think of 
that. Damn." 

"Don't talk like that in front of me. I'm a sick child." Tara smiled 
sleepily as Willow rolled her eyes and tugged Tara's topmost blanket closer 
to Tara's chin. 

"Yup. Very sick." 

"I'm going to sleep, now," she said, closing her eyes. She didn't have 
to wriggle much to get comfy, and she smiled when she felt Willow snuggling 
under the blankets with her. She didn't hear Willow say goodnight, but was 
pretty sure she did. 

Part Twenty-Three  

The room was dark, and Willow was sound asleep the next time Tara opened 
her eyes. She felt sick, her head hurt and she could feel her sinuses 
clogging and aching. She reached out from under the blankets for more 
echinacea, and the movement woke the rest of her body up. Specifically, her 
two glasses of juice and one mug of tea filled bladder awoke. 

She carefully crawled out from under the blankets and off the couch, 
trying not to wake Willow. It was dark in the apartment, but there was a 
light on in the bathroom, its door shut enough that only a crack of light 
spread across the hallway floor. She made her way to the bathroom, 
squinting against the light when she opened the door, and wished she 
weren't sick. She felt decidedly icky. 

When she'd finished in the bathroom, she didn't feel like going back to 
sleep -- not certain she could fall asleep again, right away, anyhow. More 
tea, maybe, if she could make it without disturbing anyone. She thought 
about how high the stovetop was. Maybe she'd get another glass of juice. 
If she put the echinacea drops in her juice, she wouldn't be able to taste 
them quite as much. And if she did it while Willow was asleep, she wouldn't 
have to hear 'I told you so' again. At least until next time. 

Thus decided, she padded across to the kitchen in her stocking feet -- 
extremely thankful that she wasn't wearing the footy pajamas, given the 
many disasters possible when you combine too much juice and a smaller-than 
usual bladder with one-piece zippered-up nightwear -- and reached for the 
lightswitch. Stood on tiptoe to reach for the lightswitch, to be accurate. 
She just managed to flick it with her fingertips, and the florescent light 
sputtered and popped on. 

"Eep!" 

At least she managed to eep quietly, Tara thought as she stared at 
Spike, who was sitting slouched in one of the chairs next to the little 
2-person-3-if-you-squeeze breakfast-table. He blinked at her, looking not 
so much startled as distracted. 

She stared at him as his pupils contracted to pinpoints., and his eyes 
were all blue iris, for a second. He blinked again. Then his distracted 
look was replaced with one of concern. "Hey, witchling. Something wrong? 
You feel sicker? I can make you some tea if you like, or... emergency 
room's open 24 hours. God knows I've got *that* place memorized by now -- 
could drive there with my eyes closed." 

Tara continued to stare at him, then grinned slightly. "No thanks. 
Especially not the eyes-closed part." 

"Tea, then?" he asked, already standing up and heading for the tea 
kettle. She was tempted to say yes, then thought about what 'making tea' 
meant for Spike. She didn't think he ought to go to that much 
trouble...but then, she didn't want more juice. She wanted hot tea. 

"Thanks," she said, trying to sound as grateful as she felt. It was 
tricky, when her head was so stuffed up. She couldn't tell if she really 
sounded grateful, or just tired. 

She climbed into the kitchen chair beside the one Spike had been sitting 
in, and watched as he began to put together the tea making 
paraphenalia. Tara tried to figure it all out -- again -- but had to 
admit, secretly, that she agreed with Xander. Boiling water and adding a 
little bag was easier. She sat there, watching Spike work silently, until 
she realized he wasn't going to say anything at all. Maybe that was how 
tea was supposed to be made -- maybe he'd picked up tea ceremony habits or 
something. But she had a feeling it was just whatever he'd been thinking 
about, here in the dark. 

"Spike? What's wrong?" she finally asked. 

"What makes you think something's wrong?" he asked as he measured leaves 
into a cup. He was paying very close attention to them -- possibly afraid 
they would suddenly turn into a Lipton's teabag if he took his eyes off 
them for one second? 

Tara rolled her own eyes, not that he was going to catch the visual if 
he never looked at her. "Xander and Anya are in bed. And you're not. You 
were sitting in here in the dark, staring at the floor. Which -- unless you 
were having sex telepathically, in which case please tell me now, and I'll 
leave and pretend to forget I ever woke up-- seems kinda wrongish to me. 
Given that you're widely known to be willing to pass up a blood-soaked riot 
to be in bed with Xander and/or Anya." 

"You don't *sound* very regressed," he pointed out, deftly avoiding the 
question. So he thought. 

"I'm sick and I'm tired and I want my tea and I'm gonna whine at you 
until you tell me what's wrong and you better not be mean to me or I'll 
make my girlfriend turn your weewee into a doorknob," she said evenly. 
"There-- is that better?" 

He turned around from his preparations and stared at her for a second, 
then chuckled. He sounded tired, too. "I remember when you were the shy one." 

"I *am* the shy one. If I were Willow, I'd have used the medical Latin 
for weewee." 

The teapot chose that moment to make its presence known -- by spouting 
steam, since he'd thankfully taken the whistle out. Spike poured water into 
two cups, and added the right fixings, then carried them over to the table 
and sat down, falling back into that same not-quite-relaxed slouch in which 
she'd found him. 

After he'd taken a sip of his own tea, he glanced at her quickly, then 
looked back down at his cup. "Anya wants to have a baby." 

"I know. She told Xander, today." Tara giggled. "You should have seen 
his face!" 

Spike blinked at her. "She told Xander?" 

She nodded. Spike didn't say anything. He stared at his tea until Tara 
began to wonder if she'd ruined her chance to get *anything* out of him, at 
all. Was that what was bothering him, then? That he'd missed seeing 
Xander's reaction? That seemed like a rather trivial thing to be upset 
about, though. She didn't put it past Spike to *be* upset about it, but not 
so badly that he'd stay out of bed. He'd be more likely to be in bed, 
demanding they make it up to him. 

"Spike?" She leaned forward and touched his hand, almost startling his 
attention back to her, from whatever dark place it had been. "Don't you 
want to have a baby?" 

He snorted. "Not like I can, is it?" 

"I don't mean...." Trailing off, Tara began to understand. "Is that 
it? Because you can't father any of the babies?" 

He shrugged, then half-nodded. "Won't be their Dad, will I. I'll be 
'Uncle Spike' -- the guy who lives with Mum and Dad and doesn't have a room 
of his own. Assuming they even want me about anymore." 

Tara frowned. "Assuming -- so you haven't even talked to them about it." 
His refusal -- again -- to look at her pretty much answered that question. 
"You're just jumping to conclusions. Why wouldn't they want you around?" 

"The guy who lives with Mum and Dad and doesn't age? The guy who lives 
with Mum and Dad and can't go out in the sunlight? Hell, the *guy* who 
lives with Mum and Dad -- that's enough, right there. It's one thing now, 
when they can tell anybody who asks to sod off, we're young, we can do what 
we want. But bring kids into it... " He shook his head. "Be easier for them 
if I wasn't here, that's all." Then he looked at Tara, who was shaking her 
own head, but he wasn't paying attention to that. "They're married. We 
don't say it much, but they're married. You might remember -- little 
ceremony in the park, after sunset, lot of horny types on the bride's side 
of the pews? If I wasn't here, they'd probably have a couple of sprogs 
already." 

Tara frowned. "But...they talked like they want you here. Like you're 
gonna be the father, too." She did remember the ceremony -- it had been 
really nice, but she'd wondered ever since why they hadn't ever married 
Spike, too. They hadn't been a threesome at the time of Xander and Anya's 
wedding, but since then.... 

"Talked about me, eh?" Spike was saying, sounding very much like he 
didn't believe her. 

"Anya was talking about how she wasn't going to spend eighteen years not 
spanking you, just because there were kids in the house." 

Whatever Spike's poor me response had been going to be, it apparently 
got derailed. He gaped at her, mouth open and eyes wide. After a moment he 
shook his head. "Sorry, you said 'spanking'. Er, what?" 

"Anya and Xander were concerned about how to talk about, and 
actually...um, do things, with kids in the house. They mentioned you by name." 

Spike still looked a bit dazed -- or possibly turned on, in which case 
Tara wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Then his face 
changed, a bit, and looked a bit like he had when he'd been four. "They 
really still want me around after they have kids?" 

Tara got down from the chair, walked around and took Spike by the 
hand. She tugged, and he stood up, then let her lead him towards the 
bedroom. When he got to the door, he stood there for a moment, and she gave 
a deep, long-suffering sigh. "What? It's your bedroom, you know. No 
monsters in there." 

"You haven't seen Anya at three in the morning with her hair in curlers." 

"Yes, I have. She had this bizarre idea that we all had to have a 
sleepover party, a couple of years ago. Spike, for god's sake, go in there 
and talk to them." 

Just for a second, Tara thought it would actually work. He'd push the 
door open and go in and she could go back to her tea and then crawl onto 
the couch and cuddle with Willow and all would be right with the world and 
there'd be no more offers of trips to the emergency room, at least until 
the morning. But then Spike put his hand down, and leaned against the wall, 
and shook his head again. 

"They're just... feeling guilty. They're too *nice* to tell me to just 
bugger off. And they'll miss the sex." 

Tara stared at him, open-mouthed, then wished she was tall enough to 
whap him on the head. After a second's thought, she let a levitated 
throw-pillow do the job for her. "*Anya's* too *nice* to tell you how she 
really feels?" 

Spike almost looked like he might smile, for a second. "Believe it or 
not, she *does* know how to keep her mouth shut, when she wants to." 

"And you think they're too nice to tell you to go, but they're sleazy 
enough to keep you around here just so they can have their own personal 
undead cabana boy?" Tara asked. "God -- Willow's right -- boys *do* go to 
Jupiter to get more stupider." 

"I'm not--!" Spike retorted, then stopped -- presumably to lower his 
voice. Or because he realized Tara was right. Then he just shook his 
head, and Tara could see by the way his face fell, that he'd decided not to 
believe her. 

She suddenly remembered that Spike had a history of being left behind by 
those he loved. Maybe Xander and Anya needed the whapping, for letting 
Spike get this insecure. She opened her mouth to tell him something really 
wise and convincing, not sure what that was but confident it would come out 
of her mouth readily enough, when the bedroom door opened. Xander stood 
there, looking mostly asleep and -- Tara eeped and looked away. 

She peeked, though, intending to not look at Xander's naked bits, when 
neither Spike nor Xander said anything. She saw Xander pulling Spike to 
him by one arm, then kissing him. She peeked with both eyes when they kept 
kissing. She could tell that it wasn't a 'we keep you for sex' 
kiss. Wasn't even really a 'distract him with sex' embrace. This was the 
sort of kiss that made her need a bowl of chocolate ice cream and her 
blankets, so she could snuggle up and go 'awwww' to herself. Or to Willow, 
which would distract her with her own source of 
love-you-to-the-bottom-of-my-soul. 

Spike stared down at the floor, though, when Xander finally released 
him. "How could you ever think we don't love you?" Xander asked him. 

Spike was getting really good at that looking-at-the-floor thing, Tara 
noted. "I... Didn't think that," he said with sudden breeziness. "Everybody 
loves me, after all. I'm William the Bloody, America's Sweetheart." 

Xander shook his head. "No, you're not." 

"Yes, thank you. I was being sarcastic. It's where you say something 
that's exactly the opposite of what you mean, in a snotty tone, in order to 
make a point?" 

"Really? Thank you for clarifying that. I'd been wondering," Xander said 
in a snotty tone. He put his hand on Spike's arm again. "That wasn't what I 
meant." 

"He meant you're not William the Bloody," Anya said from behind him. 
Tara looked up, and thankfully didn't have to eep again, since Anya'd had 
the decency -- or the foresight -- to put on a robe before coming to the 
bedroom door. 

Spike looked up at her too, a hurt expression on his face. "Well, thank 
you for pointing *that* out, Mrs. Harris, but I'm well aware I've become 
William the Domesticated." 

Anya rolled her eyes. "Stop being a moron. Well, *try* to stop being a 
moron. I wasn't insulting your vamphood." She pushed past Xander and Spike, 
and walked to the desk that stood against the wall opposite the TV. Willow 
stirred slightly as she passed, and Anya bent down to tuck the covers back 
up under her chin, before returning with a handful of papers. "Do you know 
what these are?" She held them out to Spike. 

He nodded, looking perplexed. "Sure. My fake immigration papers. Red and 
this one's," he pointed to Tara, "fake birth certificates and adoption stuff." 

Anya nodded. "And what do they say your name is?" 

Spike rolled his eyes. "William Harris. So? They're fake, they don't 
mean anything." 

"They'll stand up in any court of law," Xander reminded him. 

"Fine, so I can pretend I belong here, can I?" Spike said, 
bitterly. Tara could see the ghost of a movement of his hand -- reaching 
for the cigarette he didn't have, never smoked in the apartment 
anymore. She wondered suddenly how much he missed it. 

Anya just shook her head, and handed over the last paper she'd been 
holding. Spike took it, read it, then frowned in confusion. 

The confusion turned into annoyed anger. "Very funny. Why'd he send this?" 

"Because we asked him to," Xander replied evenly. Tara couldn't see 
what the paper was. 

Spike looked at it again, then up at Xander. "Why'd you think I'd need 
a marriage certificate? *It* wouldn't stand up in any court of law -- 
s'fake, says we're all three married. That ain't legal, pet." 

Marriage certificate? Tara reached out for the paper in Spike's hands, 
and began reading. Tired and achy and sick as she was, she still felt like 
cheering. Just not loudly, so her head wouldn't ring. Xander and Anya 
were smiling at Spike. 

"It isn't fake, Spike. Well, technically you didn't sign it. It *is* 
your signature, though," Xander told him. "It's real and it's valid and it 
means the only way you're getting out of here is by divorcing us. We'd, 
um, planned on telling you about it after we got Willow and Tara back into 
their own place. Had dinner and...events planned. Sorry." He shrugged. 

Tara glanced up to find Spike looking totally dumbstruck. She showed 
him the marriage certificate, again. "Look, Spike, who signed it as the 
officiator." 

Spike looked. Looked again. "Angel?" 

"Yup. Your Sire married you to us. We own you, now." Anya smiled, and 
her tone was light, as if she was teasing him. 

"It took an extra day or so for him to get the right form," Xander 
added. "So this thing only showed up this morning." 

"You think the bureaucracy's bad on Earth, just try ordering something 
from the Tribunal of Demonic Affairs on short notice," Anya said. "You 
don't know *how* many favors I had to call in." 

Spike blinked, and scanned the paper again, studying the letterhead as 
if it were the first time he'd looked at it. Tara squinted up at it, and 
realized that the seal was *not* that of the State of California. Not 
unless the bear had grown three extra eyes and a set of tentacles. 

"But this is... this is real!" he said, looking up at Anya and Xander 
incredulously. 

"Duh, that's what we said," Xander answered. 

"No, but-- this thing's legal in at least 13 dimensions. You two get 
that? You understand you just married yourself off to a demon in the eyes 
of everybody but the United States of 
I-Can't-See-You-And-I'm-Pretending-You're-Not-There ?" 

Anya put her hands on her hips, and tapped her foot, not speaking. Just 
looking at him. Finally she rolled her eyes, and said, "Excuse me, Junior. 
Who was a demon the longest, in this room?" 

Spike's mouth shut with a silent snap. He looked down at the paper 
again. "Oh. Er. Right." 

No one spoke for a minute. Tara was wishing her cold would vanish, so 
she could do more than hold back a yawn. And what did you get Spike, 
Xander, and Anya as a wedding present? 

Spike just kept looking at the marriage certificate, and shifting from 
one foot to the other. Xander waited, leaning against the doorway -- still 
naked. Tara wondered if he even realized it. 

"It's notarized," Spike said, rather numbly. As if that made even more 
of a difference between fake and real. 

"Yes, I believe Angel's new boyfriend witnessed it," Anya said. "He's 
from another dimension, but he's really quite nice." 

"Boyfriend?" Spike stared at her. Then he read the certificate. 
"Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan? Who the bloody hell is 
Krevlornswath? How long have they been seeing each other? Why the hell 
didn't anyone mention this before?" 

"Relax, blondie," Xander interrupted his rant. "They've been dating for 
almost two days. Cordelia says he's really sweet -- um, Lorn, that 
is. She thinks Angel's sweet, too, but she never actually says that out loud." 

"Cos we'd gang up and have 'er committed," Spike replied distractedly. 
Tara wondered if he had an automatic Angel-insulting response system built 
into his chip, so he didn't even have to think about it anymore. Spike 
looked down at the paper again. "And... excuse me, *Wesley* signed as my 
other Sire? Since when does *he* own me?" 

Anya smiled, then yanked Spike close to her by his collar. "He doesn't 
own you. I do. They needed another signature, and Drusilla didn't answer at 
her last-known number, so Wesley volunteered. I think the red crayon adds a 
festive touch." 

"Oh." 

"Do you have any other complaints, before you get kissed?" 

Spike blinked, and Tara yawned, and so she missed anything Spike might 
have said during the two seconds before Anya was kissing Spike in that same 
chocolate-ice-cream-so-glad-I'm-not-a-single-person-having-to-watch-this 
way. Tara tore her eyes away from it for a second, to glance at Xander's 
reaction, and managed to hold back another eep. 

Note to self, she thought -- when staring at a naked man watching his 
wife kiss his legal-in-at-least-13-dimensions husband, keep your eyes above 
neck-level. Well, it wasn't *her* fault she was only three and a half feet 
tall! 

She diverted her gaze back to Spike and Anya -- and decided maybe she 
should sneak off and dive under the blankets. Maybe snuggle Willow and 
think about things they could do a couple weeks from now. Maybe wake Willow 
up so they could both surreptitiously watch...if they were gonna stay in 
the doorway -- "ACHOO!" 

She grinned, and found Spike, Anya, and Xander looking down at 
her. Xander made an 'eep' sound and covered himself with his hands. Tara 
looked at him as if she had no idea what those things were for. It 
occurred to her that, for the next several years, she was going to get to 
say "I've seen you naked." How much ice cream would that get her? 

"ACHOO!!" 

Never mind the ice cream. How soon could she get back under the blankets 
with some juice and echinacea inside her, so she could sleep through having 
a cold? She found out -- not long at all, when a vampire scoops you up and 
carries you to the couch, and an ex-demoness fetches the juice, and a naked 
man scurries into his room to get a robe. 

She tugged on Spike's shirt as he put her down and pulled one of a 
million blankets up to her chin. "Hey -- when you and Xander and Anya have 
kids..." 

He blinked at her, and his eyes went away somewhere again, but this time 
it appeared to be a *good* place. "Oh. Yeah. Er." He smiled the most dopey 
smile she'd ever seen on a vampire, including the ones that Angel had given 
Spike and Xander when they were four-year-olds. "Yeah. Kids. Er-- when we 
have kids, what?" 

Tara yawned again, and didn't even have to bother trying to look 
innocent. She was too tired, and it seemed like a perfectly logical 
question to her, anyway. "You'll still be my daddy, right?" 

Spike looked for a second, between her increasingly-more-frequent 
blinks, as if he wasn't sure whether she was joking or not. Whether he 
should be frightened, now, or wait until morning. Finally he leaned over 
and kissed her forehead. "Got the papers to prove it, don't I?" 

"Good. 'Cause I want a pony," she said, as she drifted off to sleep. 

She had a dream about vampire ponies which defended her against school 
teachers. The weird part, was, Willow kept offering her a popsicle. 

Part Twenty-Four  

Angel told himself he wasn't sneaking in on them. He was, but it was 
for a good cause, so it didn't really count as sneaking. Besides, if no 
one woke up, there was no harm. No foul. He had the door to Gunn's and 
Wes' room open, after listening for several minutes to make absolutely sure 
they were still asleep. Really asleep, not faking it. He'd learned to 
check and triple check after being sent to wake up Spike and Xander, only 
to find them leaping at him as soon as he opened the door. 

Gunn and Wesley seemed to really be asleep, though, so he stepped into 
the room. The sun was streaming through the curtains -- not creating a 
vampire hazard, just lighting the room enough that if any humans were 
awake, they'd be able to see the big hulking vampire walking on tiptoes 
into the bedroom. If any humans *did* wake up, he was even deader than 
undead. But if he left now, he'd have to face Cordelia. 

Angel made sure the video camera was running, stepped up to the bedroom 
doorway, and focused. Oh, now *this* was worth engaging the little fisheye 
button he'd discovered while zooming in on Lorn's mouth while he was 
singing and mugging for the camera last night. Angel let the iris shrink to 
spotlight the image of Gunn and Wesley in bed. 

Gunn was lying somewhat awkwardly on his side, and cuddling Wes as if he 
were a combination of precious child, teddy-bear, and 
heir-to-the-throne-of-Kaskaskia-who-must-be-protected-from-assassins-and-used-car-salesmen-at-all-times. 
Wesley lay curled up in Gunn's arms, looking utterly relaxed, one arm 
around his *real* teddy bear, and the other around Gunn's neck. His right 
thumb was very plainly in his mouth, with his little finger stroking the 
fur on the top of his bear's head, in his sleep. 

Angel played with all of the camera features he could remember, 
including the time-date stamp, the photonegative effect, and the little 
bouncing ball icon that you could get to cross the bottom of the screen in 
time with the ambient sound, in this case the rhythm of Gunn and Wesley's 
breathing. Finally that ball started bouncing a little faster, and the 
fingers on Wesley's teddy bear were pointing towards him in a 
characteristic V-shape whose meaning Angel had learned *long* before Spike 
re-introduced him to its frequent use in the late 1800's. 

"Hi," Angel said in a normal volume. He waved one hand. "Could you 
move a little this way? I wanna get a better angle." 

Then he ran. 

He heard something hit the door behind him, and hoped it wasn't Rupert 
-- there would be pouting and look what you made me do, at breakfast, if 
Wesley had hurt his bear because of Angel. He smiled, though. The film 
was worth it. 

"Did you get it?" Cordelia asked as he came down the main stairway. 

Angel held up the camera like a demon's head he'd sliced off and brought 
home as a trophy. Except he didn't do that sort of thing any more. Maybe 
like a pizza he'd gone to pick up when the delivery guys weren't working 
that night. Cordelia squealed and grabbed the camera, hitting the rewind 
button and peering at the display screen, even before it began to play. 

"It was perfect. The best one, yet," Angel told her, sitting down 
beside her. 

"Worth an entire roll of Giles-at-play photos?" 

"Are you kidding? This is worth a weeks' worth of Xander and Spike 
being dads photos." 

"So glad to hear we can provide the agency with a decent profit," Gunn 
said dryly. 

Angel looked up at him. He was carrying a pajama-clad Wesley on his 
hip. Wes was clutching a handful of marble race-track pieces in one hand 
and what looked like a very large number of marbles in the other. Until one 
fell out of his hand and landed on the floor, of course, and Gunn rolled 
his eyes, set Wes down, and got down on his hands and knees to look for it. 

"You just do that to prove that he'll drop everything to do what you 
want," Cordelia teased the amused-looking Wesley. 

"No, I knew that already. I do it because I enjoy the view." Wes looked 
at Angel. "Are we really bartering the photos? I thought it was simply an 
'I'll show you mine, if you show me yours' deal." 

"I'm *not* making that offer to Spike," Cordelia said without removing 
her eye from the video camera. 

"We were," Angel told Wesley, for once recognizing that Cordelia's 
comment was one he should not attempt to address. "That was before Anya 
called to say she had a photo of Spike frantically trying to find Cheerios." 

"Cheerios?" Wesley frowned. 

"Tara wanted them." 

Wesley nodded, understanding. Then he asked, "Why would she want 
Cheerios? They're disgusting." 

"They're *good* for you," Gunn countered. 

"They're disgusting, unless you fill the bowl with sugar, first. Then 
the only good part about them is drinking the sugar-laden milk." 

"And if you think for one second that's what you're getting for 
breakfast--" Gunn began. 

Wesley looked at Angel. "I'll get breakfast," Angel said. He was 
three steps towards the kitchen before Gunn grabbed his arm. 

"Don't do it, man." 

"What? He wants Cheerios, you said they're good for him...." 

"Not the way *he* eats 'em. Unless *you're* gonna take complete 
responsibility for him all day." 

Angel considered. It wasn't as if there were all that much to get into 
around here. He'd been perfectly fine the other times he'd watched Wesley, 
after all. And, dangerous eyes or not, Wes *still* hadn't managed to be as 
difficult to control as a sugar-freaked Xander and Spike, trapped in 
Buffy's tiny house in the middle of the day. Here, Wes would have an entire 
hotel to exhaust himself in. And there was only one of him. 

"I could do that, I guess." He looked down at Wes. "What do you think, 
Wes? You wanna spend the day around here, eating sugar and driving me 
nuts?" It was something of a rhetorical question, considering that Wesley 
hadn't left the hotel since the call from his parents came through. Nor 
were any of them about to ask him to. 

Wes glanced quickly over at Gunn, then shook his head. Angel nodded. He 
understood -- Wesley was still feeling too insecure to want to spend time 
more than arms' length away from Gunn. But Wesley said, "I want to go to 
Bozo Burgers!" 

"For *breakfast*?" 

"No. I want waffles and bacon and super sugar crisp cereal and poptarts 
for breakfast. I want to go to Bozo Burgers right *after*." 

"Eggs and orange juice, too?" Angel asked, trying to remember if they 
had any waffle mix. Gunn was gaping at Wesley, then he gave Angel a glare. 

"You feed him all that, then take him to Bozo Burgers, then *you* get to 
clean up after him." 

Angel looked from Gunn, to an innocently-beaming Wesley. "He's gonna 
make a mess?" What would be wrong with that? It wasn't like he worked at 
Bozo Burgers, he wouldn't have to clean up *everything* Wesley could do. 

"He's gonna be sick all *over* the place," Gunn explained. "He only 
wants to go to Bozo Burgers to play at their indoor playground." 

"Oo, is that the one with the swing thing that spins around?" Cordelia 
asked, cheerfully. 

Angel had a vague memory of that playground. Wesley just smiled 
innocently, some more. "Or we could stay here," Angel suggested. 

Which was entirely the wrong thing to say. "I want to go to the 
playground," Wesley pouted. 

"Um..." Angel said intelligently, trying to remember what he'd done 
three weeks ago when Spike and Xander pouted at him this way... It had all 
become sort of a strange, disturbingly happy blur in his mind. Rather like 
being drunk -- if you were a couple of pints of O-negative. 

Wesley was looking at the floor and digging one foot into the carpet, 
now. Gunn was giving Angel the 'Hey, he's all yours' gesture with his arms, 
and Cordelia had pressed the damned record button on the camera -- Angel 
could hear the tape whining at him. 

"You don't want to take me to the playground?" Wesley asked finally, 
looking up at Angel. "I see. That's fine. I understand." Wes looked at 
Cordy, who had moved the camera away from her eye -- but hadn't stopped 
recording. Angel knew *that* trick. "He doesn't want to be seen with me," 
Wes told her. 

"Not while you're barfing," Cordelia said with no sympathy. 

Angel had, meanwhile, remembered what he did when Spike and Xander had 
pouted at him like that. "If I don't feed him sugar, you'll watch him?" he 
asked Gunn. 

Gunn grinned, but folded his arms. "Sounds to me like the little guy 
wants his Uncle Angel to take him to Bozo Burgers." 

"Which would be fine," Angel allowed. "If Uncle Angel weren't bursting 
into flames as soon as he stepped out the front door. He gave Wesley his 
best apologetic look. "Wes, you *know* I'd take you, otherwise." 

Wesley hadn't stopped pouting. Angel got a bad feeling. It got worse 
when Wesley said, "You can take me to Bernie's Taco Palace." 

"Oo, that has a playground," Cordelia reminded him, brightly. "And 
tacos." She smiled. 

"*And* it can be reached via the sewers," Wesley said proudly. 

"I have an appointment?" Angel tried. 

"With Madame Foo-Foo?" Wes said dangerously. When Angel chose not to 
dignify that with an answer -- his stylist was a perfectly straight man 
named Mitch, after all -- Wesley fixed him with an accusing stare. "Anyway, 
you didn't have an appointment when you were offering to spend the day with 
me, here." 

"Ahhh..." Good point. Angel fished around for another excuse. Then 
wondered, actually, why he was fishing around for an excuse -- he actually 
*liked* spending time with mini-Wes. As long as he wasn't reenacting _The 
Exorcist_ , with Wes in the Linda Blair role. "Taco Palace it is -- but 
*only* if you have one bowl of Cinnamon Life, a glass of orange juice, and 
two slices of toast, for breakfast," he said firmly. 

Wesley looked like he was considering the offer, then shook his head. "I 
want bacon and eggs." 

"Okay," Angel agreed readily. Cordelia snickered at him, but he ignored her. 

"And I don't want toast," he added. "I want cereal." 

"Okay," Angel nodded. "Life? Cheerios?" 

"Super Sugar Crisp." 

"What about some Wheaties?" 

"Super Sugar Crisp." 

"We have some cornflakes." 

"Super Sugar Crisp." 

"Captain Crunch?" 

Wesley opened his mouth, then stopped. "Sure!" 

"He may be short, but he ain't stupid," Gunn reminded him. 

Angel just gave Gunn a pained look. "We were out of Super Sugar Crisp," 
he mouthed. 

"No, we aren't," Wesley declared. He took a hold of Angel's hand, and 
began leading him towards the kitchen. "It's called Super Golden Crisp, 
but it's the exact same cereal." 

Angel blinked, then sighed. "You want that, or the one with the crunch 
berries?" he asked as he walked toward the kitchen. 

"I want the one with the hologram stickers in the box," Wesley said happily. 

Angel tried to remember which one that was. "Wait, isn't that the one 
that's not open yet?" Wes gave him the 'And?' look. "But there's half a 
box of the same cereal already open," he protested as he opened the cabinet 
above the stove. 

"But I already *have* the prize from that box," Wesley said logically. 

Angel studied the back of the opened box. Glowing Green Goo, TM. Yes, 
Wes did indeed already have that. Or rather, the drain at the bottom of 
Angel's shower had that, since he'd spent most of Tuesday evening getting 
it out of his hair. 

"It's not like I won't eat it all, sooner or later -- that stuff has a 
sell-by date of sometime after your next sesquicentennial," Wesley said, 
with some *actual* logic this time. 

Angel turned around and looked at him-- he'd climbed up in one of the 
high stools that wasn't actually a high *chair* but was still tall enough 
that he could reach the table. "Say that again." 

"Sesquicentennial?" 

Angel got the cereal down, checking the box to make sure the prize was, 
as Wesley had said, just a sticker. Surely he couldn't cause Angel 
any...much grief with a sticker. He found Wesley looking at him, 
sternly. "What?" Angel asked, innocently as he could. Not as good as a 
four year old, but he *did* have a couple centuries' more experience. 

"Did I mispronounce it?" Wesley asked, doubtfully. 

"No." Angel shook his head, grabbed a bowl, and gave Wesley the box of 
cereal. 

The stern look became suspicious. "I do *not* have a lisp." 

"Never said you did." Angel got out milk, and orange juice, and the 
bacon and eggs to begin cooking while Wesley foraged for his sticker. 

There was silence except for the rustle of a small hand inside a cereal 
box. Then, "You're teasing me." 

Angel could *hear* the pout. He had to steel himself against the 
reflexive apology and offer of poptarts. "I'm not teasing you," he lied. 

Wesley frowned at him. Angel could *feel* the frown, boring into his 
back. Finally the small voice said, "Bacon and eggs taste better if you fry 
them on the gas stove, you know." 

Angel glanced over to the second stove -- the nineteen-forties 
hotel-sized gas stove that Cordelia had been forbidden to use the minute 
Gunn had gotten it in working order. "I'll take your word for that, since 
Uncle Angel isn't all that comfortable with open flames." 

"Coward." 

"Hey, if I burn up while I'm cooking you bacon and eggs, who's gonna 
take you to Taco Palace?" 

"Cordelia." 

Angel frowned. "Why don't you ask her, then? She'll take you." He 
focused on the eggs, and told himself he wasn't sulking. As though it 
*mattered* if Wesley wanted *him* to take him anywhere. 

He heard Wesley getting down off his chair. A moment later, a small 
hand reached up and took his. Angel looked down. "But I want you to take me." 

Angel started to smile. It wasn't often that he heard his friends 
saying they wanted to be with him like this. To kill big things, and carry 
heavy stuff, sure, they said that all the time. But wanting to hang around 
with him.... 

"And I want you to cook the bacon and eggs on a gas-stove." 

"Learn to live with disappointment, then." He cracked the eggs into a 
skillet, and set it on the electric stove top. He glanced down to give 
Wesley a grin, and froze. 

Wesley's huge eyes were staring up at him, with the most solemn 
expression Angel had ever seen. But that wasn't the problem. The quivering 
chin was the problem. Because he *knew* what was coming. He closed his 
eyes as he heard, "You don't love me." 

"I do love you. But I'm not setting myself on fire so you can have a bit 
of light entertainment with your breakfast." 

Wesley sniffed. "Well, I hardly want you to *sing* during breakfast. I'd 
rather wait until the playground, to get sick all over you." 

"Gunn's right -- you *are* a mean little kid." The words were out of 
Angel's mouth before he could stop himself, even as he watched Wesley's 
face rearrange itself from pouting to predatory, in reaction to them. Angel 
thought about just how *long* Wes had stayed on the phone with Spike, a few 
days ago, and about the fact that Wes had a phone up there in his room. 
Would it be paranoid of Angel to call the phone company and ask how many 
calls had been made to Sunnydale from that line in the last few days? 

"I can't imagine Gunn ever saying anything like that," Wesley said 
primly. "I'm a perfect little angel." 

More like a perfect little Angelus, Angel thought -- but was wise enough 
not to say out loud. He reminded himself he had spent several centuries in 
Hell. He had survived that. He could survive a pissed-off mini-Wes. 

"How many strips of bacon do you want?" he asked, hoping to distract 
Wesley. 

"Are you making it on the gas stove?" 

"I..er...Wesley, I'm not even sure it works. I don't think--" 

"Gunn fixed it. It works perfectly." 

"Would it matter if I reminded you I'm bigger than you?" He could 
always try holding Wes upside down. It had worked with Xander -- he'd 
started laughing so hard he'd choked, and forgotten all about his revenge 
on Angel for almost half an hour. 

Wesley reached up and grabbed the package of bacon, and headed towards 
the gas stove. "Fine. Be a big wanker. I'll make it, myself." 

And this was bad, why? Angel asked himself. Wes *wasn't* actually 
four. He could cook bacon. He was perfectly capable of putting an iron 
skillet atop a gas stove and standing up on a chair and reaching over to 
turn the flame on and falling off the chair and landing on the burner and 
setting himself on fire, all by himself. 

Which in no way explained why Angel was sighing, and taking the package 
of bacon away from him, and doing all of that stuff *for* Wes. Except for 
the setting-on-fire part. Well, at least it meant the bacon and the eggs 
would cook faster, in separate pans, he rationalized. "Go sit down, Wes." 

"No. I want to watch and make sure you don't cock it up." 

"I've been cooking for two hundred and fifty years, Wes. I won't cock 
it up." 

"You didn't cook while you had no soul," Wesley countered. "And don't 
use such language in front of me. I'm a mere child." 

"You're a smart ass, and I did so cook when I had no soul." He stopped 
short of saying what he had cooked. Wesley, four or thirty, didn't need to 
hear *that*. 

"Didn't." 

"I did so. Now go sit down." 

"Won't. And you didn't, because you didn't eat." 

"Fine. I didn't," he pretended to concede. "Sit down and I'll bring you 
your breakfast." 

"It isn't done yet," Wesley pointed out. 

"I'll bring it over when it's done," Angel told him. 

"Then I'll go sit down when it's done. Did you really cook when you 
were an evil nasty stupid vampire?" 

"I wasn't--" Angel sighed. "Yes, I used to cook. Why don't you help, 
and go get--" 

"What did you cook?" 

Angel reminded himself that this was only the beginning. This was the 
easy part. Wesley wasn't running around, wasn't screaming, and wasn't 
making Angel pay for things. This was easy. "Um, things. Darla liked to 
eat, sometimes." 

"Eat food, you mean? Because obviously she liked to eat blood, that's 
what vampires eat. She ate real food? And you cooked?" 

Angel was tempted to say he heard Gunn calling Wesley's name. "I 
cooked," he agreed. Saying nothing, again, about *what* he had cooked. 

"But what did you cook?" 

Easy. This was easy. He slid crisp slices of bacon onto a plate, then 
added two sunnyside-up eggs. "Here. Sit down and eat." 

Wesley studied the food. "I want scrambled eggs." 

Angel calmly took the plate back, scraped the eggs back into the frying 
pan -- the one on the gas stove -- and scrambled them. Then he returned 
them to the plate. "Sit down and eat, Wes." 

Wesley looked dubiously at the food, but took it over to the table, 
while Angel turned the gas flame off. When Angel turned around again, 
Wesley was cheerfully crunching his cereal -- leaving the bacon and eggs to 
get cold. 

Angel glanced at the plate, but didn't mention it. He knew Wesley was 
only doing to it wind him up. The only way to get back at him was not to 
notice. He sat down opposite Wesley, and watched him eat, a very small 
smile on his face. He told himself over and over again, that Wes looked 
adorable. 

Every time Wesley glanced up at him, he found Angel watching 
him. Watching him with *that* expression. The first three or four times, 
Wesley just rolled his eyes, or gave him a disdainful look. The bacon and 
eggs were fully ignored, now, as Wesley ate his cereal. 

There was a moment when Wesley reached for the cereal box to pour more, 
when Angel considered stopping him. But he thought about Gunn's comment 
that after a few hours of running around at high speed, Wesley would get 
sleepy and fall asleep on just about anything. Or anyone. His 'isn't he 
adorable' expression got a little stronger. 

Wesley threw his spoon down, glared, then shouted. "Angel's being mean 
to me!!" 

Strangely, no one responded. "I think they might've left already," Angel 
said calmly. He added a dash of the 'Aww, how sweet, he should be in 
pictures, he really should' expression that the cashier at Taco Bueno had 
given Wes a few nights ago. From Wesley's disgusted snort, Angel had got it 
right. Wesley picked his spoon back up and grouchily attacked his cereal. 
Angel wondered if he should offer Wes a glass of chocolate milk to drink 
with it, or if that would give the game away. 

Part Twenty-Five  

He was just about to throw caution to the winds and go find the Nestle's 
syrup, when Wesley looked up at him with an utterly serious expression. 
"All right, suppose we call a truce for a moment, since Mum and Dad are 
gone, and you tell me what they've found out about whoever's behind this 
whole thing. I know you've heard from Buffy since you lot bawled out Spike." 

Angel blinked. It didn't *sound* like a trick. He seemed perfectly 
sincere. And Angel hadn't been specifically ordered *not* to tell Wesley 
anything, now that he knew. He'd just been ordered not to upset 
him. Talking to him would also allow Wesley time to eat a third bowl of 
cereal. Angel nodded. 

He relayed all the information they'd gotten while Wesley ate. He forced 
himself not to look smug when Wesley reached over and took a piece of bacon 
and began munching it as he listened to Angel's account. It didn't take 
long to tell -- since basically all they knew was that Ethan Rayne *might* 
be behind it, and was somewhere in Sunnydale -- so he told Wesley about the 
Sunnydale crew's plans to find Ethan, and some of their thoughts on why he 
was doing it and what they might do with him once they found him. 

"Giles wants to turn him into a squid, whether or not he sent them the 
statue. Just on general principle." 

Wesley grinned. "He's obviously regressed." 

"No, Buffy said he feels like that all the time." 

"Do you think they'll find him?" Wesley asked, as he stealthily moved 
his hand towards the sugar cereal, to pour a third bowl. Angel pretended 
not to notice. 

"Probably. Willow's spell would have worked, if they'd had something 
owned by Ethan more recently than his underwear." 

Wesley blinked. "His underwear?" 

Grinning, Angel relayed *that* part of the story. Wesley listened 
quietly, until he was halfway into his third bowl of cereal. Then he was 
laughing too hard to eat. "Don't spit on the table," Angel said, watching 
as Wes lost all semblance of control. "It's not polite." 

Wes just laughed harder. 

Angel watched carefully, as Wesley started to turn pink, then slightly 
bluish. "Um, you know I can't do CPR, right? And if Gunn won't let me do 
the Heimlich Maneuver on *him*, I think it's probably not an option for you." 

Wesley didn't answer, just kept giggling. Angel began to wonder if Wes 
hadn't gone and got vamped, when Angel wasn't looking. It would explain the 
evil behaviour, and the lack of respiratory distress... 

"If you choke to death, Gunn is going to stake me," Angel said 
matter-of-factly. "Do you *want* to have to go to Taco Palace by yourself?" 

Wesley didn't stop laughing. Maybe he knew that Cordelia would take him 
to play at Bozo Burgers, after Angel had been turned to dust. He was 
probably right. Angel waited patiently, knowing that even Xander hadn't 
been able to keep laughing without a break for more than half an 
hour. Wesley was reaching for his bowl of cereal, though, even though he 
hadn't stopped laughing enough to continue eating. Angel pulled it out of 
his reach. 

"Not until you're breathing normally, again." 

Wesley opened his mouth, probably to insist he *was* breathing, only he 
was still laughing and couldn't speak. Then he gasped, suddenly, and Angel 
knew they were either settling in for round two, laughing hysterically, or 
Wesley was about to start choking. 

Wesley coughed once, and his face screwed up into a little red ball. 
Angel moved fast enough to be holding him before the next cough came. When 
it did, he listened. No blockage of the airway. Blood pumping normally 
towards the brain, if a little fast. 

"Not funny, Wes," Angel said, letting his hands unclench from Wesley's 
shoulders. Taking a breath himself, he wondered if that was why he was 
still in the habit, after two and a half centuries -- because his friends 
enjoyed scaring the shit out of him. 

Apparently Wesley didn't agree with him, because that remark sent him 
off into new paroxysms of laughter. Angel sighed, and sat down in Wesley's 
chair, settling Wes on his knee. At least while he was holding the 
miniature munchkin from Hell, he could make sure no actual 
oxygen-deprivation was going on. 

Angel glanced down at the table as Wes continued to laugh. With a sudden 
grin, he reached for Wesley's spoon, and shoved a nice large spoonful of 
sugared cereal into his own mouth. 

"Hey! What're you doing?" The laughter had stopped instantly. 

"You weren't eating it..." 

"That's mine!" Wesley reached over to grab the spoon away, which Angel 
held just out of his reach. Wesley glared at him like he'd stolen one of 
Wes' treasured books. "Give that to me." 

"This?" He brought it closer. Wesley lunged, and Angel took it out of 
reach again. Wesley glared, and pulled back a hand to thump him. Then 
Wesley's face changed, and he turned around and grabbed the bowl with both 
hands. Bringing it quickly to his mouth, he tipped it and began swallowing. 

Angel had to give him points for determination. He thought about 
scooting the chair backwards, next time Wesley set the bowl down. Only he 
didn't set it down. He held it, and continued to gulp -- until he coughed, 
again, and the remainder of the cereal spilled out, all over Wesley. 

Angel grabbed the bowl before it could fall and shatter, and set it on 
the table. A quick check told him Wesley was only coughing, not 
no-air-choking. He was looking down at himself, though, and making some 
*other* noise in the midst of his coughing. Angel guessed that it had 
something to do with the milk and super sugar crisp all over his pajamas. 

When the coughing stopped, Wesley looked up accusingly at him. "Look 
what you did! Bad vampire." 

It really was amazing how much he sounded like Giles. Maybe it was part 
of Watcher training. Angel stood up calmly and carried the dripping Wesley 
out of the kitchen. "I'm not a bad vampire. A bad vampire would suck your 
blood out and stash you in a closet and tell Gunn he'd lost you at the 
playground." 

"He'd stake you." 

"It might be worth it," Angel said contemplatively as he carried Wesley 
up the stairs. 

Wes kicked him lightly in the rib. Not enough to really hurt, just 
enough to remind Angel that he really needed to hide all of Wesley's shoes 
that didn't have soft toes. "Where are you taking me?" Wesley asked, 
squirming. 

"This place has lots of closets. I thought I'd pick one, then think 
about whether I'm a good vampire or a bad vampire." 

"You're going to lock me in the closet?" Wesley asked quietly. 

Angel blinked, then did his best to pretend he had no idea what he'd 
just said, or what Wesley might have taken it to mean. "Nah. Not really 
much fun. I think I should suck out all your blood, then turn you into a 
vampire." 

Wes looked up at him, shocked -- for a second. Then he grinned. "Okay!" 

"Then Spike will be your big brother," Angel pointed out. 

Wesley's delighted expression fell. "On second thought, I don't want to 
be a vampire." 

"Oh, come on! You and Spike will have such fun. Huh -- I wonder if I 
change you while you're four, if you'd stay four forever?" 

"No. And he would not -- he'd be my nephew. Drusilla sired him, no 
matter what Spike tries to say." Wesley got a thoughtful look on his 
face. "That would *really* bug Spike, wouldn't it? If I were his 
uncle." He grinned. "Turn me! Turn me!" 

Angel obliged. He turned Wesley upside-down, and kept going up the 
stairs. Wesley squealed, and thumped Angel, but it was with his fists, not 
his steel-toed shoes, so Angel ignored him. He realized he was going to 
have to change his own shirt, as well, after holding a milk-soaked 
Wesley. Briefly, he considered changing into another navy shirt, but *not* 
because Lorn said he might stop by. He hadn't, but that didn't mean Angel 
couldn't take little Wesley out on the town. Right? And if they happened 
to stop by Caritas... 

"Please, please, please!" Wesley was begging happily. Angel grinned, 
thinking he was gonna get to carry Wesley upside-down all day. Then Wes 
finished his sentence. "Turn me into a vampire! Please, please, I wanna 
thump Spike on the head!" 

Angel frowned. "But you can do that as a human." 

"That wouldn't be fair -- he can't hit back, when I'm human." 

Angel paused at the door to Wes and Gunn's room. "You *want* him to hit 
you back?" 

Wesley laughed. "No, dummy. I'd hit him and run away. He couldn't 
*catch* me, if I was a vampire." 

Angel was still confused, as he walked over to the bed, and held Wesley 
out over it. "Then why do you want him to be able to hit you back?" 

"Because he wouldn't bother to *chase* me, otherwise. Stupid bad vampire!" 

Angel wasn't sure if Wesley was referring to him, or Spike, but he 
dumped Wes on his head onto the bed, just for the hell of it. Wesley just 
laughed, then rolled to his feet and started to bounce. 

Angel stifled a grin -- Wes was going to be wearing himself out sooner 
than expected -- and walked over to the bureau. He pulled open a drawer at 
random and peeked in. Uh-huh. Gunn's underwear. Interesting fashion 
choice, he thought as he eyed the tiger-print briefs. 

"I bought those for him to wear with the vest," Wesley announced, 
standing beside Angel. 

Angel closed his eyes briefly. He was a fighter of Evil. He regularly 
did battle with demons, vampires, lawyers, and got covered in all kinds of 
slimy, muddy, ooey things. But this was a little more than he was prepared 
to deal with. He most definitely did not want to know what kind of vest, 
and he was most certainly not imagining possibilities. 

"Wesley? How about I make you a deal -- I don't take any more photos of 
you until noon, and you never, ever tell me about the kind of underwear you 
buy for Gunn." He glanced down -- carefully keeping his gaze away from the 
drawer as he closed it, and considered the chances of it being safe to keep 
searching for Wes' clothes. 

He found Wesley looking up at him with a maniacal grin and a gleam in 
his eye that Angel would have sworn only Spike could do. "Deal! Want to 
see the non-underwear things I've bought for him?" 

Angel groaned. Then he glared at Wesley. "You don't have them 
here. You would've left them at your place, or Gunn's." Wide, 
innocent-looking eyes told Angel he was right. Angel glared harder. "We 
need clean clothes for you to change into." 

Wesley started to pout, then he just pointed to another drawer. "My 
shirts are in there." 

Angel went over to the drawer, glad to see Wesley was getting himself 
out of the splattered pajamas. He pulled the drawer towards him, 
hesitantly -- and was relieved to see shirts. Normal, unassuming, 
child-sized shirts. Except-- Angel blinked. Then he grinned. "How about 
this one?" He pulled out a Rover the Werebat cartoon t-shirt. 

"No, I want the other one," Wesley commanded. 

"Which other one?" Angel asked as he sorted through the shirts in the 
drawer. There were a month's worth of t-shirts alone, and that was before 
he started on the button-downs and... sweaters? It was early May, in 
California. Wes would be an adult in less than two weeks. Why would he ever 
need sweaters? Angel shook his head. Apparently someone had gone a little 
overboard on the 'wouldn't this be adorable.' She'd probably done it with 
the agency credit card, too. "This one?" he asked, holding up a plain blue 
T whose general Wesley-ness gave him some sort of forlorn hope that Wes 
would say yes. 

"No." Wesley rolled his eyes. "The Pet Shop Boys one." Angel raised an 
eyebrow. Wesley raised one right back at him, which was just eerie. "What? 
Gunn found it for me at the Salvation Army store." 

Angel kept his mouth shut, and returned to sorting through the t-shirts. 
Winnie the Pooh. Tigger, too. Plain. Sugar frosted. Green with purple 
stripes. But no sign of anything with the Pet Shop Boys on it. "Are you 
sure it's in here?" 

"Of *course* it's in there. Where else would it be -- in Gunn's 
underwear drawer?" 

Angel could only hope not. "It's just that I don't see it." 

"You just don't want me to wear it because you don't want people to 
think you dress your kid in outdated eighties band clothes." 

"I'm almost three centuries old. To me, outdated kids' clothes involve 
ruffles and velveteen, and breeches that button at the knee. I don't care 
what kind of t-shirts you wear. I just don't see it in the drawer. Maybe 
it's in the laundry?" 

"It can't be in the laundry. I only wore it yesterday. Or the day 
before." Wesley headed for the bathroom, though, presumably to look. 

"If it's in the laundry, which one do you want instead?" 

Wesley stopped and looked back at him. "Why can't I wear the Pet Shop 
Boys shirt?" 

Angel actually had to stop and think of a response to that one. Not 
because he didn't know the obvious answer -- but because he couldn't decide 
if Wesley were serious, or not. He couldn't be *that* regressed, could he? 

More likely this was a 'mess with Angel' game. A rather harmless one, 
if so. It didn't involve anything to do with his hair, or his own 
clothing, so he could deal. "Um, Wesley, even if you did wear it already, 
if it were clean, it wouldn't be in the laundry hamper, would it?" he 
finally tried. 

But Wesley shook his head. He looked a little bizarre, frowning sternly 
and wearing only what Angel suddenly realized were Harry Potter 
underoos. He had to try very, very hard not to crack a smile. "Gunn puts 
my clothes in the hamper. He says otherwise we'd be living in a pig 
sty." Wesley pouted, without warning. "It isn't my fault it's so far from 
the dresser to the bathroom. When I get undressed in the evenings, I'm too 
tired to carry my clothes." 

"Uh-huh." Angel was glad he hadn't been saddled with baby-sitting 
four-year-old Wesley, Spike, *and* Xander. The excuse was a lame one, but 
he knew where it was going. Or rather where it went, every time Gunn had to 
get Wesley into bed. Chalk up a point for the vampire who didn't have to 
put Wesley to bed. "If it's in the hamper," Angel said as logically as 
possible, "it's got to be dirty. Even if it wasn't dirty before, now that 
it's been in there with all the other dirty clothes..." 

"It isn't dirty," Wesley said just as logically. Except *his* logic was 
all in the tone, not in the actual content of what he was saying. *His* 
logic was saying 'I'm four years old, and I'm going to pout if you don't do 
what I want...' Wesley folded his arms. "Just go look in the hamper. I'm 
sure it's clean." 

'But I'm *afraid* of what I might find in your hamper,' Angel didn't 
say. Instead, he moved past Wesley -- and when exactly did Wes lose the use 
of his arms and legs, since *he'd* been headed in this direction a minute 
ago? -- and into the small bathroom. After a moment's careful digging 
through the clothes, uncertain as to what might spring out at him, Angel 
located the t-shirt, and held it up, examining it. "Wes, it's got 
spaghettios all over it." He could count the little dried orange pasta 
rings. One, two, three... there was a constellation of them. 

Small arms uncrossed. Small hands went to small hips. Small lower lip 
jutted out. "Are you saying I'm clumsy?" 

Angel blinked. "No, I'm saying it's got spaghettios all over it, 
therefore it's dirty, therefore you'll have to pick something else to wear." 

"But I want to wear that t-shirt." The utterly logical voice was 
straying towards *too* logical, now. Angel looked warily at him. It was 
difficult to gauge Wesley, on some things. Spike and Xander, for instance, 
would already be throwing tandemized temper tantrums, checking each other 
out every so often to make sure the other one's kicking and screaming was 
still in sync. 

With Wesley, he was so subtle about it that you never knew when or if he 
was going to have a tantrum. When he did, you could never be entirely sure 
it wasn't for real. At least Angel couldn't, and he suspected Cordelia 
couldn't, either. Gunn seemed to always know -- either that or he was 
faking it and just coddled Wesley, regardless. If Wesley was just playing 
the Angel game, it wouldn't really matter if Angel said yes or no -- the 
fun was in making things as difficult as possible. All of which meant that 
if Wesley really wanted to wear this shirt...someone was going to have to 
do laundry. 

"Why don't we have Gunn do the laundry, and you can wear it 
tomorrow? You can wear Tigger, today." Angel thought he sounded 
reasonable. Wesley's mouth puckered into the ugliest mad-frown he'd ever 
seen. "Pokemon?" 

Two seconds more and Wesley was going to be screaming. It was still 
uncertain whether Gunn and Cordelia would come check on things, but a 
vampire's hearing *was* sensitive. He still didn't know how Spike had 
managed, when it had been both he and Xander screaming their heads off. 

"You have to wear *something* that's clean," he finally said, as sternly 
as he could. 

"Fine. But I'm not going to wear anything stupid!" Wesley stomped over 
to the bed and sat down, bouncing a few times, belying his angry mood. 

Angel sighed in relief, and went back to the drawer to pull out a 
shirt. He could hear Wesley bouncing, still, then he bounced hard and 
landed on the floor. "Which shirt *do* you want?" 

Then he heard Wesley laugh, and heard light footsteps running for the 
door. He turned around in time to see Wesley streaking out of the room 
into the hallway. Literally. His underoos were lying on the bed. 

Angel sighed. Right. He could do this. He could catch a single, naked 
child. He'd chased two of them around Buffy's house for a week. He had 
vampiric speed on his side, and the naked child wasn't a vampire, nor was 
he being carried by a maniacally giggling naked four year old vampire who 
was shouting, 'You're too slow! Quick! Climb aboard!' He was just naked, 
four year old Wesley. 

Who was heading downstairs towards Gunn and Cordelia. Not that either of 
*them* would be shocked by the sight, but then they would *know* that Angel 
couldn't catch him. They would know that Angel had been manipulated into a 
situation where he would *need* to catch Wesley. He took off after the 
sound of laughter that floated down the hallway. 

At the top of the stairs, Angel looked around. No Wesley. No Wesley's 
naked four year old behind bobbing down the stairs. He looked around to 
make sure no one was watching, then sniffed the air. Wes had stood at the 
top of the stairs for a second, but hadn't gone down. Clever little bugger. 
Angel stalked further down the hall, past the stairs. "Oh, Wesley..." he 
called lightly, trying to inject just the right amount of 
psychotic-vampire-gonna-grab-you-suck-up-every-last-drop-of-your-blood into 
his tone. 

He heard a stifled giggle, but Wesley didn't move from wherever he was 
hiding. Angel walked slowly after him, clearly able to hear Wesley's quick 
heartbeat not too far away. He wondered if he ought to catch Wesley right 
away, or if 'can't catch me' would wear him out even sooner than otherwise. 

He drew nearer the room Wesley had ducked into, and pushed on the 
door. "Oh, Weeeeeeeesley," he called out. He looked into the room and 
spotted Wesley easily. The room was one that had never been cleaned up for 
occupancy, and was full of dust and sheets draped over the furniture. He 
headed towards the chair Wesley was hiding behind, exaggerating his 
tip-toeing up to one side of the chair. 

Wesley sped away around the other side, and headed for the door. Angel 
gave him a two-second start, then went after him. "Nothing a vampire likes 
better than toying with his meals," he called out, and heard more giggles, 
which were quickly muffled again. 

Angel managed to chase Wesley up and down the hallway, up a flight of 
stairs and around *that* floor, before he finally had to grab Wesley around 
the waist or make it entirely too obvious that he was only faking his 
inability to catch the small but hyperactive human. Wesley screamed that he 
was about to be eaten, someone come save him, and help, help the bad evil 
vampire's got me. 

Angel didn't have the heart to tell him Gunn and Cordelia had actually 
left the hotel, ten minutes before. Wait a minute. Not torture Wesley, 
back? "Wes, they're gone. It's just you and me." He smiled. 

"You're lying," Wesley accused. 

"No, they really are. I saw them getting into the truck, when I passed 
the window in Suite 117. Bye-bye, humans. It's just us vamps and pre-vamps, 
now." 

Wes frowned, then his face broke into a wide grin. "Oh, right! I forgot. 
I'm gonna be Spike's uncle! Okay, I'm ready. Turn me!" 

He assumed a vaguely crucified posture, which looked utterly ridiculous 
when he was being carried down the hall under one of Angel's arms. After 
Angel had gotten down the stairs and back to Wes and Gunn's room, Angel 
looked down at Wesley again. Still on his invisible cross. Angel rolled his 
eyes and dropped Wes on the bed. Wesley rolled over, still playing the 
martyr, then after a few seconds of Angel not doing anything, he opened his 
eyes. "You said you'd turn me!" 

Angel shook his head. "I'm not turning a naked person. You have to pick 
some clothes that are good enough to become a vampire in, first." 

Wesley frowned suspiciously at him. "Since when? I'll bet Drusilla was 
naked." 

Angel blinked at him. He didn't particularly want to have *that* 
discussion with Wes, either, though he assumed the adult version had 
already known most of the details. But still... "No, she was wearing 
sackcloth, as a matter of fact." 

"Penn?" 

"Er..." Angel frowned. "I think he was wearing a hat." 

Wesley giggled. "What about Mortimer?" 

Angel frowned again. "I never had a childe named Mortimer." 

"Yes, you did." 

"No, I'm pretty sure I'd remember." 

"Spike says you did." 

"Spike lies a lot. You might have noticed." 

"Spike says you had a childe named Mortimer Snerd. And he was even 
poofier than you." 

"Why would I turn someone named Mortimer Snerd? Remember, I was Angelus 
at the time, which means I was evil. Evil doesn't turn Mortimer Snerds." 

"Does, so." 

"Doesn't," Angel said reflexively, then suppressed the urge to slap 
himself on the forehead. 

"Does so!" Wesley exclaimed gleefully. He'd climbed to his feet, and 
began jumping on the bed again. Angel found it vaguely disturbing. Of 
course, there was the thought that once Wesley had grown up again, he might 
be quite embarrassed.... Angel found himself smiling. Wesley stopped 
jumping. "What?" 

"Nothing. You wanna get dressed? Something dark, now. Can't be a 
vampire if you wear bright clothes." 

"Xander can. He's said so. If he ever gets turned, he's going to wear 
neon. And didn't Jay-Don wear bright clothes?" 

"None of *my* childer wear bright clothes," Angel growled. 

"But I can still wear my Pet Shop Boys t-shirt, right?" There was a 
hint of a frown which might have been genuine. 

Angel pretended to consider. "We could dye it black, I suppose. But 
only when it's clean." 

"OK!" Wesley bounced off the bed and ran towards the dresser. In about 
ten seconds he'd pulled out dark clothing, and put it all on. Including 
underwear, socks, and a belt. Angel blinked. And he had no photographic 
proof. 

Of course, Wesley had no shirt. "Wes?" 

"What?" 

"Aren't you going to pick a shirt?" 

Wesley gave him the most hurt, pathetic face he'd ever seen on a living 
human. It was the eyes. Even Xander couldn't quite get his eyes to go that 
wide. If Wes ever taught him how to do it, god help the world. "But... you 
said I could wear my Pet Shop Boys t-shirt." 

Angel shook his head. "Yes. After it gets washed." 

Wesley was all smiles again. "Okay!" He walked back over to the bed and 
sat down. 

He looked expectantly at Angel. Who blinked and stared at him for a good 
thirty seconds, before it dawned on him. "You want me to wash the shirt. Now." 

"You will? See, I *knew* you weren't a lace-wearing Alsatian-faced 
monkey-sniffer, no matter what Spike says." 

"That's very generous of you," he said politely. It was by far nothing 
like the worst Spike had ever said about him, even in jest. He was about to 
explain that Wesley still couldn't wear the shirt if washed, because he'd 
said it should be dyed black. That would only get him heading down to the 
store to find fabric dye, so he just sighed. He had to do some of his own 
laundry, anyway. 

He took the shirt, and headed for the door, deliberately not asking 
Wesley if he would be able to stay out of trouble for two hours. When he 
reached the door, he stopped and looked back. "Um, you *have* researched 
this, right? Read the Persivous' Essays on Vampires? It's almost required 
reading for new vampires." 

Wesley blinked slowly. "I've never heard of it." 

Which didn't surprise Angel, because he'd made the title up. "Oh, I 
have a copy of it somewhere in my library. Why don't you go get it, and 
read a bit while I get this clean?" 

He'd barely finished speaking before Wesley was running, again. At 
least this time he was half-dressed. Angel knew the search for the 
non-existent book wouldn't keep Wesley busy for two hours. However, the 
chances were good that he'd find something else interesting, in his search, 
and get caught up in reading it until Angel was done with the impromptu 
laundry. 

An hour and a half later, Angel was more than impressed with himself. 
With a little judicious overstuffing of the washer, and understuffing of 
the dryer due to half of Wesley's shirts being hung up to air dry on the 
line, he'd managed to cut half an hour off his usual laundry time. Of 
course, since he hadn't actually washed a single thing of his own, he 
wasn't sure what he was supposed to be so proud of, but he was studiously 
ignoring that fact as he walked up the basement stairs and into the lobby. 

A trail of knocked-over debris marked Wesley's comet-trail towards the 
library -- including an overturned potted plant whose scattered dry soil 
was sad testimony to how often Cordelia remembered to water it. After 
picking up the pot and replacing it on the front desk, Angel held the 
basket of garden-fresh (tm) laundry in front of him, and shouted out 
Wesley's name as he walked towards the library. "I'm in here," came the 
plaintive response. 

Angel poked his head inside the room, to find Wes, still shirtless, 
sitting atop a large pile of books with a veritable mountain range of them 
stacked around him. Wesley looked up as Angel entered, his brow knit in 
frustration. 

"What's wrong, Wes?" Angel picked up the Pet Shop Boys shirt, from the 
top of his neatly-folded laundry pile. "Here you go -- all clean." 

Wesley glanced at it, but didn't move to take it from Angel. "I couldn't 
find it." 

"Couldn't find what?" slipped out, before he remembered the book. 

Wesley frowned, and even Angel could see that it was for real this 
time. "Persivous' Essays on Vampires. I've looked everywhere and I can't 
find it. So I haven't read any of it; I'm sorry." 

Angel set the laundry down, and crouched down next to Wesley. He held 
out the shirt, which Wesley took, reluctantly. "It's OK, Wes--" he began, 
intending to tell him the joke. 

Wesley shook his head. "It isn't OK. I'm supposed to be good at this 
sort of thing...." He picked up a pad of paper and a pencil, apparently 
prepared to take notes on his directed course of study. "I'm supposed to 
be trained for exactly this kind of thing." 

Angel knew he'd better act fast to distract Wesley from his perceived 
failure. Sugar cereal would do it -- but he had something better. He 
smiled, and said, "That's OK, Wes. I'll still change you." 

He changed into his vampire visage and leaned forward, fangs to Wesley's 
neck. 

Part Twenty-Six  

Gunn pushed open the door and yelled into the lobby. "Hey -- who wants 
tacos? Buenos, not Bernie's." They'd figured there was an eighty percent 
chance Angel wouldn't even have managed to get Wesley dressed to go out, by 
the time they got back from running errands, so they'd stopped for fast 
food, just in case. There was no answer to his shout, though. 

He looked at Cordelia, who shrugged, and walked past him, carrying her 
own fast food bags. Angel's car was still parked out front, but that didn't 
mean anything, if Angel had actually succeeded in getting Wesley dressed, 
and they'd taken off through the sewer tunnels as they'd been talking about. 

Still, Wes preferred his tacos hot, not microwaved, so Gunn gave another 
shout on the off-chance that Wes and Angel were in hearing distance, and 
just deeply involved in some game or other. Knowing Wesley, it would be 
something they'd want to take embarrassing photos of Angel doing. "Wes?" 

"I'm here." The voice was very quiet, and Gunn had to look around for a 
moment, before he saw Wesley sitting on a large chair that had been pulled 
up behind the front desk. His head barely reached over the top. 

"Hey, what's up? We brought tacos." Gunn held up the bag in his hand. 

Wesley barely glanced up. When he did so, Gunn caught sight of 
something. "What happened to your neck?" There was a bandage there, taped 
in place with first aid tape. Right where you'd expect.... Gunn shook his 
head. "Where's Angel?" Probably off getting Wesley some placate-him junk 
food, or a book to read. 

"He startled me," Wesley said quietly. 

"Huh?" Cordelia sat her own sack of food on the desk, and leaned against 
it. "Eew, how'd the office get so filthy?" 

Gunn looked at the floor, then back up at Wesley. "English?" he asked 
slowly. 

Wide, horror-struck eyes looked up at him. "We were playing. He was 
going to turn me so I could be Spike's uncle and order him 
around. But...he startled me." Wesley held up the object he'd been 
holding in his hand. 

A pencil. 

Cordelia gasped, and pointed at the pile of dust on the floor. "Oh my 
god...." 

At which point Wesley burst out laughing. 

Gunn stared at him, not sure what to think. Angel couldn't possibly have 
turned him into a little miniature evil Wesley before... Then Wesley looked 
up at him, and Gunn saw his eyes. "You have no *idea* how dead you are, do 
you?" Gunn asked the giggling child. 

"Oh, but you should..." Wesley succumbed to another fit of laughter, 
then continued. "Should've seen your faces... Especially Cordelia..." 

Cordelia was walking towards Wesley with a disturbing look on her face. 
"Wesley? Where's Angel?" 

"Hi. Somebody bellowed?" 

Gunn swung his head around and saw Angel standing at the top of the 
basement stairs, a basket of laundry in his arms. Wes was off on another 
giggle-fit, so Gunn took a step towards Angel. He looked as clueless as 
usual -- but then again... "Tell me you had nothing to do with this?" 

"Nothing to do with what?" Angel looked from Gunn, to Cordelia, to 
Wesley, who was giggling obliviously to his impending oblivion. "I didn't 
make him laugh," Angel said in a doubtful tone. 

Gunn could tell that what little ability Angel had at subtlety was *not* 
being put into play, here. He really had no idea what Wesley had done. 
Gunn nodded. "Good. Then you can help us hide the body." 

Angel blinked. "What body?" 

"That body." Cordelia pointed at Wesley. Angel set down the basket of 
clothes, and headed towards Wesley. No questions asked. Gunn wondered 
what kind of morning Angel had had. 

"Hey!" Wesley suddenly noticed them advancing on him, and he leapt up 
and dove for the floor beneath the desk. 

"Can't hide from us, Wes," Gunn told him. "We outnumber you, we're 
bigger than you, and we can grab you without looking at your eyes!" He 
leaned over the top of the desk and fished around underneath it. 

"You'll never take me alive!" Wesley shouted, and Gunn felt something 
rap his knuckles. 

"Ow! Dammit, Wes, I'm gonna--" 

"You're gonna what? Wanker!" 

"Yeah, you oughtta know." Gunn smirked. Then he got stern, 
again. "Give up, Wes. Angel and Cordelia have you boxed in. There's no 
way out." There was no reply. Gunn didn't want to reach in again -- maybe 
he could get Angel to do it. "Wesley? You surrender?" he asked. There was 
still no reply. Then, very softly, he heard a sniff. "Wes?" 

"I'm sorry. I didn't *mean* to scare you. It was just... Angel left me 
all alone up here... and I was bored, and I couldn't find the Persivous 
text, and Tex Avery isn't on until five, and... when you looked at my 
band-aid like that... I just couldn't help myself. Please don't be mad at me." 

The small, high voice *sounded* sincere, but Gunn wasn't buying it -- 
not so soon after being called a wanker. No matter how true the accusation 
might be, considering that he didn't have any other options these 
days. Still, Gunn didn't have to let *Wes* know he wasn't taken in. 

"I'm not mad at you, Wesley," he said, sighing deeply. "Come on out of 
there, and have some tacos." 

"I don't believe you." 

"Really. Fresh tacos. No lettuce. Extra cinnamon crisps." 

There was a pause. Then, "I don't believe you." The tone was hesitant, 
though, if still dripping with poor pitiful me. 

"Really, Wes. I won't do anything," Gunn promised. "It was just a joke 
-- pretty good one, at that." His appreciation of the joke wasn't entirely 
faked -- it *was* a good joke. If it hadn't been for the heart attacks he 
and Cordelia had suffered. 

"Really?" came the still-pathetic voice. 

"Would I lie to you?" He made it sound as serious and intimate as he 
could. As though the fate of the world rested on Wesley believing him. He 
was rewarded by Wesley's head poking out from under the desk. Wesley 
looked up at him, with his eyes extra-big and 'please mister, may I have 
more gruel' begging. Gunn grabbed onto his arm and helped him up. Then he 
tightened his grip. "Didn't say nothing about *Cordelia* not doing 
anything, though." 

Cordelia smiled, and folded her arms. "You know, Wesley, I don't believe 
in spanking children." She smiled even more brightly, and Gunn shivered. 

"Really?" Wesley perked up. "That's wonde-- I mean, very enlightened of 
you. Shall I mention I'm not *really* a child? I'm merely under the geas 
of a spell although I can't actually be held responsible for my actions, 
despite my actual status as a non-child...." 

Cordelia just kept smiling. 

Wesley stared at her for a moment, then he looked up at Gunn. "I'd 
rather you took revenge, please?" 

"Oh, no. I wouldn't break a promise to you." 

Cordelia was gently tugging Wesley's arm out of Gunn's grasp. "Of course 
I don't believe in spanking children. I think only adults should spank." 
She began hauling Wesley out of the lobby and towards the little parlor 
that they'd turned into a TV room. 

"Angel! Gunn! Help me!" 

"What's that? I can't hear you. I'm too busy being a wanker," Gunn 
responded as they disappeared out of sight. 

"And I'm too busy cleaning myself up off the lobby floor," Angel said, 
grabbing a broom, and setting to work doing just that. 

After a minute, Wesley's general cries of "No!" and "Help me!" gave way 
to louder ones. "Cordelia! Please! I'll be good! I'll never ever do 
anything terrible or evil, ever ever again! You can't *do* this to meeeee!" 

Gunn gave Angel a worried look. After all, he *knew* what Cordelia was 
capable of. She was the one who had masterminded Operation Paint Gunn's 
Truck Day-Glo Green, for one thing. 

Angel was merely smiling. Then, as the screams went on, he began to 
actually laugh. Hard. Then harder. Then he was almost choking, and it took 
Gunn a second to remember that Angel *couldn't* choke, and he didn't have 
to try the Heimlich maneuver on the vampire, even though he *had* been 
eating a taco when he'd started laughing. 

It was beyond eerie, and didn't help Gunn get over his fears for 
Wesley's safety in Cordelia's hands. "Hey, could you please stop that, man? 
It's freaky." 

Angel nodded, but didn't seem to be able to stop, for a few seconds. 
Then the laughter gradually died down, with a few fits and spurts, every 
time he seemed to be about ready to talk. Finally, the vampire was silent, 
and took a deep breath. "Heh... sorry. She's... ha... she's making him 
watch QVC. The Jewelry and Fashion Hour. She's telling him she wants to 
call in." 

Gunn stared at him in disbelief. Shaking his head, he just said, "Man, 
she must be pissed. That's just *mean*." 

"You could go rescue him," Angel suggested, with a still-damn-freaky 
grin on his face. 

"Are you kidding? No *way* am I going in there! The little rugrat can 
fend for himself." Gunn caught sight of the bag of food from Taco 
Bueno. It was gonna get cold before Cordelia let Wesley go. But taking his 
burrito and crisps to him *now*.... Hell, he'd just go buy more, when 
Cordy was through with him. 

****************** 

Rupert was entertaining himself by thinking of training schedules and 
routines. Not because Buffy needed to sharpen her skills. He wasn't even 
thinking of the usual, present-day training handbooks. He was amusing 
himself by thinking of what had been in some of the older books. What he'd 
read in the USMC training manuals. Because as *soon* as he was grown up 
again, and could make Buffy do as he said, he was going to get her. 

She was still laughing, though at least now she was trying to hide it. 

He raised his hand, intending to wave it at her and at least *sound* 
somewhat threatening. Unfortunately, it was the hand holding the scrap of 
underwear they'd spelled to attempt to locate Ethan. The one she'd been 
laughing about in the first place. Again. 

She stopped trying to hide her laughter. "Oh god-- get away from me with 
the dreaded Ethan-butt!" She slid a hand into the pocket of her jacket and 
pulled out a cross, quicker that Quick Draw McGraw, whom Rupert had been 
watching on telly this afternoon while he ate his tea and cookies. "Back, 
foul Ethan-butt demon!" 

Rupert tried very hard not to stamp his foot. "Stop that! These are 
perfectly clean underwear." 

"I didn't say they weren't. That was 'foul' as in foul fiend of hell -- 
not foul as in Dawn hasn't washed her socks in a week again." 

Rupert sniffed. "And it could be worse -- we could have drawn the short 
straw and gotten the part that Spike and Xander are holding." 

They'd come up with the bright idea, this time, to cut the underwear up 
into three pieces and triangulate Ethan's position, keeping in touch with 
each other via walkie-talkie. Xander had somehow managed a straight face 
when he'd made the suggestion. Rupert had somehow managed not to throw a 
tantrum when he'd realized that, utterly perverted or not, it was actually 
a good idea. Anya, Dawn, and the little witches had gotten the elastic 
waistband. Buffy and Rupert and gotten the back, leaving Spike and Xander 
with the obvious remnant. Rupert shivered. Buffy, of course, just wrinkled 
her nose. 

"You think we should get them something?" she asked as they walked down 
the well-lit sidewalk. 

"Spike and Xander? Why ever would I want to buy something for them?" 

"No, all three of them. Some kind of no-wedding present. What do you get 
for today's trendy menage a trois to celebrate them being officially not 
legally married to the dead member?" 

"Involuntary commitment papers? By the way, vampire to your left." 

"Thanks." Stake at the ready, Buffy hauled the skinny female vamp out of 
the shadows and dusted her with a minimum of inane chatter. Rupert was 
impressed. Of course, then she turned back to him. "No, really, though. 
Something they could use -- " 

"I stand by my suggestion of commitment papers.' 

"I was thinking of a copy of 'What to Expect When You're Expecting...' " 
Buffy said, jogging a few steps ahead so he couldn't jump up and threaten 
her with the dreaded underwear, in retaliation. 

Rupert settled for glaring at her. "While I admit that thought provides 
some amusement, it also provides much more of something I can't properly 
put into English. I shall simply say 'ergk kgick ugic ig' and be glad my 
mum isn't here to wash my mouth out with soap. Besides, you're wrong." 

"I'm wrong?" Buffy looked down at him with her best little girl look -- 
which, truly, had nothing on the four-year-old's version. Rupert wasn't 
impressed. 

"They *are* legally married to Spike, now. Not in the human court of 
law, of course. But legal all the same." He glanced around, wondering 
where in God's name Ethan was hiding. He wanted to vent some frustration, 
and kicking Ethan in the shins should do nicely. 

"But I thought Angel forged Spike's signature?" 

"Doesn't matter. As Spike's Grand Sire, Angel is allowed 
to...er...marry Spike off to whomever or whatever he wishes. One wonders 
why he didn't do it years ago, marry him off to a nice toadstool and get 
him out of his hair." 

He felt Buffy whap him on the head, lightly. "Be nice," she admonished. 

"Whatever *for*? Since when are they nice to *me*?" 

"Who bought you the biotechnic Lego robots?" 

"They demolished my Lego castle -- again. As *adults*. It was only fair." 

"Uh-huh. And the Batman shoes?" 

"Xander bought them for himself, and they didn't fit." 

"He thought he could squeeze his Sasquatch-feet into size threes? I 
don't think so, somehow." 

"Oh, well, Xander, fine. But Spike? Since when wouldn't you want Spike 
married off to the nearest convenient lamp-post, and out of *your* hair?" 

She stopped, and looked down at him. "Um. Well. " Rupert waited 
patiently. At last, she muttered, "He's... ahem... 
kinda-cute-now-that-he's-with-Xander-and-Anya-and-isn't-always-bothering-me..." 

Rupert slipped his finger onto the 'talk' button of the walkie-talkie in 
his hand. "Excuse me? Did you just say Spike is *cute*?" 

"I said *kinda* cute," Buffy corrected. Then her eyes 
narrowed. "Giles, that walkie-talkie had better not be--" Her eyes 
widened and she lunged. Laughing, Rupert sped away from her. He knew he'd 
never be able to run faster than she, but if he angled towards the vampire 
stalking the next alley, she'd get distracted long enough for him to remind 
her why they were out here -- reasons which had nothing to do with tickling 
one's Watcher. 

He pointed as he ran by, shouting, "Vampire!" and only stopped when he 
heard Buffy stop and chastise the poor undead creature for interrupting her 
pursuit. He looked back to see Buffy standing near a large poof of 
dust. She turned to *him*, then, and took a step towards him. 

Rupert smiled and took a step backwards, raising the scrap of underwear. 
"Now, Buffy, we oughtn't get distracted from locating Ethan." 

"Oh, I'm not distracted. Not distracted at *all*." She took another 
step towards him. "I'm just thinking...maybe we need bait!" 

"Er...bait? Buffy, I'm not sure what you're planning , but may I remind 
you that you promised you'd take care of me, if I went into this affair 
voluntarily, this time?" 

She smiled brightly and twirled her stake in one hand. "Don't worry. 
I'll take care of you." 

Rupert blindly thumbed the microphone button on the walkie-talkie and 
shouted, "Anya! Xander, Spike, anyone, help!" It hit him as the words left 
his mouth, how ridiculous they were. As if those three would be willing to 
help *him* against-- 

"What's wrong? Where are you?" Spike's voice came over the speaker 
instantly. 

Followed by a crackle of static, and Dawn cutting in. "Giles? What's 
wrong? Where's Buffy? Are you okay?" 

"Just tell us where you are -- we're on our way." That was Xander's 
voice, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a zipper being 
zipped. 

Rupert stared at the little yellow walkie-talkie, wondering if perhaps 
it had been possessed by unseen spirits. Then it hit him even harder -- 
they thought he was serious. "Er... well... that is..." 

Tara's voice cut in as soon as he lifted the button and played with the 
'squelch' feature in order to procure some stalling-time. "Did you find Ethan?" 

"Well, no, but..." 

"Where *are* you?" Dawn asked, and Rupert sighed, guiltily. He took 
note that Buffy was doing an excellent job of stifling her laughter so she 
couldn't be heard over the walkie-talkie. He appreciated her lack of 
support, and was determined to remember it. 

"It's all right. I just...panicked." 

"You what?" Anya asked. Then, in a stage-whisper that was nonetheless 
amplified by the walkie-talkie, she asked, "Is he there now?" 

"No, he isn't. It was just...Buffy. She was threatening to hold me 
upside-down." He closed his eyes, so he wouldn't have to see Buffy's face 
turning red as she tried to whoop silently with laughter and breathe at the 
same time. 

There was no immediate response over the walkie-talkie. Rupert thought 
perhaps if he dropped it down the sewer, he could at least delay hearing 
what they'd have to say.... 

"I missed having my orgasm, for *that*?" came Spike's growl. 

Four girlish "eeeeews" followed the comment. Then Willow snapped, "You 
two are *supposed* to be looking for Ethan!" 

"We were! Er, are! We're searching every alleyway between here and 
North Avenue!" Spike countered. 

"Spike, Xander, get your butts out onto the sidewalk and look for 
Ethan!" It was frightening how motherly even a four-year old Willow could 
sound. No one could do 'mad' like a mother. "And they'd better not be 
naked butts!" she added, and Rupert could hear Tara giggling in the 
background. 

"In *this* neighborhood?" Xander was saying, but Spike cut him off, 
speaking over him, apparently directly into the microphone, since his voice 
was quite loud. 

"Was that you coughing, Tara? Damn, I knew we shouldn't have let you 
come along. You're still delicate -- you should be home on the sofa with a 
nice hot cuppa." 

"Spike, I'm fine. It's been two *days*. I'm not even a bit stuffy," came 
Tara's reply. 

"Are you sure? Anya, feel her forehead..." 

Rupert had the insanity to hope, for a moment, that their continuing 
diversion into the state of Tara's no-longer-existent illness would 
distract them from their sadly justified unhappiness with *him*. No such luck. 

"I wanna know how come Giles gets to play with the walkie-talkies, and 
nobody's yelling at him -- you all yelled at *us* when we were playing 
suburban commando," Xander said over Spike's continued kvetching. 

"Because I'm four," Rupert said blithely -- then realized he'd had his 
thumb on the 'talk' button. He moved his thumb and looked up at 
Buffy. "Please, I think I need to be put down for a nap." 

She shook her head, though she didn't appear to be completely 
unsympathetic. "You got yourself into this, you can get yourself 
out. You're a highly trained Watcher -- you can deal with anything." 

"Yes, I deal with most things by saying 'Buffy, kill it, please.' I'm 
not sure that will work in this case." 

She thought for a moment, then said, "Well, we could always find 
Ethan. That will make everyone pretty much forget the numbskull things 
you're doing -- he does much more numbskully stuff, like sending us the 
statue in the first place." 

He wasn't sure if Buffy were complimenting him, or not. He could never 
really tell, when she said things like this. However, she *was* 
right. "Very well. Let's continue looking -- and no using me for bait." 

"You're no fun." 

"I'm a great deal of fun. I just happen to be -- oo! Look!" He ran 
over to a store window and peered in. 

Train sets. Gloriously huge sets, with tracks running the entire length 
of the window, around and back along one wall. The train was running now 
though the shop was closed; the proprietor was still inside. 

The train was running through a mock-up of South London, as it had been 
over a century ago. Rupert noticed he had his nose plastered against the 
glass when Buffy asked, "Do you want me to hold you up?" 

He looked at her suspiciously. "Well... only right-side-up." 

There was an evil glint in her eye for a moment, but she merely picked 
him up and settled him on her hip, so he could see more clearly into the 
lighted display window. "Look -- right there, where the caboose is passing 
through? I used to live around there. I had a little bedsitter there, when 
I was in college." 

"In the 1860's?" Buffy asked straightfaced, as she looked at the little 
card that gave the background information for the setting. 

He blew a raspberry at her. "No, in the 1970's, Miss Smarty Pants." 

"Back when you were seriously hanging out with Ethan and the rest of the 
acid kool-aid crowd?" 

Rupert nodded. "Yes. You... you might have actually liked him, then." 

"Why? Was he less annoying?" 

"No, but he was cuter." Rupert slapped his hands over his mouth, but it 
was a bit too late, as Buffy looked down at him and laughed. He sighed 
again. "I'm going to be glad to be old, again." He looked harder at the 
model. Whoever had built it, must have lived in London -- or spent a great 
deal of time studying accurate photographs. 

"Aww, but I *like* you this age. You're cuter, too." 

Rupert gave Buffy a dirty look. She just grinned at him. "We should go 
look for Ethan," he reminded her, as if it hadn't been his fault they'd got 
derailed. As it were. 

"All right, come on." Buffy walked away from the shop. Rupert looked 
back at the display. Where on earth would he put one? The training room 
in the back of the Magic Box? His living room? The rec room at Spike, 
Xander, and Anya's apartment? Spike would be a useful consultant on the 
mock-up.... 

"Er, Buffy, you can put me down, now." They were halfway down the 
sidewalk, just getting out of sight of the shop. He suddenly realized he 
hadn't even looked at the store name, to come back later. 

"Are you sure? You said you were needing a nap. If you're tired, I can--" 

"Buffy, go back." She stopped, probably due to his tone, but she gave 
him the 'what are you talking about *now*' look. "There was a black curtain 
in the window of the bedsit. With a red pattern on it." 

"Um, yeah? You wanna know where he got it?" 

"It's exactly like the one I had hanging in my window. Ethan used to 
say they were the ugliest curtains he'd ever seen, especially upon wak--" 

He really needed to learn how to shut up sooner. 

But Buffy was blinking at him, then looking over their heads at the 
marquee sign with the store's name on it. "The Rainy Day Toy Shoppe. His 
originality never ceases to amaze me. I suppose he could've just named it 
'Ethan's,' like the costume shop." Then she looked down at Rupert's left 
hand. "But how come the undies haven't gone off? Or, um... what is it 
they're actually supposed to do again?" 

"Turn pink." He looked down at them as well, then held them up in the 
light. "Rather like this." 

"Pink." Buffy bit her lip for a moment, then gave in to her laughter. 
"Sorry. It's just... have you noticed that we're just a little bit silly?" 

"It never entered my mind." 

Just then, the radio crackled, and Xander's voice came over the speaker. 
"Um... you guys didn't set these underwear to change color in the presence 
of people who were just harmlessly stopping for ice cream, right?" 

"Again?!!!" Willow's voice echoed out of the walkie-talkie, sounding 
like a cross between Donna Reed, Roseanne Arnold, and the little girl from 
'The Bad Seed.' 

Rupert wondered what was so wrong with them stopping off for ice cream, 
aside from the general dereliction of duty thing, but he didn't have a 
chance to ask, as Anya took the walkie-talkie from Willow, and said 
clearly, "No. We set them to turn pink in the presence of annoying chaos 
worshippers." 

"Well, they fill at least half of the specs," Dawn said cheerfully. 
"Hey, wait, our underwear is pink too! I mean, our piece of Ethan's undies." 

"As a matter of fact, my underwear *is* pink," Anya volunteered for no 
earthly reason that Rupert could think of except to give him one more thing 
to add to his list of 'must never think about, ever' things. 

"The pink satin ones, or the pink ones with little yellow flowers?" 
Spike asked. 

"Anya, if you answer that question I shall send Spike to Burma on an 
errand which will take him two weeks to complete, and Xander on another 
errand to Beijing." Rupert ignored the look Buffy was giving him -- 
presumably because he'd grabbed her by the wrist, as she was still holding 
the walkie-talkie. "We've found Ethan," he added. 

And he knew they had -- not just found his front of operations -- 
because Ethan was sitting at the counter, now, watching them through the 
shop's front window. He gave Rupert a cheery wave. Rupert waved 
back. "Let's go in. I want to look at the train while you beat him up." 

"Are you sure I should be beating him up? Maybe we can ask him, first, 
what he's up to?" 

Rupert pouted at her, one of his very absolute best pouts. "I want you 
to kick him." 

She peered doubtfully through the window. "Well... Much as I'd like to, 
I don't think --" 

"No, you're right. You hold him still. *I'll* kick him." 

"Giles..." 

"Band candy," he said clearly, looking up at her. 

"I'll let Spike hold him still, and we'll both kick him, okay?" 

"I don't think that's remotely fair," Spike said as he walked up behind 
them, flanked by Xander. "Couldn't he be just a *little* bit not-human, so 
I can kick 'im too? I mean, he tried to take our girls-- that deserves a 
right round of killing, in my book." 

"I'll kick him for you," Xander said in a tone that normally was used to 
tell a spouse you loved him and would always and forever do romantic things 
for him. Which, Rupert realized, Xander was. 

"We can all kick him," Anya said, and she went to the front door and 
pulled it open. Ethan just stayed in his seat and watched them, as they 
filed in one at a time. Rupert pushed his way to the front, intending on 
being the first one to kick him. Right in the shins. 

"Oh my god, is this Rupert? Little Ripper?" Ethan got off his seat and 
crouched down. "I don't believe it. It is!" 

Rupert scowled. "Stand up so I can kick you properly." 

"You've turned into a four-year-old. And you have a lisp -- it's too 
precious for words. Tell me, can you remember everything? Or do you think 
you're truly four? The manual said it was just a physical change, but it 
wasn't entirely clear that it meant only body size would change." 

"I mean it, stand up-- manual?" 

"Manual?" Buffy echoed. 

"Yes, the manual. Came with the statue -- well, when I got it. Forgot 
to ship it, didn't I? Oh, dear." Ethan shook his head. 

To hell with the bad angle. Rupert kicked him. 

Part Twenty-Seven

"He doesn't look like much, does he?" Cordelia asked her as they stood 
around the chair to which Ethan had been tied for the last several hours. 
Long enough for the L.A. group to have made it down to Sunnydale in Angel's 
very large shiny black mid-life-crisis mobile. Anya pondered that for a 
moment, wondering if it meant Angel would only live to be five hundred, 
then decided it was just another expression that worked as long as you 
didn't take it literally. 

"No, from the way they've all been talking about him, I was expecting 
slime and scales, possibly a tail. Horns, at the very least." She studied 
the slender Englishman in the chair critically, then turned around, 
intending to find Giles and ask if he'd like to kick Ethan again, since he 
appeared to be waking up from the sleep-spell Willow had put on him to get 
him to shut up. 

Instead, she was face to face with a lopsided smile and a pair of red 
eyes that matched the small red horns growing from the forehead above them. 
"I don't think he could pull off the horny look, somehow," the 
green-skinned demon said with a grin. 

Anya blinked for a moment, having been in the back of the shop when the 
L.A. people had shown up, and been kept back there by Cordelia to catch her 
up on the latest gossip. The men had been nowhere in sight by the time they 
came up front. "You're Angel's new boyfriend. I like you. You're cute. And 
your bright color complements his excessive pallor quite nicely." Which was 
one of the reasons she'd taken to buying jewel-toned silk shirts for Spike 
to wear with his 
never-going-to-give-them-up-woman-you-might-as-well-stake-me black t-shirts. 

Cordelia rolled her eyes, for some reason. "Lorn, this is Anya. The 
artist formerly known as Anyanka, patron saint of scorned women." 

"Oh! Charmed to make your acquaintance, Anya," Lorn said, reaching out a 
hand. She took it, and let him bring it up to kiss the back of her 
hand. He winked. "But be careful with using the 'b' word -- I don't think 
Angel's quite up to hearing that, yet." 

"You don't have to do that," Cordelia said. "She doesn't have her 
powers anymore." 

Lorn gave her a look, but Anya just smiled. "I like it. I think 
everyone should treat women that way. Although it makes it more difficult 
to devise torments for a man who's polite. Not that they were ever polite 
*while* I was tormenting them, of course." 

"Of course," Lorn said, gallantly. Anya further approved -- although 
she wasn't convinced she understood how Angel had managed to land this 
one. After listening to Spike rant about it for the last two nights, she 
didn't think she was the only one who was confused. 

"Speaking of men, where are ours? Won't one of them want to kick Ethan 
again, before we determine what to do with him?" Anya asked, looking around 
the shop. 

"Nope. They wandered off to discuss 'strategy' at Cafe' 
Borgia." Cordelia rolled her eyes. "AKA shove ice cream down Wes and 
Giles' throats so they'll stop arguing over the Dracula doll that Wesley 
insists Giles gave him and Giles insists he only lent him, and to decide 
who gets to beat up Ethan, first." 

Lorn nodded. "Yeah, the testosterone was getting a little thick in 
there. So I volunteered to run over and ask whom you ladies thought should 
get first crack at him. 

"Duh? *We* do." Cordelia turned her attention to Ethan, who was now 
looking around and blinking, as if not quite awake. 

"Cordelia. You're looking lovely as ever." 

"Lovely as *what* ever? I've never been unlucky enough to come face to 
face with you before, Mr. Slimy." 

"Oh, but I've known you since you were sixteen. Such a lovely child. I 
had the perfect Halloween costume picked out for you. Marie Antoinette." 

"Cordelia would have made a horrible Marie Antoinette," Anya observed. 

She found Cordelia turning to her with an aggrieved look on her face, 
and wondered what she'd said *this* time. It was always something. She 
shrugged. A few days after he'd moved in with Anya and Xander, long before 
he'd become their lover, Spike had given her the best advice she'd ever 
received for living as a human: "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." When 
she'd pointed out that she hadn't been joking, he'd grinned, and said "Fuck 
'em anyway, then. *You* know what you meant." 

"You don't think I could pull off playing royalty," Cordelia was asking her. 

Ah. That was it. "No, I meant that Marie Antoinette was three inches 
shorter than you, had buck teeth, and bathed about once every three months." 

"Oh." Cordelia turned back to Ethan. "You thought I'd make a perfect 
short, ugly, smelly woman with no head?" He blinked, and she leaned in 
close to him. "Think carefully about your response, because I don't like 
you much to begin with, mister." 

"My lovely woman, what did I ever--" He stopped -- though not, Anya 
thought, because Buffy laughed. 

"You called Wesley's parents," Cordelia told him. Anya wasn't sure that 
counted as an explanation, even though Xander had told her about the phone 
call. Perhaps Cordelia was simply going to clarify her explanation as she 
took her revenge -- a bit cliche, but always effective. 

"Er, um," Ethan said. 

"And tried to get us kidnapped! And Spike thrown in jail," Willow called 
out. 

But Cordelia just shook her head. "I don't care about that. Willow 
could have turned everyone into frogs before the cops even showed. But 
what you did to Wesley...." Ethan tried looking bewildered, then innocent, 
then repentant. None of them worked. "I should rip your eyeballs out." 

"Oh, no, don't do that," Anya interrupted. "If you want to pop them 
out, use a spoon. If you rip them, they get ooze everywhere and it's very 
hard to get out of carpeting." 

"Hmm. Good point. Got a spoon?" Cordelia asked. 

"I've got one," came Tara's piping voice, from behind the counter. She 
popped around the corner with a large red plastic Dairy Queen spoon in her 
hand. "Will this do?" 

Ethan was looking at Tara with more than a little fear, which Anya 
thought very wise of him. After almost a month with the two little witches 
living in their apartment, she thoroughly understood the meaning of 'It's 
always the quiet ones...' Lorn was edging back out the door, looking at 
*all* of them with more than a little fear. 

"My dear...er...little girl..." Ethan stammered. 

Tara toddled over to him, and held the spoon up in the light from the 
overhead lamp. "You know, Cordelia might not care about us almost being 
kidnapped, but I do. I don't care if we could've turned them into toads -- 
I was *scared*. You're mean, and I don't like you." 

At which point, of course, there was a red-headed blur rushing across 
the room to kick Ethan in the shin. "You scared Tara. I *hate* you." 

Anya resisted the inexplicable urge she was feeling to tell Willow not 
to say things like that, because it wasn't nice, no matter how true it was. 
She also resisted the urge to kick him in the shin herself, for scaring not 
only the children, but Anya's men, as well. They had delicate, fragile 
egos, and it often took weeks of buttering and fluffing for them to recover 
from an experience like that. Luckily, their own quick thinking and inborn 
parental instincts had left them more proud than embarrassed -- but that 
was no thanks to this jerk. Anya only resisted kicking him because *she* 
wasn't four years old. She could think of much more sophisticated things to 
do to him. 

"And you hurt Wesley!" Cordelia was saying; then she stepped forward and 
kicked Ethan. 

"Ow!" Ethan tried to scoot back, but he was rather firmly tied in 
place. "I was only trying to test the statue," he began. 

"Test?" Buffy entered the conversation. Her voice was scary -- her 
Slayer voice, as Anya thought of it. For a Slayer, it was a nice 
voice. For a not-scary person, it wasn't nice at all. Anya liked it. 

"Should we come back later?" Angel asked. Anya and the other women 
looked towards the door. The men were standing there, obviously too afraid 
to interrupt the proceedings. Anya was glad to see such a display of 
intelligence on the part of the male species. 

"Depends. Do any of you want to kick him, too?" Buffy asked, staring at 
Ethan again. 

"Oo! Me, me!" Giles exclaimed happily. "Is this a trick question?" 

He ran forward, the others following behind. Anya noted that Spike and 
Xander still looked like they wanted to kill Ethan a bit -- apparently 
they'd joined the others for real ice cream, rather than being able to 
sneak off and get rid of some of their anger. That was fine, Anya could do 
that for them, later. 

"I want to know what he means by testing the statue," Buffy 
repeated. There were varying degrees of looking put-out, as she disrupted 
the entertainment of beating up Ethan. 

Ethan had gone back to trying to look harmless and innocent. Anya saw 
Wesley, in Gunn's arms, tug on his boyfriend's shirt and whisper in his 
ear. Gunn nodded and set Wesley down. The little boy walked over towards 
Ethan; Buffy and Giles made way for him. Wesley went right up to Ethan, who 
looked down and started to smile ingratiatingly. Wesley scowled -- and 
kicked him. 

"You'd be Wesley, then," the man said, with a sigh that didn't sound at 
all genuine to Anya. Perhaps they hadn't scared him enough? 

"Rupert's right. You are a weaselly little wanker," Wesley said. 

"I'm pleased to meet you, as well," Ethan responded. Looking over at 
Giles, he grinned. "This one's almost more adorable than you are, Ripper." 

"Oh, he is not -- just because he's figured out how to dilate his eyes 
wider than God intended..." Giles grumped. *Somebody* hadn't had his nap 
today, Anya noted. Or somebody was just a little jealous of the only other 
cute four-year-old boy in the room... 

"So you haven't forgotten your vocabulary, at least. The educated part, 
as well as the section on gratuitous insults." 

Anya was impressed -- Giles managed to kick him in *exactly* the same 
spot Wesley had. He was going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow. Assuming 
he lived that long. Buffy was bearing down on him with that stake-happy 
look in her eyes. 

"Okay, fun as it is, the kicking-period is over. Or at least temporarily 
suspended. I want some answers from chaos-boy here. What do you mean, you 
were *testing* the statue? It obviously works. If you were spying on us all 
along, you would've known that the first time we used it -- without any 
kidnappings or calls to anybody's mom and dad." 

"Well, I...that is, I just -- all right! All right." Ethan glared at 
Giles, who had moved into shin-kicking position again. Wesley walked over 
to Cordelia; Anya missed what he did, but somehow he was being picked up 
and held without even asking by raising his arms. "I wanted to know how 
much one's intelligence changed after using the statue. What better way 
than to provide...challenging situations and observe how the 'children' 
reacted?" Ethan gave them each a hopeful look -- apparently hoping his 
answer was sufficient to prevent another kicking. 

"That's it?" Buffy asked. 

"Essentially, yes. It was also fun." Ethan smiled, briefly. 

"Fun?" came several voices, all at almost the exact same level of annoyed. 

"Er...." Ethan looked around at the people surrounding him. "Well, 
perhaps not from your point of view, of course. But they weren't intended 
to be dangerous. Just challenging." 

"I think we should draw straws to see who hits him, first," Cordelia 
said. Then she shook her head. "Forget it. Tara, I want that spoon." 

Spike was standing at the back, and Anya noticed that he was very 
politely raising his hand. It probably meant he was afraid Cordelia would 
take the spoon to *him* if he pissed her off. 

Anya spoke up on his behalf. "Could you hold the eyeballing for a 
minute, Cordelia? I think Spike has something he wants to say." 

All heads turned to Spike, who shuffled a bit and looked down at his 
boots. "Actually... just wanted to say that I hadn't got my turn to kick 
him, yet." 

Ethan looked up, startled. "You can't kick me-- you have a chip in your 
head. I know all about you." 

Xander moved up to the chair and did an excellent job of towering over 
the seated man. He looked quite large and menacing for a guy who had 
watched Looney Toons in his boxers just this morning, with a four-year-old 
girl on either side of him and Spike on the floor leaning against his 
shins, happily crunching away on bloody Froot Loops. "I get to be his 
proxy-kicker," he informed Ethan. "Anyplace you'd like me to start?" 

"All right, I think maybe we've threatened him enough for the moment." 
Astonishingly, the voice came from Giles. 

"I *knew* you still cared, old boy," Ethan said smarmily. 

"Shut up." Giles kicked him again. 

"Does that mean I can kick him?" Xander asked. 

"No -- at least, not yet. I want to know *why* you wanted to test the 
statue." Giles stared at Ethan in a way Anya recognized. Not because he 
ever looked at *her* that way. That she could recall. But he was often 
looking at Buffy or Xander or Dawn or Willow that way. It was a look that 
said 'tell me what I want to know, tell me now, and I shall consider the 
vaguest possibility that I shall cease being angry with you'. 

Ethan was looking bewildered and surprised. Giles turned to 
Xander. Ethan yelled, "All right! For god's sake, you people are vicious." 

"You should remember that, next time you decide to stir up trouble in 
Sunnydale...or California...or anywhere in North America," Buffy said. 

"I wanted to test the statue before I used it on myself," Ethan said, 
with a reluctant air. 

There was a stunned silence. Then Buffy laughed. "Oh, my god. A 
four-year old-Ethan! He'd be cuter than Giles!" 

"He would *not*!" Giles protested. 

"Oh, I would," Ethan said. 

"Shut up!" Giles kicked him. Again. Anya was beginning to get a little 
bored with the repetitiveness. "And why wouldn't he be cuter than Wesley?" 
Giles demanded, pointing at the diminutive ex-Watcher, still in Cordelia's 
arms. Anya thought he rather looked like the spoiled heir to the throne -- 
especially with the thumb in his mouth. 

Wesley looked at Buffy, who shook her head. "Nope, not cuter than 
that. God, Wes, you should have given us those eyes when you first came to 
Sunnydale. We'd have done anything you asked." She chucked him under the 
chin, and Giles muttered something under his breath. 

"I don't think that kind of demon can do that with its own tail," 
Anya pointed out. 

"I'm sure it would find a way if Wesley looked adorable at it," Giles 
shot back sarcastically. 

"Someone needs a na-ap..." Ethan sang, saving Anya the trouble of 
pointing *that* out. 

"I think Giles is the cutest," she said, instead. What the hell -- she 
could use a raise. There was a new software company in which she 
desperately wanted to buy shares, not to mention that they'd probably be 
needing a bigger place to live, sooner or later. Four bedrooms? Five? 

"Thank you, Anya. I think." 

"So why does thin, pale, and snarky here want to be a kid again?" 
Angel's green boyfriend asked, looking Ethan over with narrowed red eyes. 

Ethan looked straight back at him. "Do you know what it's like to be a 
chaos worshipper, when you reach a certain age? All the two-faced gods want 
are young, bright-eyed boys they can have the pleasure of corrupting." He 
smiled slyly. "Don't we all, of course. But there's a point, you know, 
where you've made one too many pacts. Sooner or later, someone's going to 
decide you're not pretty enough to keep around just for the scenery, and 
call in the debt." 

"You want to use the statue so you can be--" Buffy shook her 
head. "Tell me he doesn't mean that the way I think he means that." 

"He wants to remain in service without paying the price of servitude," 
Giles explained, with a hint of long-suffering. 

"Exactly!" Ethan gave Giles a happy smile. "Granted, I'd rather be a 
bit older than four, but I'm not picky." 

"We can make sure you don't get any older," Cordelia said. Anya decided 
she needed to spend more time with Cordelia. Girls-only weekends -- they 
could go shopping and have lunch, and talk about dissecting men. 

Ethan appeared a bit disturbed. "That's not exactly the way I meant it." 

"Who exactly was going to take care of you, Ethan?" Giles asked. "Or 
were you going to hire a demon nanny?" 

"Well, actually, that seems to be the flaw in my plan. After a week, 
the emotional maturity of the inflicted seems to regress far past what I 
need. While your intelligence level appears unchanged, your...ability to 
use that intelligence is affected." Ethan shook his head, sadly. "It 
isn't what I'm looking for." 

"So sorry to disappoint you," Giles sneered. 

Everyone stood around, staring at Ethan, for a moment. Dawn finally 
broke the silence by asking the obvious next question. "So, what are we 
going to do with him?" 

"Kick him?" Giles suggested. 

Anya smiled. Eleven hundred years as a vengeance demon were good for 
more than just thinking up mutually enjoyable torments for Spike and 
Xander. "I have a better idea." 

***** 

"You scare me," Xander was saying to his wife. The scary thing, for 
Gunn, was that he was saying it the way other men say 'You look like you 
need to be covered with ice cream and chocolate sauce and chopped nuts and 
have me licking it off you, slowly.' Anya was looking like that was what 
she had heard, too. 

"Hey, you scare me, too," Spike said, with the biggest display of 
attempted Wesley-eyes Gunn had seen since Giles had volunteered to be the 
one to boot Ethan through the portal. 

Gunn had shaken his head at the time. Can't beat the real thing, baby, 
as the Coca-Cola people knew damn well. Wes had given Cordelia and Angel 
one flash of those sad, pathetic, 'but he called my parents and now I'm 
going to be traumatized for the rest of my life' eyes, and that was that. 
Giles had to share the booting privileges. 

Well, okay, Wesley had given the eyes to Gunn as well, but it wasn't 
like he *had* to. Gunn had been planning on doing the booting *for* him, 
until he'd indicated that he'd rather do it himself. 

"I can't believe he blubbered so much!" Wesley was crowing, now. "What a 
pansy-arse!" 

"Wesley, you shouldn't be mean about it," Cordelia scolded. When Wesley 
-- and Giles, and Buffy, and pretty much everyone including Gunn gave her a 
dumbfounded look, she said, "Not when he isn't here to hear you." 

"He won't be back, though, will he?" Tara asked quietly. She was 
sitting with Willow in a chair, trying not to drink the cup of tea Spike 
had brought her. Gunn didn't know what was in it, wasn't sure he *wanted* 
to know. 

"Actually, he probably will," Giles said. *He* was drinking chocolate 
milk through one of those plastic swirly straws with the loops in them, and 
getting such a kick out of it that he'd obviously never go back to plain 
old bendy straws again. Angel had bought it for him at the Cafe Borgia, 
which had meant that Wes had to have *his* own personal swirly straw 
too. Giles slurped his milk for a second, then continued. "The World 
Without Chaos is not a world without magic. It's just a place where the 
force of order is so strong that any disruptive actions, from mischievous 
to diabolical, get squashed flat by the universe. It will take him some 
time, and he'll be driven mad in the meantime, but he probably will find a 
way back." 

Gunn thought it a little odd that Giles didn't seem to mind. He even 
seemed to be smiling, a little. What was weirder, though, was that Wes 
didn't seem upset by the news. "A few years of order and neatness will do 
him good," Wesley stated. 

Giles snorted. "Hardly. It will make drive him right around the bend." 

Wesley grinned. "Well, then, it shall do *me* some good." He looked 
around, and spotted Gunn. Brightening, he came over and climbed into the 
chair beside Gunn. "I want tacos," he said in that 'do for me' tone that 
Gunn wasn't going to tell him was a waste of energy. 

He was glad Wesley had got over his reluctance to indulge himself in 
being a kid, and if this were gonna last any longer than one more week, 
Gunn would have some serious problems on his hands. But when Wesley was all 
grown up again, he'd offer an apology for his outrageous behavior and Gunn 
would say 'if you wanna make it up to me' -- then hopefully they could stay 
in bed for three days and let Angel and Cordelia handle the agency and the 
Fight For All That Is Right. 

"Oh, Angel'll go get tacos," Cordelia piped up. 

"I..." Angel looked around, desperately trying to avoid Wesley's gaze, 
Gunn noted with suppressed laughter. "Sunnydale doesn't *have* an all-night 
taco place, does it?" 

Buffy blinked at him. "You lived here *how* long and you never heard the 
expression 'run for the border' ?" 

"You want me to go to *Mexico* for tacos?" Then he stopped, considering 
it. "Hmm. Maybe I should. They'd make the most authentic ones there, right?" 

"The Mexican border is six hours away, Angel. Buffy means Taco Bell, 
which is open 'til one in the morning," Wesley informed him haughtily. 

"And you know this how, Mister 'I wouldn't be caught undead in a fast 
food taco place before I turned into a kid' ?" Cordy asked. 

"I looked up all the taco places in Los Angeles, to see which ones I 
could send Angel out to in the middle of the night!" Wesley looked *way* 
too proud of himself as the rest of the group laughed, and Gunn was glad 
again that his boyfriend would be an adult within the week. Not just 
because the kid-Wesley was three times as evil as the adult one, but 
because Gunn missed seeing that smile on the adult Wesley's face, just 
before he kissed it off. 

"You want to come with me, Wes?" Angel asked, sounding guileless. "You 
can help me carry the bags." 

Wesley opened his mouth, then stopped. He looked up at Angel, 
doubtfully, and Gunn had to fight not to laugh. Angel probably *wasn't* 
planning anything. But Wesley didn't know that, and wouldn't believe it if 
he did. 

"Since when do you care how authentic tacos are?" Spike asked. Angel 
looked sheepish, and Spike's eyes went wide. "Oh for fuck's sake!" Spike 
yelled. Then he glanced at the not-kids standing next to him, and muttered, 
apparently reflexively, "Pardon my language..." in an accent that 
frightened Gunn, and made him understand why Angel had thought Spike could 
have pulled off the phone-prank, if he'd wanted to. Then he turned back to 
yell at Angel again. "First you marry me off, then you start eating 
food. Dammit, Angel, you're turning into a...a...a...." 

Everyone looked at Spike and waited patiently. 

Spike just looked frustrated, then said, "A goob." Angel blinked at him. 
"That's a technical term," he added with a sneer. 

"A technical term for 'Spike's daddy is a push-over for a pretty face'?" 
Xander asked. 

"*Grand*-sire," Spike corrected, while Angel protested in more 
incoherent terms. 

Gunn grinned, glancing down at Wesley. He was sitting back in his chair 
watching the by-play, with his feet sticking out in front of him, barely 
dangling off the edge of the chair. He was sucking his thumb, and Gunn 
wasn't sure it was because he needed comforting, or if it was becoming 
habit. Another reason to want him old, again. If he was developing an 
oral-fixation.... 

He seemed to be calming down, finally, which was a good thing. Ever 
since Anya had first suggested sending Ethan to the World Without Chaos, 
Wesley had been bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm. Gunn got the 
impression Ethan was even a little taken aback at how blood-thirsty Wes had 
gotten. Gunn didn't point out that Wesley had had a three-scoop sundae, at 
the ice cream shop. 

Wesley was now leaning to one side, a little, resting his head against 
the back of the chair. Spike -- whether he was looking for a way out of 
having to admit to thinking of Angel as 'dad' even now that he wasn't a 
fake kid anymore, or just trying to cause trouble -- had backed towards 
Wesley's chair. Now he reached over and pulled Wesley's thumb out of his 
mouth with a little popping sound. "You'll ruin your teeth." 

The only thing funnier than Wesley's affronted look, and "Not in a week, 
bell-end," before popping his thumb back in, was the look on Spike's face 
when he realized what he'd done. 

Or possibly the look on Angel's face. "Gee, Spike... you appear to be 
turning into a..." 

Spike whirled on him with a nasty little growl. "Yes?" 

"Daddy?" 

Spike picked Tara up without even pausing in his glare-fest towards 
Angel. "Yes, luv, what?" 

"Does this mean Angel is my grandpa?" 

Spike looked down at her, then around at the grins on all the faces 
surrounding him. Except for Angel, who was back to panic-stricken, do not 
pass Go, do not collect 200 packets of taco sauce. Spike grinned widely -- 
and possibly more evilly than anything Gunn had ever seen. It would be fun 
to have a contest between Spike, Angel, and four-year-old Wesley, Gunn 
decided, as long as he got to judge, and not be the victim of the evil. 

"Yes. Yes, it does. Although he doesn't like it when people call him 
that. He likes to be called Poof Daddy." Then Spike was saying "Ow! Ow! 
Ow!" and trying to kick Angel without setting Tara down. Angel let go of 
Spike's hair, or ear, or whatever it was he'd grabbed and twisted, and 
turned to Anya. 

"He deserved that," he said, no doubt covering his butt in case she was 
annoyed with his intrusion on her territory. 

But Anya just nodded. "He usually does." 

"Hey!" Spike objected, then thought twice about to whom he was 
objecting, and to *what* he was objecting. "Er, right. I do. Someone 
should take me home and--" He stopped, and looked down at the 
four-year-old in his arms. "Take me out for ice cream." 

"Actually, that's raised a good question," Xander said. "We've 
vanquished the disturbingly-lamer-every-time-we-meet-him Chaos Wizard, and 
you four have a week left of kiddie-hood. What do we do next?" 

At least seven people shouted, "Disneyland!" 

"Awesome! But... first, could you all stand together a bit more?" Dawn 
asked, holding her camera. 

At least three people tried to give Angel rabbit-ears, but Gunn was 
proud to note that Wesley, once again in his arms, was the one who made it 
there first. 

THE END