Disclaimer: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…
Summary: Occurs after Brother, Unfortunately Mine. Rating 18 for sexual references. The sibling theme is not entirely played out …
HOW TO KILL YOUR (PSYCHO) BOYFRIEND IN ONE HARD LESSON
Chapter 1 – Sugar Rush
"Unclench, people! It's a beautiful day out there! Look…I bought doughnuts!"
Gunn and Lorne looked at Spike as he opened the box to display the iced confectionary and waved it enticingly.
"Does Wolfram & Hart run a staff drug testing program?" Gunn asked Lorne pointedly.
"What, can't a bloke just be happy?"
"You?" Gunn challenged, "…And why is this box half empty?"
They looked over to see Fred standing at the doorway of the Science department's outer office, cheeks bulging, with the savaged remnants of a caramel-iced custard doughnut in her hands. "Ah," Gunn nodded sagely.
Fred finished devouring the sugar-laden goodie. She was ravenous…speaking of which…go Illyria, Poster Demon for insatiable. Fred had only been able to float around in the ancient demon's central cortex, squeaking in horrified delight as the wonderful, wanton night progressed…not in her wildest dreams had Fred imagined being able to drive Wesley so wild and desperate, until every hot, tender millimetre of his delicious flesh was slick with sweat and he was hoarse from pleading…down girl! Think ice, think lots and lots of ice…
"So why the happy?" Gunn snagged the last cream-filled with a couple of fingers as Spike disposed of the box in a trashcan, returning his attention to the blond vampire.
"He's squatting in my hotel." Angel, leaning against the doorpost of his office, watched the scene, a distinctly unamused expression on his face.
"You moved out of Wes's?" Lorne asked, casting a quick look at where Fred had coughed over a bit of doughnut and gone bright red; the munchkin was wolfing down the sugary treats like she hadn't eaten for a week – she'd be bouncing off the walls by lunchtime at this rate.
"Gotta go." Fred withdrew hastily inside her lab like a tortoise into its shell, her cheeks flaming. Oh god, Spike! She had given no thought to the fact that Wesley had a roommate…or rather, Illyria hadn't. Fred broke into a sweat of relief – Spike must have only been gone an hour or so before Illyria decided to…Fred shuddered; Spike would have had a ringside seat for Illyria's little hardcore porn show. Illyria didn't get subtlety, or discretion, or 'not for public consumption'. It would have carried on regardless!
"What do you think?" Spike countered to the green demon. "'Son of Giles' apartment couch versus five-floor hotel, with swimming pool. Did I mention the sauna, and the Turkish bath, and the spa pools? Just going begging."
"There are reasons the Hyperion is empty –" Angel put in, his tone quelling.
"Yeah, I got the Cliff Notes from Wes. Paranoia demon; madness and mayhem; spooks to the rafters; et cetera." Spike shrugged. "Besides, it's sort of mine anyway, when you think about it."
"Not seeing that somehow." Angel glared.
"Me neither. Legally speaking –" Gunn's tongue flicked out and caught a dab of cream before it could fall to the carpet.
"Exactly. I mean, Angel's my granddad, so in a way…it's like my inheritance."
"I'm what?" Angel shoved away from the doorpost and stood fully upright.
"Currently ten minutes late for your meeting with the Sen-Hi-Pang representative." Chimed in a new commentator.
They looked up towards the voice from above; Wesley pointed at the large lobby clock. "See?"
"Aagh," Angel groaned. "Hey," he looked up at Wesley. "Aren't you in that meeting with me, to interpret?"
"Not any more. I've got Huang on it – she's the best we've got when it comes to the mystical Kung-Sun-Die dialects." Wesley explained. "It's no big. Just smile at each other across the table and make vague, ambiguous promises that neither of you intend to keep."
Angel frowned and moved forward into the lobby as he remembered the 'few Bihari squatters' that had turned into a giant Ts'ikk nightmare. "Where are you going?"
"Gru's asked me to give him the Whistle Stop Tour of LA, so he knows the hotspots to hit when he's hunting nefarious beasties."
"Is that a good idea?" Spike spoke up, shrugging when they all turned their gazes on him. "Look, I like Gru. For someone who so redefines the concept of 'fashion victim', he's a solid bloke, but isn't letting him run around LA on his own kinda like metaphorically tying him to the railroad tracks?"
"He's the Groosalug." Lorne responded.
"Yeah, and that's another thing – what kind of dumb ass word is 'Groosalug'?"
"It's Pylean and it means the Unconquerable One." Angel told his grandson tartly.
"Aaah…hence the no big with him wondering around this town on his own."
"I'm stunned that I'm actually agreeing with Sid here," Gunn put in his cent's worth, "but Spike has a point. Gru wanting to help is admirable, but do we want him doing the demon slice-and-dice without any of us around?"
"We need him."
Again they looked up as Wesley spoke. Resting both hands on the metal rail of the upper walkway, Wesley ignored those going past as he looked down at the four of them and went on to say, "We've only been here a few months and we are running flat out, pedal to the metal, working both ends against the middle. We're working on so many active cases at once that this makes Angel Investigations look like we were in a coma, never mind just standing still. Gru roaming the mean streets of LA like a real-life Conan the barbarian…although with better hair…he can winnow out the chaff from the wheat, deal with the small problems so we can concentrate on the more important stuff. Better, he'll stop a lot of molehills becoming mountains because we're stretched so tight we don't have time to deal."
"Gru will keep down the rats while we deal with the Bigger Bads, got it." Gunn nodded, "When you put it like that…"
Wesley smiled. "I for one would like to be able to leave the office before midnight once in a while." Like every night, so Fred can… "Ahem…Angel, when was the last time you got to go to a hockey game on a weeknight? Gunn, had the chance to use those baseball season tickets lately? Lorne – when was the last time you got chance to drop by Caritas and terrorise your bar manager for an hour?"
"Alright," Angel conceded, aware that he was now fifteen minutes late. "Just stay frosty when you're out with Gru. He tends to leap before he looks."
Continued in Chapter 2 …
© 2005 C. D. Stewart