A/N- Ah, my first chaptered Spike/Illyria fic. I first came upon this pairing on another fanfiction site called Twisting the Hellmouth. And I thought, what a great idea! Ever since then, I've been trying to come up with an idea for a chaptered story for the pair. Before this, I did a drabble--kinda taking the ship out on a test run, you see--called "Wrong." I found that it felt very right for me to write for these two characters together. So now, here's my fic!
Disclaimer- I don't own Angel, Buffy, or any related characters. Those all belong to Joss Whendon. Making no money here! This applies to all chapters.
"So you see, souls cannot truly be destroyed!"
At this, Spike looked up from his pint and stared at the sorcerer beside him.
For the last hour and a half of this rather boring night, Spike had been listening to the man beside him prattle on and on about…something. To be honest, "listening" was too strong a word to describe what Spike had been doing. "Allowing the man to prattle on and on while he didn't listen to a word that he had said" came closer. But this last statement had caught the vampire's attention.
"What do you mean by that?" Spike asked, now turning toward him.
The sorcerer--a man in is mid-thirties with dark, balding hair, squinty black eyes, dressed in what looked like a department store-bought robe, and who probably worked in some corporate office during the day--lifted an eyebrow at him.
"Haven't you been listening?" he asked, crossing his arms indignantly.
Spike snarled a bit, leaning forward. "The important thing is that I'm listening now. Go over it again!"
"What interest does a vampire have in souls?" the sorcerer said, a slight tremble in his voice.
"Well, if you must know, I've got me one, and secondly, I've got a friend who lost hers wrongly. Now, fess up."
"Lost a soul, wrongly, you say?"
Growling now in aggravation, Spike nodded. "Yes, yes. Now, I couldn't shut you up a minute ago! What happened? Where's the on switch?"
The sorcerer extended a hand. "Sherman Banks. Magical practitioner and pioneer. I'd like to hear more about your friend."
"First things first, answer the bloody question!!" Spike said.
"Right, right. Sorry. Anyway, if you had been listening, you would have heard me tell you all about how souls cannot be destroyed," Sherman said, a little haughtily.
"Well, I wasn't bloody listening! Get on with it!"
"Well, souls can't be destroyed because they aren't really tangible, nor do they belong to us. The higher Powers--God, goddess, whoever you believe--created our souls and sort of…loaned them to us. Then, depending on how we used them, when they get them back, they decided where the souls should go…basically, how dirty you've made them. You getting all this…uh, what's your name again?"
"I didn't give it," Spike said.
"Aw, come on now. I'm harmless. I just study the history and usage of magic and try to use it to come up with new magic. Or rather, old magic that people have forgotten how to do and thus feels new. I've given my name," Sherman said.
"What happens to souls that are taken unjustly?" Spike asked.
"Nope, nope. No more unless I get your name. Look, I just want to be friends. Not many of the folks here like me. They just think of me as a meddling human."
Spike sighed. "Spike, alright, you soddin' fool. My name is Spike. Now, answer my question!"
"Spike? As in "William the Bloody," Spike? Like one of the three that survived the onslaught of Wolfram and Hart after having destroyed their office in LA?"
"How do you know about all of that?" he asked.
"Two vampires with souls and an Old One take down the legions of Wolfram and Hart, and you expect no one to notice? It was all over every supernatural news source from the underworld up. It was amazing!"
"Amazing would be the last word I'd use to describe it, mate. We lost a few in that battle and probably would've lost ourselves in the process if the Slayers hadn't shown up," Spike said.
"Wait a minute," Sherman said, eyeing Spike.
Spike stared back at him. This little fellow was a strange one indeed. Of course, Spike had met a lot of strange people since moving to New Orleans. Everyone from crazed Lestat fans to just plain crazy.
"Illyria, the Old One, is she the reason you've taken such an interest in this subject? You want to restore whoever resided in that body before, am I right?" Sherman asked.
"How do I know that you're not some nutso worshipper of Illyria, waiting for me to take you to meet her and then bash me on the head and take off to destroy the world?" Spike asked.
Suddenly, Sherman took Spike's hand and rubbed it across his lower abdomen and up his left side. Spike yanked his hand back, exclaiming.
"What the bloody hell was that?" he asked.
"Followers of Illyria sew something…I don't remember what exactly now…into themselves. Usually near the heart. As you felt, I don't have that. I'm just out to help. I was really impressed with what you did, fighting Wolfram and Hart. I do, however, want to meet Illyria. Maybe I can help. What do you say?" Sherman asked.
Spike stared at him. Then, sighing and shaking his head, he slammed down the money for his pint on the counter. Standing, he said, "Alright. Let's go."
End Notes: Okay, so what did you think? Not much for this chapter, but it'll get better. I promise! Well, please review!