Dusty Answers 

She sat neatly and precisely, as though it were second nature for her body to be tucked into itself on a small mat, never letting her head droop as she poured rice wine from the bamboo-handled pot. 
 
It was strange to be the younger, the supplicant, the student, but she was too aware of the formalities involved here not to fulfil obligations that were beneath the dignity of the god she had once been, and too exalted for the shell she now inhabited. 
 
Mr Pak was a master at setting her completely off balance with a simple ritual, and damn him, but he knew it. 
 
But Illyria wanted advice. Illyria needed advice. And they both knew that she would pay this price of submission, feigned or real, to receive it. 
 
The Imugi hadn't changed during all the time of her long sleep, when it came to symbolism. And Illyria was finding it hard to swallow her resentment, particularly when it came to moments such as these, when she had to kneel in self-contained dignity and serve him, listen as obediently as a child, and still - still! - she understood nothing of what he was saying. 
 
You must consider your own feelings and your reasoning. 
 
If she'd known how to do that, she wouldn't be here… 
 
"It is different for you." Illyria was speaking in the Old Tongue, the formal language of the Ancients that even Mr Pak's family would not understand. She stared down into her delicate cup, and thought of how easy it would be to break it with only her fingertips. If she did, though, the Imugi would only sigh, clear up the fragments - clear them up! As though he had need of a pan and brush! - and get her a new one. Equally fragile, equally translucent. Old, and patterned. They had thought them shells of dragons' eggs, long ago in Illyria's time. 
 
She wondered if he let the others drink out of them, or if this was only for her. 
 
"Is it?" Oh, amusement. Worse than Spike's mockery, or Xander's laughter, or Wesley's quiet, wry dismissal, this genuine flicker of a smile, as though she were a baby who had successfully removed a sock. Illyria raised her chin to an impossible angle, tilting her head as though inviting a blow. 
 
"Yes," she said. "You - chose. This is your own way of life. To be closer to them. It has been so for thousands of years. You are revered for it. I - I am ripped from what I am and becoming what I have never understood. I never wished to be - part of this humanity. I protect, I do not -" 
 
"Participate?" 
 
She nodded. 
 
"Yet you are now, as you always did. They gave you all their hope, their faith, their adoration, and you strove to fulfil each prayer. How have you changed?" 
 
"I have not. They have. I do not know what they want, but it is not what I can give. They say to be myself…but I do not know what that is." 
 
"Nor do any of us." 
 
Illyria hissed in frustration. "He angers me. He frustrates me. I can no longer think or see clearly, not myself nor him." 
 
Mr Pak grinned. "Perhaps you should ask yourself…when did there become only one 'he' in your life, Lady?" 
 
"You are mocking me." Again, was the unspoken rider, but they both heard it. 
 
"Yes," Mr Pak agreed blandly. "Perhaps you should ask why. Your cup is empty." 
 
She wouldn't break its delicacy, powdering it under her nails. She wouldn't smash the pot. She would not stamp her foot, for it would no longer raise armies. She was no longer the Unconquerable. 
 
Illyria straightened her back once more, and lifted the pot with her body and expression schooled to serenity. 
 
"Yes," she conceded. "It is." 
 
They drank in silence. 
 
"If I had been…if it were then," she said at last, "I would have taken him for my own, by now. I would have exalted him beyond my other warriors, and made all see him through my eyes. But I cannot do that." 
 
Mr Pak simply reached for the pot himself, and served them both a miniscule amount, topping the clear liquid up until the little cups brimmed and nearly spilt. Another test, this time of steadiness. 
 
"No," he agreed. "As you are now, you must ask yourself…what is it you feel, Lady?" 
 
Illyria's hand jerked, spilling the wine over the bamboo mat, and she cursed under her breath. 
 
"That I am late for my training with the half-breed," she said at last, and rose to her feet. Then she bowed. "Thank you for the tea." 
 
"Oh…" Mr Pak looked at his ruined mat. "Think nothing of it." 
 
Illyria wondered if he had no doors simply because everyone, at some point, had slammed them off their hinges. As it was, she settled for making her slippered feet sound as loud as she could. 
 
It made her even angrier when that wasn't even discernable. 
 
At least she could make an impression on Spike. It never lasted, but it was something - though it would never be as satisfactory as kicking Angel had been. 
 
Then again, that was quite possibly the most enjoyment she had received from this half-life since she entered it. 
 
What is it you feel? 
 
"If I had known that," she growled, making her way through the garden, "I would never have endured your questioning!" 
 
She could feel him smirking, all the way to the gate that led into Wesley's emerging patterns of herbs and flowers and metalwork. 
 
And that was another thing. She had seen what he could do with magic, seen what was in his mind. And yet he chose to spend his evenings with tools and soil and frustration, carving away at something no-one but he could see, aiming for something she he knew would never be quite as he envisaged, would always be changing, require work, require alteration, lack perfection. 
 
Illyria wanted an answer to her why, and it seemed that no-one was prepared to give it to her. 
 
What is it you feel? 
 
She could have screamed for pure frustration. Because if the Imugi did not know, who could tell her? Who would ever tell her? 
 
"Lonely," she said aloud. "I feel…lonely." 
 
And that, she knew, was only a part of it.  
 
I would have made him my beloved! 
 
Illyria stopped stock still in the middle of Wesley's new herbs, still waiting to be transplanted that evening, and gasped. 
 
Oh…no. 

* 

Confidence was an amazing thing. It seemed to expand exponentially. You got a bit… and it grew and attracted more to itself. 
 
That was what Spike was seeing in Xander. Since the young man had gotten past having to tell his long-time friends that, although he loved them, he wanted a change in his life, his confidence seemed to be growing in leaps and bounds. And not just his confidence in himself, although that, certainly, was plain, but his confidence in the acceptance he was finding working for Wes.  
 
Yeah, that was his bloke, alright. Wes had a way of knowing how to let people shine. He'd give an instruction and then stepped back, simply expecting the person he was working with to either ask for further information or to take care of it. No micromanaging in their firm, just competent people taking care of business. 
 
"Spike, could you hand me the Hixson's Demonology?" Xander had the phone tucked under his chin, his lone eye flashing over the note pad he was writing on. 
 
Spike smirked and handed him the book. 
 
"Thanks," Xander mouthed silently as he listened to the other half of the conversation.. "No… no, ma'am. I doubt it's one of those "Gremlins" like in the Steven Spielberg movie. Yeah… yeah… Why? Uh… because there's no such thing? No, ma'am. No there are other things that might look like them though… just give me your number and we'll get back with you as soon as we can. Uh-huh… yeah…. 5849? Okay" 
 
Spike grinned at Xander as he hung up the phone. "Something good?" He rubbed his hands together with apparent glee. The soul might have mellowed him…. But a good fight? That was always high on his list. 
 
"Not this one… " Xander shook his head, flipping through the pages of the Cranshaw's. "Seems like some minor demon… Probably a Densu or a Cammith… But Wes got one earlier that he's trying to figure out. Sounds like this lady's whole house is possessed." 
 
"Possessed? That's not too common." Spike raised an eyebrow. "People are possessed. Animals are possessed. For an entire inanimate building to be possessed…. Well…. Just not something that occurs very often." 
 
Xander shrugged. "Yeah, that's what Wes said… hence research." 
 
Xander gave a nod towards the desk where Wes was sitting, his hair ruffled and messy, his face almost down on the page of a dusty book he was attempting to read. Spike knew that if he got closer he'd see ink stains on the long elegant fingers…and, just possibly, a smudge across his chin as well.  
 
The sight was impossibly endearing. 
 
"God. Turning into a right chit, I am." Spike grimaced at himself, then spoke to Wes. "Need help with that, love?" 
 
"What? " Wes looked up, blinking nearsightedly. "Oh… yes… You can start with those. Anything to do with possession or animation of inanimate objects." 
 
Spike sighed, picked up the first of the stack of books and carried it to the couch, "The Diary of Watcher Micha Crenshaw. Lovely…. Bet the man never shagged in his life and died alone…." 
 
"Hmmm?"  
 
"Nothing, love…. Just talking to myself." Spike chuckled and settled down, opening the book on his lap. 
 
"Damn, what did this bloke write with? Bloody tree root and maple sap?" He grumbled a short time later, adjusting the lamp to cast more light on the page.  
 
Wes looked up at that, his eyes twinkling, "No, I believe that would have been an even more inferior ink that what he used. Lard and lampblack, I believe it was…. " 
 
Spike blinked at him in disbelief. 
 
"No, actually, that book was damaged in a flood, I believe." Wes raised an eyebrow. "Micha Crenshaw, isn't it?" 
 
"The Watcher, himself…. " Spike agreed. "Watched over…. Hmmm… Could that be Bella Orla? Or Delia Orman?  
 
"Could have been either, but I'm not sure." Wes looked at him curiously, "She was French, I'm sure. Is the name important?" 
 
"Nah… just having a hard time with his writing, let alone the water damage…" They both returned to their books and silence, with only the quietly turning pages and the occasional ringing of the phone, as interruption. 
 
"Oi, here's a bit… " Spike looked up and then read, "First April, 1452... The villagers have been making reports about strange……happenings. Winds inside their homes. Animals behaving….about… No… that's against, I think… against their natures. A possession can not be ruled out… no matter…how… Hmmm… not sure of that next line… something about unusual or unnatural… blah, blah, smudge…. I'll have Della do extra patrols the next… okay, another smudge there. One of the young men came in, last…..night… said a fog scared his…herd. Not just… fog… but something more…. I think it's purposeful… and alive… That's all in this bit…" 
 
"Not a lot there, "Wes frowned. "Keep reading, I'll take a look at the Council's correspondence database and see if I find anything from Crenshaw around that date." 
 
Spike nodded, settling back down to squint and take notes, watching for any further mention of the phenomenon, while Wes fired up his computer. 

* 

Peace was a wonderful thing. And sometimes, Wesley actually got to enjoy some. Unfortunately, those times had been so long ago that he was starting to forget what it felt like. 
 
He was learning that really, it had to be judged comparatively, and, comparatively speaking, it was turning into a reasonably peaceful evening. Of course comparison, like hindsight, was a wonderful thing after the fact, in this case of what the almost-peace could be compared to. 
 
Namely, Illyria. Or rather, Illyria and his laptop, on which he had unwisely allowed her to start learning Boolean search. Of course, he hadn't bargained (which he should have) for how frustrating searches were at the best of times, coupled with how Illyria usually showed her displeasure at something electronic - and, as the sound of creative swearing proved, the fact that Xander had been trying to wire the new apartment-cum-offices more efficiently at the time of computerly destruction. 
 
What was unexpected, and, considering Spike was trying his best not to laugh too audibly, and so not looking, and that Xander was still cursing a blue streak somewhere under wires and a wood panel, something that Wesley suspected he was the only one to notice, was the completely stricken look that crossed Illyria's face. 
 
It was so brief that he might have thought he imagined it, were it not for the fact that she immediately slammed what was left of the laptop shut, and leapt to her feet. 
 
"I wish to spar," she announced, and Wesley knew, now, that he wasn't imagining things. Her tone was too haughty, her chin just too tilted, in ways that hadn't been true for a few weeks. "Spike!" And there was the second clue, if you wanted. No title, no half-arrogant, half-amused formalities, but a barely-concealed desperation. 
 
Spike, apparently, had sensed nothing, because his look upwards was his usual one of studied boredom. Admittedly, by the time his very slow, and deliberately insulting look had travelled up to Illyria's face, there was no trace of any of the emotions that had been there seconds before, but still…strange that he should be so unobservant. 
 
Strange that they all had been, really. 
 
"Stupid fucking -" Xander said from under the wires, trailing off into muttering, and the skin around Illyria's eyes flickered. Easy to see, now that Wesley was looking for it. And oh, Lord, wasn't this an unexpected little addition… 
 
It certainly explained a great deal about how edgy she had been, recently. And her sudden interest in helping with the research…although given that it was usually a choice between that and Mr Pak or Oz, perhaps it could have been explained away. 
 
As Illyria stalked towards the door, however, he had a suspicion that it really, really couldn't. But then, it was none of his business. 
 
He hoped. 
 
 
 
In a sudden fit of rather hopelessly wishing he hadn't noticed anything at all, he delved back into his book, and resolved to remain as oblivious as he wished he really was. 
 
Then Xander did something that killed all the power in the apartment, and all speculation vanished from Wesley's mind, in favour of joining in the cursing. 
 
And really, it shouldn't have been in any way surprising that this was when Spike finally followed Illyria out of the room. The smirk, on the other hand, was dishearteningly expected. 
 
And this, God help them all, was what qualified as peace in their time. 
 
Wesley muttered an illumination spell under his breath, and at least could keep on reading. It was a bit like working in an early editions library, with only the book visible, and for the first time, he could understand exactly how his eyesight had deteriorated so rapidly. 
 
It didn't stop him from becoming immersed in his text again, or help him pay any attention to what Xander was doing, even when the power came back on, and it wasn't until the other man's tone of voice changed from conversational to completely fed up that he realised he had missed something, yet again. 
 
"You want to build with masonry?" he asked vaguely, his brain catching up with his ears at last. And perhaps it was just that he'd been too immersed in old texts all his life, but he was fairly sure that this wasn't something out of the ordinary… 

* 

Xander Harris fidgeted. There were things he needed to know, answers to questions… so very many questions, that sometimes they almost tumbled out of him with the same speed they did out of Illyria. Fortunately for those around him, he had a bit more impulse control, and bit his lip, and narrowed down his inquiries to only those that pertained to the subject at hand. And that was just as well, because, for his own sanity, he wasn't always sure that some of his questions should be answered. 
 
"Wes.... Um... exactly HOW sturdy does this have to be?" Xander looked at the plans for the work out room.  
 
"Preferably? Sturdy enough that no-one can get thrown through it…" Wes tossed out an off-hand answer, still immersed in his books. 
 
"Hmmm... that's going to add a lot to the cost, ya know? That means either hardwoods or metal." Xander frowned, "Or, could we, ya know, do some kind of "Spell of Imperviousness"?" 
 
Wes looked up with a vague expression, "A - a - no. Well, I can't. I'm not sure there is one, come to think of it…" 
 
Darn, no supernatural help there then. Xander looked back down at his plans. 
 
"Hmmm.... " Xander ventured his next idea. "I think the masonry of the exterior walls will be good enough there. This is an old building... old enough that it's very well built. I.... I guess I could continue with masonry... but I'll have to see if the flooring structure will be strong enough to hold it."  
 
Xander looked up. "Wes... are you listening to anything I'm saying?" 
 
"You want to build with masonry," Wes answered automatically, then looked up, startled. "Eh?" 
 
"No... no.... It's fine.... " Xander shook his head with frustration. "So when I paint the walls with teddy bears and pink flamingos you won't mind, right?" 
 
"No, but I might repaint them…" was Wes' dry reply. 
 
"And what? Give them little fangs and glowing eyes?" Xander joked and then tried again. " Look, I know this stuff is boring to anyone who is not me... but I need answers to some of it. It's going to be your place... your home... and well.... Don't you want it to be what you want?" 
 
Wes put his book to one side, mildly surprised, "Well, I suppose...I'm not bored, Xander, I just have no idea what should go where. It's just...rooms, to me... " 
 
"Yeah... but.... " Xander muttered something, then took a deep breath, "I've never done this before, Wes... Outside stuff, yeah. Walls... electrical.... That I can do. Never designed something for the inside. What if..... " 
 
Xander's eye wandered over the plans, then around the large open space that was marked out and ready for the first stages of remodeling. "I'm shooting for "Utilitarian"... not Architectural Digest. But still.... if it's wrong it can drive you mad. The apartment that.... " his eye flicked down momentarily, "... Anya and I had... the dishwasher was set in such a way that if you were loading it you couldn't go through the rest of the kitchen. It got very annoying, very quickly." 
 
"Yes...I see.…" Wed blinked, momentarily diverted, "Dishwasher?" 
 
"Yeah.... uh... you did want one, didn't you? I planned space for it and all the other appliances as drop-ins." Xander looked up, momentarily panicked. "You want built-ins instead? I mean, I can do built-ins but they're more expensive. But it's very easy to change, really…. " he shuffled through papers, hunting for a pencil and his eraser. 
 
"No! No! Inserts are perfect! Absolutely and precisely what I've always wanted in a flat/office…." Wes suddenly winced as the sound of something being irretrievably broken came in through the window, "...menagerie…" 
 
The panicked look on Xander's face faded to merely sheepish. "Sorry, Wes. I just want to do a good job. Not just for you... but, well, for Mr. Pak too. Did you know he and his family own several more buildings in this area? I was talking about it with Nguyen.. He's really smart, ya know? Like Willow-smart." 
 
"Hmm - ah! Computers!" Wes scribbled a note to add to the multi-coloured layers scattered on his desk. "Sorry. And Nguyen said...?" 
 
"He was just telling me about the various family enterprises. Did you know Nguyen owns his own place? Computers, I mean... Hard ware AND Software…" Xander paused and stared at the plans again. "Wes... do you think we need a private Entrance? Mr. Pak said we could take over the West Stairs..…" 
 
"Now that is a good idea…" Wes walked around the desk and peered over Xander's shoulder, then spoke somewhat absently as he glanced over at the exploded laptop that Illyria had tried to use a few days previously. "Does Nguyen give discounts? Sorry, yes. Yes, I do think we need one." 
 
"Uh... yeah... he'd give you a deal, I'm sure.... But I doubt he'd offer insurance against "breakage by Warrior King"." Xander smirked and then pointed to a spot on the plans, "This stairwell only opens on the 3rd and 4th floors... and it's not considered a fire exit so we can actually close off the other door if we want to. And there's room here for a small elevator if we want to add it later.... It all opens right out here where we've planned the office anyway. If we have a private entrance, I can kick out this wall and give us more reception area.…"  
 
Wes nodded, trying to unravel all that into something that makes sense in his head. "Right... I think you might have a volunteer or two for the wall-kicking, incidentally…" 
 
"Uh, Wes, I'd kinda like the rest of the walls to stay up, ya know?" 
 
"Which brings us back to the 'will the floor support masonry', doesn't it? I think we'd be better off with metal of some kind…" 
 
"Just for the training room.…" Xander nodded. "And actually.... just for one wall.... But still... The price is going to be rough. I could do it 3/4 and then fill above with wood.. That would help. You think 8 feet would be high enough?" 
 
"There are days when I wonder if a titanium skyscraper would be enough.... Joke. I'm sure that'll be fine." 
 
"Well.... it's got to be better than replacing Mr. Pak's screens 3 times a week." Xander chuckled. "He's stopped even decorating them until we can get the new area ready. They took out two walls and a support beam last week, Wes. I'm surprised Mr. Pak didn't completely lose it." 
 
Yes, getting the workout room finished was higher on his list of priorities than even the office. Mr. Pak was a man of undeniable patience, but even his had to be wearing thin with the Illyria/Spike Demolition team. And goodness knows, the quicker he could get them into someplace a bit more indestructible, the more time he'd have to work on the rest of the project instead of having to stop and rebuild Mr. Pak's home and dojo every few days.. 
 
"And thank you, absolutely for not letting me know about any of that. Kind of you to keep me from such worry," Wes gave him a wry grin…which suddenly turned mischievous. "And while we're on the subject of things Man was Not Meant To Know....how does Illyria know you snore?" 
 
"Uh…." 
 
"Yeeeees?" Wes looked almost gleeful, because this has got to be worth Every. Damn. Time. Of malfunctioning showers. 
 
"Lets just say, locks on bedroom doors? I need to employ them more often.…" Xander blushed, "... cause sound asleep, naked, in your own bed... and waking up with someone asking you very personal questions about your anatomy? Soooo not of the good. Especially, considering…uh… morning wood…." 
 
Yeah, that had been an experience he certainly did not want to repeat anytime soon…. And least, not under those circumstances. It was lucky, he supposed, that she hadn't just tried to make a grab for anything…just out of curiosity.  
 
And, it was strange, really, that he wasn't sure if he should be glad, or disappointed by that fact. 
 
* 

Wesley snorted, and choked on his own amusement. "Yes, thank you for that lovely mental image....If it weren't for the need to retain what remains of Mr Pak's sanity, I'd really think about leaving her over there." 
 
"Well, unexpected demolition aside…" They shared a small smile at that, because the demolition part was definitely not all Illyria, and had a great deal to do with the fact that she had a gleeful sparring partner who would take any excuse and call it good….then cause destruction incalculable with it -"I don't think he minds too much." Xander frowned. " Hey... did you know that 'Llyria can speak Korean?" 
 
" No…" Wesley's look of perplexity was not so much engendered by the information as the diminutive. He wondered how Illyria herself liked it. "No, I didn't. Well, that explains a great deal…" 
 
Xander just shrugged. "Yeah... well, I think it was Korean. Anyway, she and Mr. Pak were rattling away at each other when I was putting the new screen up yesterday.…" 
 
Information was top, and this was something he had not been aware of. He had, he sometimes thought, a mind like a particularly battered filing cabinet….He frowned, considering this. "Hm. I wonder when she learnt that? It's not as though she's shown more than basic knowledge of much else…" 
 
Xander raised an eyebrow. "Well, hey, I dunno. Maybe Fred spoke Korean?" 
 
He wanted more than anything to accept what had happened, he wanted to assimilate it into his life, but the fact remained that while everyone else seemed to find it east to understand that Fred was almost an Illyria-infusion, now, her memories like another facet of character that the Warrior god showed them, he was still struggling. He felt himself close off, as he answered curtly, "No." and then, realising how cold and inadequate that sounded, "No, she didn't." 
 
It was almost painful to watch Xander scrambling around, thinking of ways to change the subject, when it was so far from his fault as to be almost laughable. They had to live with Illyria, she was trying her best, and it was almost unkind to remind them all that she was only there on a dimension's sufferance, when even she herself would not have chosen this. "So... Uh... Do you think we should ask Cordy to give us advice on the reception area? Decorating it, I mean?" 
 
Well, that was certainly a change of subject, if terrifying in its own especial way. Wesley winced. "Last time....last time she talked about something called teal. I thought it was a duck." He laughed. It was a duck - or at least 'teal' was a duck, but the colour itself bore no resemblance to any plumage he had ever seen. " I think it would be less a question of asking her, and more a question of whether we could understand a word she said. But if you're truly feeling brave, then by all means…" 
 
Xander nodded understandingly. "Hey, all about the Cordy-speak... All my friends are girls, ya know? I can even tell you the difference between eggshell, off-white, string and beige.…" 
 
Wesley groaned, and wondered how on earth Xander had managed to survive inundation with that sort of information to the point where he remembered it. "And my brain thanks you on bended knees for never, ever sharing that information with me.....er...string?" He shook his head, wondering how on earth that could be a colour. "Never mind. I'm sure she'll be of invaluable assistance.…" 
 
Xander just laughed. Probably at him, but Wesley really didn't care. "Yeah, as long as you give her a budget. Do NOT leave anything open-ended." 
 
Oh, for - how long did he think Wesley had been alive, for heaven's sake? "Xander. I may be woefully ignorant in many areas, but even I know better than to let Cordelia loose with a blank cheque…" 
 
Xander just grinned. "Uh... okay. I forget that you spent so much time with her." He looked embarrassed. "I forget that Cordy's not just my...er...past." 

Well, that was one way of looking at it, he supposed. "But you do offer remarkable insight into the nightmarish logic that is contained within her mind.…" It was true. It wasn't that he didn't know Cordelia, and well, but he knew the woman Doyle's sacrifice had made her into, rather than the girl who had, tornado-like, turned Angel's world upside down, in the months before he arrived. 
 
Xander chuckled. "Cordy has three motivations... Money, appearances... and the third, amazingly enough, considering the other two, are taking care of those she loves.…" 
 
"An astounding combination…" Wesley murmured, but he was unable to hide his chagrin, for his removal from that list of 'those she loves' was still as painful as when it had first been accomplished. Not that he would have changed what he had now, not that he was unhappy….but it was still a source of a dull, distant ache - the ease with which she had cut him out of her life, not even thinking him worth the trouble of a phone call, or bothering to speak to him the day they all arrived at the hotel. 
 
It hurt, and it was ridiculous. 
 
"Um…" Xander looked at him worriedly. "Maybe I should just go over this with Spike, huh? Then bring it back later... maybe? Or not…"  
 
And that was a thought for the ages - what Spike could come up with in terms of renovation. No-one deserved that sort of input…but then, he was hardly providing a great deal of help himself, was he? Wesley sighed. 
 
"Of course," He went back to his pile of books, prepared to consider the conversation at an end, before proffering a half-smile. "Please remind him that no, we can't afford to knock everything down and start again, though, won't you?" 
 
 
Xander nodded, rolling up the plans. "Uh.. yeah... I'll do that…" he shifted awkwardly, and then - "Uh... Wes?" 
 
Wesley looked up from his latest foray into indecipherability. "Hm?"  
 
"I just wanted to say...er... thanks. For trusting me with all this. I appreciate it, ya know? Really... like a lot.…" 
 
Wesley scowled up at him, flushing with unwanted embarrassment. "You're entirely welcome...and believe me, I'm being entirely selfish. Romantic though living like a starving artist in a garret may be, it's driving me insane. Um. And that can go on the list of things never actually said aloud, all right?" 
 
Xander's lip twitched. "Uh... yes.... very.... Although…" he circled Wes, looking him over, and Wesley resisted the temptation to swat at him. "I'd say more like impoverished academic.... writing the great novel…" He chuckled, and Wesley rolled his eyes. 
 
"Yes," he agreed. "All I need now is for Illyria to destroy my pens as well, and I'll be reduced to pigeon feathers and ink…" Then he sighed. They needed to deal with this at some point, and better now, when at least there was a little peace and quiet, than trying to bellow tentative ideas over the chaos that followed Spike and Illyria. ""Look, can you spare five minutes? I could use some help, to be honest…" 
 
"For you? Sure, Wes.…" Xander gave him a mocking salute. "What ever you need, mon capitan.…" 
 
Wesley nodded rather confusedly. "Er....yes. Thank you. I think…" He took a deep breath, and started. He wasn't what was these days known as 'good with people', but Christ, he had to be better at it than Angel…"It's about the agency." 
 
* 

"The Agency?" So this was it then. Wes had finally gotten fed up with his clumsiness and how slow he was at research. He and Spike had given him the task of designing the new space as a way of easing him out… and when it was finished, that would be it. Not that it really surprised him… but he had been hoping. "Uh... look, Wes... If you've decided you don't need me anymore... well... I get that... I guess... " 
 
"Good God, no! Quite the opposite." Wes' answer was surprising in it's abruptness, and a bit of a relief to Xander. " It's - more complicated than that.." 
 
Wes scrubbed a hand over his head, "I - recognize how much time Illyria needs...from all of us. But the sad truth is - we're not getting any work done. Not even the translations. " 
 
"So you want me to...what? Be like the Royal Babysitter?" Xander fumbled forward with that thought, not quite sure what Wes was getting at. "Not that I don't like being around 'Llyria... but well, I don't do that because someone's paying me.... " 
 
"And this is why I've always wondered why anyone puts me in charge of anything.…" Wes muttered. "No. I need you to start her off on what this place really does. I'm going to ask if I can dump half our caseload on you." 
 
"You - >" Xander's mouth snapped shut... then opened... then shut again. "Uh... Wes... you sure you want to do that? I mean... ask anyone.. I'm not exactly research or mojo guy. I'm more like... taunt the villain... get in a few quick shots... then hide behind the hero guy.…" 
 
"Illyria might be seen to fit that last rather well...but that's also not the point. I'm not asking you because of your undeniable ability to annoy demons to death. I don't need anyone to help with research, because whatever you may think about Spike, he's more than capable of running me into the ground when he wants to. And around here...well, magic isn't anyone's strong point, unless you count frying anything electrical with a thought process. What I rather desperately need is someone able to assess a situation and the likelihood of success - and make the call. Because…" Wes paused, waving a hand in the general direction of the window and the garden beyond, "…those two think they're invincible, and that terrifies me. I need your sense and your instinct for what's right. And believe me, I don't ask this lightly." 
 
Xander looked down at his feet for a long moment, as if slowly digesting what Wes had said. When he finally looked up it was with steady brown eyes that connected directly with Wes' blue ones, "Wes.... I... I really appreciate your confidence in me. You know I'd do my best to do what you're asking but... well... You know that Spike and I don't have the best of... history together. Aren't you worried that, just maybe, I'd be careless with him? I mean.... I know if the situations were reversed... I would be. " 
 
"Really? And what were you considering? Personally employing sunlight tests?" Wes' voice was filled with wry humor. "I'm not worried about that. You have far too much integrity - and presumably a sane and healthy fear as to exactly when and how I would shoot you. Spike's not glass, Xander, or china. If you make a bad call - well, it happens. But I don't think for a second you would do that deliberately. And - if we reverse the situation...think. Would you trust me with Faith? I've let her down more than once. With Illyria? You do so every day we're alive. I trust you exactly as much as you trust me. To be fallible. But never to have bad intent." 
 
"And I trust you to call me on it if I slip up... If I start slipping into old habits. I'm trying, Wes.... I can see how Spike's been changing." Xander coughed, "Uh... even think I'm started to like the bleached wonder... but I'll deny it if you tell him that." 
 
"I won't breathe a word." 

"So... um... what do you want me to handle right now? Just keep Illyria busy so you can start building up our case load?" 
 
"In a way...I need you to start showing her how to blend in a little more. Wes smiled, as if at a private joke. "After all, how often do you get expenses on cinemas and ice-cream?" 
 
"Like... never... " Xander chuckled. " But I'd rather have expenses on tacos... Have you watched how many she can put away?" 
"I really have tried not to…" 
 
"It's like Buffy with chocolate when she's PMSing." Xander paused there, "And...er... yeah... you probably didn't want to hear that either, huh?" 
 
"And yet again, information I seem unable to process...have you ever considered that there is a reason I hide behind books?" 
 
"Oh, yeah... I'm sure there is. Probably because Spike thinks," And here Xander mocked Spike's accent, " you're 'bloody hot when ya look all scholarly like'." 
 
"You know, instead of having my eyes lasered, I should have paid to have my ear-drums perforated…" Wes scowled, "Never, ever, try that again.…" 
 
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the ringing sound of Mr Pak explaining, with great vehemence, something about glass. 
 
Xander looked out the window, grimacing at the latest damage to the dojo, "Oh... ooops.…" 
 
Wes spoke resignedly, dropping his chin down onto his chest, "How bad?" 
 
"Hmmm... on a scale from 1 to 10? About a 7.…" Xander cringed, "And I now know what I'm doing tomorrow.…" 
 
There was another thump… and a loud crack… and a yip of protest. "I wonder if Nguyen knows a glazier.... " 
 
"Oh please God...let him know a glazier... " Wes walked over to the and yelled, "Unless one of you is dead - stop, cease, desist! Before we all get thrown out!" 
 
Xander chuckled. Spike and Illyria were a bit overly enthusiastic when it came to their sparring… but now that Wes was going to have him pitch in, and help build up their caseload, the two super-humans would have more than enough to help them burn off that excess energy. He hoped. 

* 

Mr Pak's voice faded into the distance, sounding more resigned now than irate, but it was obvious that Xander's assumption of what he was going to be doing tomorrow was more than accurate. 
 
"Sorry, pet…" It would have helped if Spike had sounded less gleeful and more contrite. Wesley assumed that meant it was victory on his side that had caused the vitreous destruction. 
 
"Yes, yes, yes…" he muttered dismissively, rolling his eyes, and turned back to Xander. "Sorry. I'd say they mean well, but -" he gestured helplessly. That was one argument that wasn't even going to get off the ground, let alone fly. 
 
"Yeah," Xander snorted. "Like I'd believe you if you tried…oh. Yeah. That reminds me. There's something you could do for me, if you wouldn't mind returning the favour?" 
 
Wesley nodded. "I can certainly try…" 
 
"Explain humor to 'Llyria.. I've tried, but she just keeps looking at me as though I'm insane...I mean... she laughs when we laugh.... but I'm not sure she really, you know, gets it. It's like...well... more to be polite than because she understands. Even although it sounds genuine enough." 
 
Wesley thought of how often he could hear Fred's contagious giggle drifting up from somewhere in the rest of the apartment block, or from the garden, and thought he might understand. There had been a few times when a small, hesitant smile had crossed Illyria's face, as though it was uncertain of what it was doing there, and it bore no resemblance to the ease with which she used her 'shell's' laugh. Still… 
 
"Xander....just a question, but....do you honestly think I'm the best person to try and teach her humour?" It wasn't as if anyone really even understood his, half the time. And he might be starting to like her, even empathise with her, but that really didn't mean he wanted to be sharing private jokes with her in the near future. 
 
"Better than Spike," Xander said dryly, and Wesley was forced to agree. Most people teaching Illyria humour would be better than Spike. Most things in this world, actually, if you were the recipient, were better than Spike's sense of humour. Well, unless he was the recipient, in which case… 
 
"Um, earth to Wes?" Xander snapped his fingers in front of Wesley's face. "No…no…don't tell me. Really. Just…can you give it a go?" 
 
"Um…" There were so very many ways that this could go wrong that Wesley was hard-pressed not to shudder. "Well, I suppose so.…" 
 
"At least you'd be helpful... and not try to get her to play practical jokes on me…" There was a small amount of bitterness there, and Wesley took a brief moment to wonder if Illyria's new and struggling emotions might not have at least the glimmerings of a return. However…he quirked an eyebrow. 
 
"I wouldn't? Goodness, how nice of me...yes, all right, I see what you mean. I just...is this something that can be taught?" 

That earned him a very suspicious look. "Okay... It was Spike's idea for her to come into my room.... when I was sleeping....naked.... in my own bed... Wasn't it? And no, I'm not sure if humor can be taught...but...well... it's worth a try." 
 
Wesley eyed him rather oddly. Sometimes he genuinely wondered how anyone could be so obtuse…and other times, he had to consider that it might be deliberate. "No...that wasn't anyone's idea but hers. And yes, of course. Certainly worth a try…" He tried rather frantically to think of how to accomplish this, and drew a rather stunning blank. 
 
Xander laughed at his obviously panicked expression. "Yeah, well....I'm going to see if I can save Mr. Pak from the Dynamic Duo...or vice versa…" He picked up the set of plans, and prepared to leave. "Can I send Bleach Boy up here so you can make him behave?" The query was accompanied by a decidedly evil grin, one that made Wesley wonder if Xander had been getting lessons. 
 
"Oh, do." His voice could have dried up the Pacific, and he wondered again if he was the best person to send Illyria to. "Really. And make sure you tell him that was how you phrased it, as well.…" Because at least he might get a laugh out of that one… 
 
Xander smirked at him. "Oh, yeah.... don't think I won't." His tone implied that the words would have a very different connotation when relayed. 
 
Wesley threw his pen at him. If he started worrying about incipient chaos now, he'd never stop. "Go away, Xander.…" 
 
Xander ducked the pen, and replied with all the flair of a melodrama actor - or possibly the lack of acting skill, Wesley wasn't quite sure. "I go... I leave... I flee…" he looked at Wesley's expression of imminent doom, chuckled, and actually left. 
 
Wesley winced as the sound of the door slamming reverberated through the loft space. "You destroy what remains of my sanity…" His mind turned briefly to the list of things they needed. "Ah. Doorstoppers." 
 
* 

As if to bear that out, Spike entered a few minutes later...with a length of rope in one hand. 
 
Wesley blinked at him. "I shudder to ask...but I'm going to have to. What?" He pointed at the rope. 
 
Spike grinned at him. "Well, Xan said you were gonna "make me behave". Can't blame me for wishful thinkin', can you?" 
 
Wesley snorted. "In this case? If you're listening to Xander? Yes. Besides...rope? Really, credit me with a little more imagination…" 
 
The fact that their relationship was getting smooth enough that Spike just looked even more speculatively evil at that, rather than wondering if he'd offended Wesley, was yet another element to go on the list of why things felt so damn good right now. "I do, pet... but I also know that we don't have much stuff up here yet…" He leant in for a kiss. "Think we should have Xan install iron rings by the bedstead?" 
 
Wesley laughed, and kissed him back. "Mm, yes." He was never going to stop being slightly amazed that he could have this, that the casual affection was his to revel in, an addition to his life rather than yet another factor that pushed him towards choices of severance he didn't want to make. "Xander having a stroke, always amusing…"  
 
Spike laughed outright. "Oh, please, love.... he and the demon bint had shackles under their bed."  
 
Wesley resisted the temptation to clap his hands over his ears, and asked rather plaintively, "Why does everyone keep telling me these things? Do I look like a deaf old grandad?" Because really, he felt much the same way about Xander's sex life as the reverse. It existed, and he hoped it made him happy, but what would make Wesley himself happy in that department was a complete lack of detail. 
 
He got the patented smirk for that, the one that Wesley vowed he would one day take a picture of and put in as a dictionary definition of the word. "No... you look like a ripe bit of fluff... hair all ruffled out 'cause you run yer fingers through it when you think... and ink stains on yer fingers…" Spike picked up Wesley's hand, took the maligned pen out of his grasp, and started kissing and nibbling on said fingers. 
 
And that made sensible responses rather impossible. "I have...oh. Yes. So I do…" he shivered, the sensation of prickling skin a harbinger to pleasure, making him forget almost completely what he had been trying to do… 
 
Spike ran his tongue up the palm of Wes' hand... then bit at the base of his thumb. "Debauched scholar.... or soon to be debauched.…" He chuckled. 
 
Wesley mock-glared at him, knowing exactly where that comment had come from. "Hey....vampiric hearing is supposed to be used only for good, you know....and ow! The fact you can do that is just not going to get old for you, is it...come on, you, stop wrecking my desk…" 
 
Spike stopped pressing Wesley back against the desk, and nodded in perfect seriousness. "Yeah... what *could* I have been thinking.... the bed's just there…" He grabbed Wesley and tossed him over his shoulder, and Wesley thought vaguely that he really shouldn't have found that sort of ease with which he was manhandled quite so interesting. He bit Spike's shoulder in retaliation. 
 
"I am not a sack of grain…" He felt it was incumbent upon him to point that out, given his decidedly undignified position. 
 
Spike shook with laughter. "Know that, love.…" He ran one caressing hand over Wesley's arse, and sent any thoughts of protestation out of his head. "Grain doesn't pack this hard…"  
 
Protestation, no, but getting even…oh, that he could do. Wesley smiled to himself. "And yet again, I wonder why I don't make use of where my feet are…" Belying the threat of violence, he instead rubbed one socked foot up the inside of Spike's thigh, hearing and feeling the sharp intake of breath that was answer enough to the rhetorical question. 
 
Spike dropped him on the bed for that, watching him bounce before diving in after him. "Yeah.... This is much better. Not as much chance of getting yer dangly bits poked by something unpleasant…" He raised an eyebrow at Wesley, deliberately provocative. "Of course, if ya didn't squeak when I try to clear the top of the desk…" 
 
Wesley laughed. It was an old argument. "Then I'd never be able to use the desk…" 
 
Spike rolled his eyes. "I keep tellin' ya.... We would be usin' it.... just, well, not to write on…" The leer that accompanied that statement had Wesley laughing again. 
 
"Yes, Spike.…" he managed, as dryly as he could, but he rather imagined that the way his voice shook with badly-suppressed amusement rather detracted from the effect. 
 
It was Spike's turn to feign a glare. "Here now! I thought you was supposed to be making me behave.…" 
 
Wesley leant back against the pillows, still smiling. "And how do you know I'm not...exactly as I want you to?" 
 
Given the consideration that evoked, and the delighted grin that followed it, the point had been well made. Of course, this being Spike, it didn't even phase him for a second, judging from the smirk…"Got me there, love.…" 
 
"Well, I try…" Wesley pursed his lips in mock-thoughtfulness, and got soundly kissed for it. Now this was more like it… 
 
"Oh…" Spike broke off, and Wesley's glare was a long way from feigned, this time. "What the hell did you say to Xan? Came out the door bouncin' like he'd had one too many Hershey bars... And I'm sure it wasn't the prospect of doing some more repairs to the dojo." 
 
Wesley blinked up at him. "Um?" He wriggled, he hoped distractingly. "You really want to talk about this now?" 
 
Spike looked innocent, a scary thing at the best of times, and decidedly annoying now. "Why, love.... did you have something else in mind? After all... as I said, thought you was supposed to be making me behave…"  
 
Wesley lost patience with the act, and rolled them both over, pinning his elbows on each side of the vampire who seemed bound and determined to drive him out of his mind. "Yes, thus sayeth Xander, blissfully unaware of what it takes to plead for an Act Of God.…" 
 
He would have this conversation, he promised himself. But not, under any circumstances, was he going to start it now. He had other things in mind… 
 
* 

This was life. This was wonderment. This was a thousand stories of a thousand lives and loves. This was them. Spike and Wes… together. It was good… so good. Sometimes it was overwhelming… and sometimes it scared Spike. The better something was, the worse it could be when it all, finally, fell apart.  
 
But damnit, he was going to do everything he could to keep it good for as long as possible… for Wes sake, as well as his own. 
 
"Always try to be good for you, Wes.... very good.... " Spike shifted his hips, pressing up into Wes.  
 
Wes' eyes darkened, "Oh, that you are…" He ran his hands up under Spike's T-shirt, caressing cool skin, "No question.…" 
 
"None?? Spike lifted himself up enough to reach Wes' collar... pulling it aside so his lips could rest there, soft against the pulse point. He closed his eyes... tasting the gentle thump of the other man's heart. 
 
"None....and you know it…" Wes tilted his head, arching his neck and bringing the vein nearer the surface of his skin, "None…" 
 
"Yessss…" Spike hissed softly. This was good too. So good. Warmth and feeling and taste and sound, all blending together - almost perfect. Only one thing would make it better.  
 
He whispered against Wes' skin, "Can I taste you, Wes.... just.... just a sip...?" 
 
And the answer, whispered softly in return, and heartbreakingly sweet to Spike's ear, "Always…" 
 
"Love you, Wes.... always.…" His face morphed and turning them so he was above Wes, he slipped his fangs into his neck... drawing out the blood in one long gentle tug. 
 
"Ah…. " Wes' sigh was long and slow, full of completion and content. 
 
Spike drank slowly, drawing out the experience as long as possible, and thrusting himself against Wes in a long slow roll of hips that had them both panting before he finally, reluctantly, withdrew. 
 
He was silent as he slid his tongue slowly soothingly over the bite marks. It amazed him, after all his long years, how different this was from how he had always taken blood before. That this… gift… so lovingly given, was like the difference between garbage and a gourmet treat. 
 
"I'll never stop being curious, you know.…" Wes' soft chuckle drifted up to him a short time later. 
 
"Curious about what, love?" Spike's voice was smooth and languid, like sun warmed honey. 
 
"Oh…" The relaxed smile was evident in Wesley's voice as well, "Everything. Why the world turns. Why other dimensions exist. What I taste like to you.…" 
 
"Can tell you that, love... But it changes. Right now? Tea and cinnamon... with maybe a bit of…" Spike licked his lips, considering, "... a bit of ginger." 
 
"Yeah... ginger.…" he ran his tongue over his lips again, eyes closed in genuine appreciation. 
 
Wes laughed quietly, "That was Mr Pak's latest attempt at wine, I suspect.…" 
 
"Whatever it was.... it's bloody brilliant.…" And no, the grin on his face could, in no way, be considered sappy. "You've tamed me, pet.... and all it took was yer life's blood.…" 
 
Wes chuckled at that idea, then more so when Spike turned and offered his neck to him, "Do I need ta return the favor? Keep you in line too?" 
 
"Well, there was a chronicle in the eleventh century that talked of the aphrodisiac qualities that might pertain to…" A kiss stopped any further conjecture along those lines. 
 
"It's all true, love," Spike asserted, as he reached down and began unbuttoning Wes' shirt, "…all of it.... Not that you ever have need of it. Always hot for me, aren't you? " He pulled the shirt down off of Wesley's shoulders, " Always hard.... " 
 
"Yes, I'm predictable like that..…" the words were dry, but distracted, as Wes watched Spike closely. 
 
"Not predictable, love.... amazing.... " He ran his tongue over Wes' chest, "Don't know why you are.... I'm just.... glad.... " He bit down gently, blunt teeth teasing and thrilling. 
 
Wes sighed, his body arching closer to Spike, foregoing words for pleasure. 
 
"Yeah.... amazing.... " Spike licked again... then bit, just a little rougher. 

Wes wound one hand into Spike's hair, tugging his head up and looking into his eyes... for once it's the words that mattered and not their tone, "I'm a sentimentalist. I want this. I want you." 
 
"I'm yours, Wes... have me…" Spike's words were almost a plea... and it was far too obvious he was not talking simply about their current pleasure. 
 
"I have you. There's nothing else I need or want." He took Spike's lips in a deep kiss, emerging sometime later, panting lightly. "I'm surprised....that you taste cinnamon...in me... and not yourself....you run in my heartbeat....my blood..…" He hissed with arousal as Spike's mouth found the earlier bite mark, nursing it softly. "Integral.…" 
 
"Yeah..... " Spike breathed out softly, eyes shut, as if savoring the sweetest thing in the world. "Want to be part of you, Wes... want you ta take me in... hold me inside... rest here with you.. touch you... Forever." 
 
" Oh...if I knew how.…" 
 
"Start with this, yeah?" Spike reached down to strip off the rest of Wes' clothes...and his own. 
 
Wes nodded, his eyes blind to everything but Spike. 
 
And again, that amazing feeling of wonderment and content struck Spike as he slowly began to touch Wes.... almost reverently... hands gliding, caressing... Everywhere, "Love you.... love you.... " The words were a soft litany to accompany his worship. 
 
"All my life....I learnt words. You....give them meaning.…" Wes' next words were quiet and fervent, "I love you…" 
 
"God.... " Spike's body tensed and he literally panted as he tried to keep control over himself. "Want you, love... Please.…" 
 
"Have me," Wes echoed back Spike's earlier words, then visibly forcing himself to relax he reached down and began to open himself up with an almost vicious thoroughness. "Yes…." 
 
"Wes?" Spike was surprised at Wes' actions... then thrilled... then humbled to be wanted so completely. He caressed his lover, relaxing him even more, working towards the moment they would join. 
 
And when Wes was ready, Spike slid into him in one long, slow, steady and perfect thrust, thrilling as always to the warmth and tightness. 
 
He paused then... waiting for Wes to relax, adjust to the intrusion. Waited for his hands, clutched in the sheets from the suddenness of it all, to relax and unclench. Waited for the stretch and burn to become more pleasure than pain.  
 
"Tell me....whatever you want, I'll try my best to give it..…" Wes voice came to him, warm but edgy. 
 
"Just want you, love... always.... " 
 
Wes' mouth quirked in that sad little not-a-smile, "You have my always...you know that." 
 
It was a statement of truth, almost brutal with it's honesty and love. 
 
"Look at me, love... Please…" Spike's voice coaxed. "Want to know you... see you.... " And unspoken, "Know you see me." "Feel so good. Wes." And then he slowly began to move, soft and gliding. 
 
Wes' eyes were wide open, his gaze utterly unflinching, as he slowly relaxed enough to begin to move in response. Their joinings were never that of man and monster, of vampire and human, of mortal and immortal… but just of men… of equals… of them - Spike and Wes, lending reassurance and reaffirmation. 
 
Spike locked his hands into Wes', losing himself in the depths of steely blue eyes and the warmth of his lovers body - flesh to flesh, the sound of quickening breaths and one strongly beating heart the only accompaniment. 
 
This was life. This was love. This was enough. 
 
* 

She was so vulnerable sometimes… her eyes going soft and warm with confusion, her head ticking jerkily from side to side with agitation. He wasn't sure what to do to help her through those times… because, of course, she'd probably deny having them. She'd fling his words back at him in blunt, brusque, cudgeling phrases that would hold him, pinned like a large specimen against the wall of his compassion. 
 
He'd tried mentioning it to Wes, wanting to ask for his advice, but it was almost impossible to defend her vulnerability while she was busily, and with very little effort, tossing Spike across the dojo like a rag doll. 
 
Oz was a little better, offering at least, "Just be patient. She'll come to you." Although, his intonation made it seem more like he was discussing the taming of some wild beast than giving advice on helping the Warrior God to "fit in". 
 
Mr. Pak was absolutely no help. Or at least Xander didn't think he was. Of course, it was hard to be sure because Xander was never quite sure what Mr. Pak meant about anything. Even if he was only commenting on the weather (warm and dry) or the time (7 pm) or what was on sale in the grocery store (cantaloupe), Mr. Pak sometimes lost Xander. Of course, part of it might be how he seemed to toss in words in (so Xander assumed) Korean at odd times or go off on a tirade over the latest Deadly Duo Destruction to the Dojo….. and say that 5 times fast. 
 
That left only Spike. 
 
Spike, who with uncharacteristic tact had told him, "Everyone has a bit of that in them, Xan… whether they admit it or not. Thing is…her Highness might not appreciate you poking about at her softer bits unless she asks you to."  
 
Of course, Spike being Spike, he followed it up with a long, explicit speculation of what softer bit she just might *like* Xander to poke at. 
 
And Xander's thoughts were NOT going there because then he'd likely smile for no apparent reason, and 'Llyria would ask him why… and he would soo not be able to explain it to her in a way that would avoid him losing his mind. 
 
"Why do you keep doing this, Xander-Harris?" Illyria's voice cut into his thoughts. "We sill simply break it again within a few days time and you will have to repair it again. It would be much more efficient to simply leave it until our new area is ready for use and then repair everything at once." 
 
Xander looked up from where he was fitting yet another panel frame into place. They had gone from thin and beautifully decorated to heavy cheap paper, plain and white.  
 
In a way, Illyria was right… It would be more efficient to leave the gaping holes… but… "Mr. Pak… and most people for that matter, prefer their privacy. He can't have privacy if he has holes in his walls." 

Illyria seemed to consider this for a moment. "I am not sure I understand… privacy." 
 
That was something Xander could believe. She seemed to give very little thought to modesty and couldn't understand why other's did. Illyria seemed to think that clothing was merely for practicality and protection from the elements. On a rare occasion it might be used decoratively… but for modesty? She just didn't seem to get it. She had walked in on Spike and Wes a few times and he, himself had totally blanked from his mind a conversation she had initiated regarding healthy male reactions to nude female anatomy… all conducted during one of her semi-daily battles with their cantankerous shower.  
 
Xander frowned at the frame and pulled it loose, setting it on top of two sawhorses he was working with. The frame was just a tad too big but a bit of judicious sanding and planeing would improve the fit. "It's like this, 'Lyria… It's not necessary that you understand the reason people want privacy…. As long as you allow it. There are just some things that people simply do not want to share with everyone else" 
 
"Like sex." the words sounded like she had learned them by rote, rather than understanding them. 
 
"Yes… like sex." Xander grinned at her. "Especially sex." 
 
"Why?" There it was, the blunt question, delivered with the tone of someone who really did not understand. 
 
Xander fitted the frame to the slot again, testing to be sure it would slide smoothly, then began the task of attaching the heavy paper to it. He made a show of concentrating, but really, he was merely making a bid for time. 
 
"Sex…. Sex is usually not shared with outside people, " He looked up and into the intently staring pale blue eyes. "It's too special. Too wonderful." 
 
Xander gave a crooked smile, "It makes people selfish I guess." 
 
Illyria stepped closer to him, that agitated movement subtly beginning as she studied his face, "If we had sex, you would require privacy?" 
 
Alright, they were heading into another one of those conversations and Xander was not sure if he should jump back or bravely remain in place. 
 
This time, bravery won out. "Yes." 
 
A tiny crease appeared between blue-tinted eyebrows, "You think it would be… 'special and wonderful'?" 
 
Xander cleared his throat, "I wouldn't have sex unless I thought it would be 'special and wonderful'." 
 
Not anymore at any rate. 
 
Illyria took another step closer and Xander, some how, managed not to back up. (And no, in no one's imagination did he make a "Meep" sound.)  
 
"When do you wish to have this private time, Xander-Harris?"  
 
"Uh…" and now he really did make a 'Meep" sound… taking a step back and coughing. "This was hypothetical sex we were discussing Illyria. You know…er… hypothetically…." 
 
She frowned and looked pointedly downwards. "You do not appear to be considering it to be completely hypothetical, Xander-Harris." 
 
Well, Hell, it had been a long time for him… months, actually….and that should in no way be held against him. "'Lyria…. Uh…." 
 
"We are private now." She pointed out calmly. "My Wesley and the half-breed are upstairs, Oz has gone off with Nguyen and the Imugi is in the Market." 
 
Xander's mouth opened, then shut, then opened again…. "So… uh… " 
 
"I have seen my Wesley, help Spike to remove his clothing. Do you require assistance?" She reached one hand toward his belt. 
 
That was as much bravery as Xander had for one day. He jumped back, tripping over the edge of one of the saw horses and falling through the panel he had just repaired. 
 
Illyria looked at him as if he had just done something inexplicable; and Xander was certain, that to her, it was. "I do not believe that privacy will be best maintained if you put another hole in the wall." 
 
Xander just let his head drop back, inadvertently banging it on the hammer that had fallen as well. And as he lay there, his hands now clutching at his bruised head, he tried to remember just why it was that he had thought Illyria to be vulnerable. 
 
She was a vulnerable as a tank. 

* 

Illyria was contemplating whether to go into the Market and attempt to do the Imugi damage. Such an effort would probably be futile, and cause her more pain than him, but she had learnt recently that there were times when the act of violence was as much of a release as success in said action. 
 
Just trying to pound his head in would afford her enormous satisfaction at the moment. 
 
You must consider your own feelings. 
 
Trying that had not been a raging success, had it? Trying that, in fact, had made her look foolish, and proved only that she would never understand. 
 
He should have honoured her. He should have been - eager to please her. He should have seen what she had humbled herself to offer to him, and been suitably grateful and compliant.  
 
Instead he had fallen over, trying to get away from her. Was she so repulsive to the men of this world, then? Or - or only to him? 
 
Special and wonderful. The implication was clear. She would not be. She would never be.  
 
He would never look at her in the way she was beginning to long for, he would never even see that she could be looked at like that. 
 
Special and wonderful.] 
 
Was it not enough that she was a God-King? Was that not special enough? 
 
Not for him, evidently. Not for him to think of her as anything but an addition to his life in ways that must be accepted, not for her sake, but for that of the others. 
 
She rubbed at her nose, which itched with something unfamiliar that she refused to class as something so weak as sadness, and made her way up the stairs to the new apartments. They had said she would have her own room there, when it was done, and she wondered when her view of the world had become so small and meaningless that the idea gave her pleasure. 
 
Perhaps, if she looked at what Xander was making, she would understand him better, perhaps his refusal would make sense. 
 
Perhaps she would forget the image she had walked away from, forget his desperation to get away from her that had left him sprawled on the ground and looking up at her with something too close to rejection for any kind of comfort. 
 
About to push open the door, she heard voices, and stopped, remembering that it was always wise to wait, and make sure that she would be welcome. Xander had asked her once why she did not simply knock, and she had turned away from him, unwilling to explain that she would not make herself a supplicant, whatever the rules were in this place. To ask for admittance would imply she did not believe her own right to be present, and that would be a crack in her defences against this world that she could not permit in herself. 
 
It did not sound as though it was something she should not be present for - and yet there was some tone to the voices that held her back, more than if she had heard the now-familiar sounds of sexual enjoyment. 

"Think he'll be all right with it?" 
 
"Mm." And that was why she hadn't gone in, that deep murmur that she had only come to recognise by default, the one that no-one ever got to hear aimed at them but Spike - and that only if Wesley believed no-one else was there. "It's a good idea, love, and you know it." 
 
"Yeah, but - maybe he's not ready. Don't want him feeling responsible for me if I bollocks something up." 
 
"An excellent way for him to learn the meaning of 'not your fault', then, wouldn't you say?" He sounded almost teasing, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness, one that Wesley rarely allowed any of them to know about. "Given how well you demonstrate that skill, he should pick it up in no time." 
 
A startled laugh. "'M not that bad, am I?" 
 
The lack of response went on for some time, long enough that Illyria wondered if the question was actually being considered. She was contemplating going in and confronting them, demanding to know what this was about, demanding they treat her as though she, too, had a right to whatever-this-was, when she realised the door was unlatched. 
 
She cracked it open, tentatively, and peered through the little opening, understanding then that she could have slammed it off its hinges and they would probably not have noticed. 
 
She had not known, until then, even with everything she had walked in on, observed - spied on - she had not known that some conversations could be had without words. 
 
If they had been kissing, perhaps she would have been quicker to understand, but they were not. They were just looking at each other, sitting on the mattress that would one day have a bed frame, one of Spike's hands wrapped tightly enough around Wesley's wrist that she could see the white marks surrounding his grip from the doorway. 
 
"I love you too much to trust my judgement," Wesley said at last. "And we - this agency is not going to function, if I always put what I feel for you first. And -" He looked helpless, suddenly, and Illyria realised that this really was private, not the privacy they all talked about, the one she saw no need for, but the other meaning, the one that excluded everyone else, the one that shut out the world and created a new one in its place, where no-one else could enter. "- I'm not ever going to be able to stop," he ended, sounding as though something inside him was bleeding. 
 
And Illyria understood, suddenly and blindingly. This was what Xander had meant. Not sex. Love. And Wesley was afraid, afraid of what he could do because of it, afraid of himself. 
 
"Don't," Spike said, and that was all, but there was something there that Illyria didn't understand, the rest of the sentence merging back into that odd silence. 
 
"Never," was the reply, and Illyria closed her eyes. Not don't say that, not a pleas for this ridiculous weakness to cease, but don't stop. Don't stop feeling that way. Don't be afraid… 
 
She didn't even have to open her eyes to know that they were kissing now, and she fled, running away from all the things she would never have, away from her own realisation, away from the things she did not want to admit. 
 
She wanted what they had. She wanted that weakness, the one that was an odd strength, the one that made those two so strangely formidable. 
 
And the anger rose in her again, twisting like a snake around the heart she had never thought did anything more than beat with a set purpose. 
 
It hurt. 
 
Illyria ran out of the building, slamming the door to the garden behind her, and kicked viciously at the box full of mosses that Wesley had left ready to plant in the cool of the evening. The box broke, and sent earth and velvet moss scattering across the flagged path, dark green and brown covering a wide area in a mosaic of petty destruction. 
 
Instantly sobered, because while they forgave much, random and inexplicable destruction that served no purpose other than a release of rage was not on the list, she bent and began to gather it all together again, smelling the rich mixture of peat and damp rise around her as she replaced the little trays carefully. 
 
Deep green softness, ready for a living carpet. Her Guide, who coaxed life out of stone and cracked wood, the closest of any of them to hear the plants speak, as she could not, now. 
 
He believed it was a learnt skill that was creating this haven, a simple matter of measuring times of day and the dampness of soil, temperature and ingredients that smelt to her of decay and death, and yet drew out colour and vibrancy, even here in this strange beginnings of a real garden. 
 
She could have shown him, once, what it was he would have eventually. She could see it emerging amid the ornate ironwork, the oddly placed slate and woodchips. In her world, this would have been a prized magic. In his, no-one even seemed to see what it was - power was energy and light and the thing they called 'electricity' but did not come from a light bulb. 
 
She had understood Willow's power instinctively, the ability to scorch and annihilate armies, to channel each tainted emotion that she strove to overcome into something greater than herself. Illyria no longer possessed that here - this dimension could not hold or bear the amount that had once flowed through her - but she still recognised it, and envied the witch her ability to harness it through words. 
 
She envied her, she envied Wesley, she envied the whole rotten dimension that they could understand and live in and have things that mattered in. 
 
Her eyes and nose stung with something unfamiliar as she picked up the last of the moss and put it back into the fragmented box shards. 
 
When the first tear ran down her face, she ignored its newness, and wondered why the scent of the little soft plant should be so sharp as to make her eyes water. 
 
Special and wonderful. 
 
When the water from her eyes began to fall on the moss, it felt so bitter that she wondered why the green did not shrivel up into brown death beneath it. Her own misery was as foul to her as that of others was, clogging her breath with revulsion at herself. 
 
She would never be human enough, never what anyone wanted - never what he wanted. 
 
Her new shell had taken bruises and cuts that hurt less. 
 
Illyria knelt in the garden that Wesley was unwittingly making into a spelled sanctuary of peace, and wept for the first time in her existence. 

* 

Oz realized that he was more stand-offish than he had ever been in his life. Didn't touch people like he used to... like he wanted to. But since he had left Sunnydale his life had been all about control. Controlling the wolf, mostly, but also his homesickness and loneliness. He missed the place and the people... and now he'd never have them back. Well, not all of them. 
 
He missed curling up with someone, late at night, relaxing into their warmth. Not for sex, really, but more for the comfort of knowing he wasn't alone. The comfort of hugs and casual touching that he hadn't really been able to relax into for so very long.  
 
And now he was trying to relearn it. Uncle Shen touched him all the time now... directing him through the paces of the katos and movements of the Art… bestowing the gentle benediction of a fatherly kiss on the forehead when he was seen to have done something of merit…and dragging him into the loving warmth of his large and extended family. It was all a step in the right direction, Oz was sure, but still…they weren't his family and at the end he was still a visitor… an outsider. 
 
Oz chuckled suddenly, wondering just how freaked out Xander would get if he left the demon couch one night and crawled into bed with him… fully clothed… just to snuggle into the friendly warmth.  
 
"He'd probably just grunt and roll over." Oz mused. Xander seemed to have become somewhat less flappable than he'd been in the old days. 
 
Oz stepped out on to the back steps, looking out over the rapidly developing garden…. And then paused. 
 
The last thing he had expected to see was a blue warrior god, on her knees, scrabbling furiously with the dirt that was tumbling out of a broken planter box. 
 
He watched, studying her movements curiously. But when she finished her task and he suddenly smelt the sharp salt tang of tears… he spoke. 
 
"Illyria." The simple statement of her name, alerting her that she was no longer alone. 
 
He would have offered her comfort, the solace of a friendly hug, if he thought she would accept it - instead he remained where he was, silent and thoughtful, waiting for her to speak. 
 
"Wolf." She rose, a bit quicker and more jerkily mechanic than she had done in weeks. Something was definitely wrong. 
 
Oz searched for something appropriate to say since, "Why are you sitting out here and crying your eyes out?" did not seem to be an option.  
 
"Do we need a different box?" he nodded toward the plants. No, it was obvious that she had them all put to rights, but as an opening conversational gambit it worked. 
 
"No. I have restored order." Illyria looked around, straightening as if everything were perfectly normal.

 
It wasn't. perfectly normal If the completely returned stiffness in her movements and voice had not told Oz that, the damp smudge of muddy tear tracks on her face would have. 
 
He pulled his kerchief out of his pocket and stepped closer, offering it to her, "You have something on your face." 
 
Oz gestured vaguely to her face, but when she just stared at him blankly, he stepped closer and wiped at the offending spots. "Gardening is dirty work." 
 
"Yes." Her reply would have done Oz himself proud in it's succinct style, if he couldn't still smell the hint of misery under her simple word. He looked around the garden again, wondering what had happened to cause such an unprecedented occurrence. Since her arrival, Oz had seen the Warrior God frustrated, bemused, confused and completely angered from the things she was asked to do that she felt were beneath her. He knew it all had to be difficult, adjusting to being less than she was. The limitations of this new existence had to chaff her mercilessly and Oz felt the sorrow that could only come from the idea of something wondrous being reduced to the mundane. 
 
He heard the sound of hammering from the dojo. Xander making repairs to the dojo… again. Oz allowed his hearing to extend… heard the sound of the buildings other tenants, the sound of Mr. Pak ringing up a sale in the market, street traffic passing by on the street out front and now… hammering stopped, the sound of Xander muttering under his breath. 
 
"…just can't understand what she's getting at…" 
 
"…can't be serious…." 
 
"Xander-Harris… *snort* …just knock him down and fuck him.. He'll like that… look at his history…"  
 
"…wanting and needing are two different things… " 
 
Oz blinked and looked at Illyria. Had she actually knocked Xander down? No, that's not something he would have expected from her, there must have been some kind of misunderstanding. And considering her state when he had arrived in the garden, she was just as upset as Xander appeared to be.  
 
"He's confused too." Oz gave a nod towards the dojo.  
 
"He is not confused. He is certain. As am I. We merely have different certainties. " She glared at the inoffensive box of mosses as though she hoped it would burst into flames. 
Oz dropped his eyes to the planter box as well, then looked back up at Illyria, "No... I can hear him. Confused.... definitely confused." 
 
His eyes searched over Illyria's face, "What is your certainty?"  
 
She was silent for a long while, considering her words as she hadn't done in a while, before she replied slowly, "I believe it may be....private. Though there is also what has become evident, and is therefore private no longer..." She scrubbed at her still-damp face in frustration. "If I were to try...if I learnt everything, and perhaps took on the other form always, and no longer questioned....would I perhaps become wonderful to him?" 
 

I'm thinking... pretty much no." Oz raised his kerchief again, this time wiping more firmly at the remaining dirt on the god's face. "I know it sounds like a contradiction, but Xander wouldn't want you to be something you're not. " 
 
And he knew this was true... now. Xander had grown up a lot since he'd come to L.A., gotten more accepting of people and the strange world of souled vampires, friendly werewolves and forcibly domesticated warrior gods that they were all mixed up with. He knew that a lot of this had to do with Wes. Somehow his quiet strength had influenced Xander in a way that Giles never had. 
 
"Then it is a certainty. I will never become what he would want. So this discussion is futile."  
 
"Never say never..." Oz wiped a last smudge of dirt off of Illyria's chin and looked into her startling blue eyes. "Sometimes... sometimes patience is all it takes." 
 
He frowned slightly, considering his further words very carefully, "And sometimes all the patience in the world doesn't help. But either way... it's not something that can be forced by trying to be what you aren't... or trying to make him what he isn't." 
 
"Thank you so much, that part I had understood myself! I do not wish to change him, even if I could - your concern is unwarranted." 
 
"Concern for a... friend... is never unwarranted. Misplaced, perhaps, but not unwarranted." And let her make of that what she wanted. Oz was certain that she would, no matter what else he said. 
 
"The Imugi said -" And then she closed her eyes in brief, all-too-human horror at what she had just allowed herself to let slip. 
 
The Imugi? Oz had overheard her use that expression before and knew she referred to Mr. Pak, although it's exact meaning was still lost on him. He figured that everyone had... things... that they wanted to keep to themselves... and that if Uncle Shen wanted him to know... he would, eventually, tell him. He trusted the man and had no reason to believe that this bit of knowledge, whatever it was, would change that. "What does he say?" 
 
His voice was soft and kind, trying to draw her out. 
 
She sighed. "That I should find out what it is I want. But I know, and it makes no difference. It was not helpful of him." She scowled, the more familiar expression wiping away all previous uncertainty. 
 
"Uncle Shen only directs... he does not lead." Now that was a truth that was obvious. "It can be really annoying." 
 
"Yes." Illyria's eyes darted back toward the dojo. 
 
Oz reached up, smoothing back a stray strand of the war… no, the woman… the woman's hair. There was a long moment of silence and when he did speak again, he tried to fill his words with caring, both for his old friend, Xander, and for what he felt might be developing between himself and Illyria. 
 
"But he's also right. Knowing what you want is usually a good first step. You know what you want. Now you just have to give Xander the time to know what he wants. Not an easy thing to do." 
 
Illyria suddenly jerked away from his touch, "You pity me." 
 
Okay, that was something he hadn't expected and completely denied, "No." 
 
But Illyria had drawn herself up and closed herself off, back into the haughtiness that had marked her first few days with them. "I will not be pitied. I am Illyria. " 
 
And that pretty much said it all as far as she seemed to be concerned. She stomped off up the stairs, and Oz supposed her exit would have been much more effective if there hadn't been a stray bit of moss left dangling from her sleeve. 
 
"Well…. That went… not so well. Huh…."  

* 

Illyria was learning the very human art of avoidance, and brought it to a level of surprising skill over the next few days. When everyone was working, she behaved as usual, and took any questions to Wesley. Under the guise of concern for Mr Pak's dojo, she suggested that she and Spike move their sessions to the market basement - and Mr Pak's enthusiastic approval stopped any questions on that score. It also meant that they could spar any time of day, and Illyria always seemed to find it most convenient to be doing so during Xander's training sessions with Mr Pak, which meant she neatly avoided any chance of his coming to watch her, or of running into him at Mr Pak's small house on the other side of the gardens. 
 
The time she would usually have spent asking Xander questions, or watching him work, she used for her own training, practising grace and silence, gravity and concentration. The Imugi was approving.  
 
Illyria was miserable. 
 
No-one questioned her more blatant avoidance of Oz - her discomfort in his presence had been all-too-clearly stated on enough occasions that no-one even noticed particularly that she was more prone than ever to leaving a room if he came into it. 
 
She suspected that Xander had asked Wesley to spend more time with her - not even considering that it might have been for other reasons than his own need to be anywhere she wasn't, or that Wesley's offhand gentleness with her was anything other than his normal attitude, simply being made clearer to her by the increasing amount of time she spent in his company. 
 
She knew that he was teaching her - not only the definition of humour, of the why behind the things she knows it would please people to hear her laugh at, but the courage to share the things that amuse her, that make her want to let her true self emerge more fully, with others. 
 
Since Wesley could rarely be made to laugh aloud, it was not disturbing when her attempts failed with him, nor when the things that light his face with that quiet, private, inner laughter did not reach her. 
 
Slowly, she began to understand what Oz had meant by his advice to her in the garden: 
 
"It's not something that can be forced by trying to be what you aren't... or trying to make him what he isn't." 
 
She had not understood how much she was trying to accomplish the former until she started to practise putting her true self into a form that could be understood by this world. 
 
In time, she hoped, she would stop wanting more, resign herself to what pleasure was given to her by life as it went by each day. 
 
But she had never tried to want something without any hope of having it before, and she had never needed to love. So she avoided Xander, and Oz, and carefully did not question what lay behind Wesley's odd kindness, and tried to fulfil Mr Pak's tasks, and tried to soothe the ache inside her by making each day mean something more than the one before. 

She began to let herself share the garden with Wesley. The plants did not speak to her - she was coming to terms with the fact that they would be forever silent in this world - but she could still see what he was creating. 
 
"Not dictated," she said, pointing at the area where the shards of old pots and the remnants of the rubble that had been cleared even before Xander arrived were piled to make a rockery, the first fragile blossoms just beginning to gain hold. "Growing out of the land, with all its own contours." 
 
"Yes." Wesley looked startled, as though he had not realised that he had accomplished that - though Illyria knew him well enough by now to guess that he had been aiming for exactly that. "You shouldn't see a garden in a moment. It should be a place to explore." 
 
"Tell me what you see." It would have been a demand, once, now it was a request, her tone soft and slightly pleading. 
 
"Not only flowers." Wesley struggled to explain, and Illyria allowed herself once more to feel the shock she had before, when she realised that neither Wesley nor the others knew exactly the power that was being put into the small, intricate garden. 
 
How can he not know? she wondered again, before concentrating on what he was saying. 
 
"Shape and shades, beauty of foliage….the blend of green and water." 
 
"Beautiful," Illyria said, sitting with her chin propped on her knees, but she was talking about what she could see emerging, the vision that Wesley's mind overlaid so strongly on the place that she could see it as clearly as he. 
 
She helped him plant bulbs, and saw how it would be in his own country, and wondered if he knew that it would be like that here, too, even though the seasons would never match what happened. 
 
The garden would fill with the scent of lilies, winning against the clove smell of the pinks, the great bushes of hydrangeas would have heads as big as dinner plates and sway across the paths when it rained. 
 
Wesley never questioned how often it rained, here, either. 
 
Later, the borders would take on a richer colour, with marigolds, begonias and phlox of the kind of red that she knew Wesley associated with velvet, though she did not know why, and stained-glass windows, which she had not seen as yet. 
 
There would be marguerites, high stacks of white flowers, taking the light as the sun moved around. 
 
But Wesley's true garden was a winter one. He had meant it when he said that it was not just about flowers, pointing out to her the shapes of bush and branch and twig that would form the pattern he was embellishing with colour; the outlines of the paths and humps of granite rock, broken by the darkness of the yew hedges. There would be plum blossom, giving the garden the look of a Japanese print. 
 
Illyria imagined a spray of winter jasmine along the wall; and told Wesley so. 
 
"And Christmas roses," he replied, agreeing, and showed her a picture of the white flowers. 
 
Mr Pak's metalwork provided an ideal bases for a small artificial waterfall, and Wesley planted viburnum near it, though he said it would never quite be cold enough for the plant to flourish. 
 
Illyria did not tell him that it would. 
 
She had called it beautiful. She meant 'magic'. 
 
She meant power, for that was something she would never stop finding beautiful to see and feel. 
 
On the fourth evening, she asked Wesley why Xander considered souls to be of such importance. 
 
"He believes they're what gives people the capacity for good," he answered. 
 
"You do not agree." Illyria turned a sprig of mint in her fingers, and raised the crushed leaves to her nose, inhaling the sweet, crisp scent. 
 
Wesley smiled. "No. I've seen too much of what those who take souls for granted can do. And too much of the misery they can cause when they are imposed." 
 
"On Spike?" 
 
"That, too," Wesley agreed, but she knew he was not talking about Spike, not really, but of the other vampire, the one she had kicked, who carried a long-held sorrow with him like an old cloak.  
 
"I have a soul," Illyria told him, and Wesley's eyes crinkled at the edges with unasked questions. "Hers too. It is part of mine, now. I am no destroyer, my Wesley. And it does not cause me sorrow." 
 
He only nodded, but when he put his tools away for the night, turned to her, quite suddenly, and kissed her on the cheek. 
 
"What -" 
 
"Thank you," he said, and left her in the garden, standing among the leaves and herbs, surrounded by the scent of crushed mint and the smell of turned earth and fresh grass. 
 
That night, she found the paperwork for registering the new company, with everything filled in except the still-disputed name, and frowned at it. 
 
No-one would put their own name to it, and no other suggestion could be agreed on, but Illyria, who was working her way through the book of supernatural definitions that Mr Pak had given her, knew exactly what to put. 
 
"…all the characteristics of an ancient warrior god, the personification of a force that shatters and overcomes any resistance or defence, an irresistible offensive force which displays its strength in attack. They are represented as being in constant battle against their enemies; men and demons (daevas), wizards (yaatus) and dragons, snake-gods and all that is evil." 
 
Dragonslayers, she wrote, in the flowing script she had inherited from her shell, and then, scanning the paperwork for what was needed to make the name official, Incorporated.