11.
A/N: I want to take this opportunity to send all my Buffy friends good wishes for 2006. I am grateful for the camaraderie I have found among you. May the new year grant us all health and happiness and the wealth of stories yet to come.
Murphy’s Law has many corollaries that elucidate the little annoyances of modern life. Spike found himself caught in the exasperating grip of one as he stewed in the confines of the luxurious elevator. He needed to pace but without adequate elbow room that was impossible and so he was left to sway to an agitated internal beat and stare up at the illuminated buttons that indicated each passing floor. The small lights blinked at a snail’s pace. Spike figured the relationship between the speed in which a passenger needed to get to a certain floor and the sluggish rate of vertical acceleration had to have been covered by Murphy and his list of irritating laws. If not Murphy, then some constipated poltergeist must have possessed the elevators and made them do its bidding. The parameters of theoretical and mystical physics were often mind bogglingly exasperating.
It didn’t help that the music coming out of the elevator speakers, a lush arrangement of “Close to You” by the Carpenters, made the muscle in Spike’s jaw jangle in 6/8 time. No doubt chosen for its potential client soothing properties, the gentle arrangement had the opposite effect on Spike. The edge of his lip began to curl with revulsion. This was the kind of tripe Johnny Rotten and his pasty ilk was meant to have obliterated forevermore.
“Bloody Poof prob’bly picked this shite just to wank my chain,” Spike grumbled as he willed the elevator upward. By the time the fifteenth floor arrived with a soft, almost sultry chime, he was out for blood.
Spike erupted from the elevator only just quashing a feral snarl and headed straight for Angel’s office. Storming inside with an agitated flourish, he interrupted the meeting under way. “Pardon me. Won’t take a moment,” Spike’s attempt at a civil tone could have cut glass. “Angel. Need to talk. Can’t wait.” When Angel made no move to accommodate the request, Spike grabbed Angel by the arm, hauled him off his perch at the corner of the desk and dragged him out into the lobby.
Angel was not amused.
“Hey, watch the shirt! Watch it!” Angel wrenched his arm from Spike’s grasp and proceeded to adjust his molested silk. A quick check of the sleeve revealed no permanent damage. “What is your problem?” Angel fumed. “You can’t just barge in and interrupt a serious meeting. Harmony was just going to–“
“ANGEL!” The air rang with urgency. Spike stilled abruptly when he noticed something unusual. Angel looked different. His facial expression remained chiseled in the supremely irked camp, but his physical appearance had slid into the patently bizarre. The hair, always a source of amusement for Spike, looked even more ridiculous than usual.
“Is that a bloody kiss curl on your forehead?”
More aggressively styled than usual and no longer sticking straight up, the quizzical strand practically levitated from Angel’s hairline. The hair looked suspiciously like the foundation of a new style ethic. Spike stared at the heavy contrasting cuffs and collar on Angel’s expensive shirt and wondered whether he was seeing things or if gay Roman centurion was a real fashion trend. And where had those god awful highlights come from?
“What if it is?” Angel’s eyes darkened with condescension and a touch of eyeliner. “At least I make an effort to stay current, unlike some.” He raked his eyes over Spike’s familiar outfit with look of withering condemnation mixed with pity.
Priorities, Spike reminded himself. Forget the retro cartoon hair. Priorities. The music meant nothing and Angel was only being his best twiddling git self, but Buffy was in real jeopardy. Yeah, Buffy was the priority. “Look,” Spike began, “I don’t pretend to know all the ins and outs that you so-called corporate types ingest with your breakfast meetings of champions and the like, but what the bloody hell is going on here?”
“Wake up on the wrong side of the sarcophagus, Spike?” Angel huffed. “It’s called the morning meeting. You used to attend them.”
“Yeah, for a laugh.”
Angel looked back into the office. Agitation bristled his upper lip. “What do you want? I have to get back in there. Harmony’s–” Panic permeated his voice.
Spike took a quick glance inside the office. Harmony appeared to be arranging an army of plastic ponies and trolls on the desk. What stunned him was the look of studious fascination on the faces of Wesley, Gunn, Fred and Lorne at this odd display. “Looks like she’s choreographing a dance routine with her dollies,” Spike observed. He couldn’t imagine any scenario that would involve such a troubling detail and yet there was the tableau before him. Spike watched with dismay as Wesley appeared to be discussing the intricacies of the doll display with Harmony. Gunn also pointed toward the arrangement and spoke.
“That shows what you know!” Angel’s face strained with frustration that he was not back inside. “Those happen to be action figures, Spike, but that’s beside the point. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Harmony’s strategic reasoning has left you in the dust. I’d invite you in if I could be certain you’d keep your big trap shut, because–believe me–you could stand to learn a thing or two.”
Spike’s thought processes tripped upon hearing the words “Harmony’s strategic reasoning.”
“Learn?” Spike finally spoke. “From Harmony?”
Angel gritted his teeth with disdain. “Of course from Harmony, you idiot!”
“Is this the same is-it-bigger-than-a-bread-box Harmony?”
“Spike, I don’t have time for your silly games–“
“Angel, I know it hasn’t been that long since you were a pile of heavy gauge felt bits with delusions of grandeur, but honestly, what the fuck have you been smoking? Or maybe you’ve sucked up one too many skanky clots from your barnyard supply because you are not making any sense–not that you’re known for making sense–but this is a kind of not making sense that would astound even idiots.”
“Speak for yourself,” Angel hissed. “I can’t stand here arguing, damn it, Harmony’s at the white board!” Angel made a move toward the door.
“Angel! Angel. Get a hold of yourself!” Spike gripped Angel’s shoulders and held him fast. “Something is seriously wrong. Buffy’s…” Spike swallowed a wave of nausea and plowed ahead with the distasteful truth, “…in the front lobby wearing a badge and cap and wishing folks a Wolfram and Hart kind of day.”
Angel’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Yeah? So what?”
The shape of Angel’s gaping mouth alone was reason for a sound thrashing, but before Spike thought to stomp the crap out of Angel something a little more ominous prickled the base of Spike’s skull. “Wait– You know this already?”
“D-u-h. Earth to Spike. Who do you think put in a good word with Harmony to get the interview in the first place? I’m done talking to you. I have minutes to take!” With that said, Angel lunged out of Spike’s loosening grasp and raced back into the office. He scooted over to the desk and perched on its edge. Angel cleared his throat and looked sheepishly at Harmony.
“I apologize for that interruption. It’s official. Spike’s gone off the deep end again.” All eyes drifted in unison toward the figure of a befuddled vampire staring through the glass partitions with his jaw hanging open.
“What do you think?” Wesley glanced at Harmony. “Could he be a liability at this point?”
“People…” Harmony pronounced with a bored sigh. “Spike marches to his own drummer. He’s annoying but harmless.”
As Spike took stock, staring into Angel’s office, curious changes in the dTcor became glaringly obvious. It simply didn’t look like Angel’s office anymore. Instead of weapons on the walls there was a huge painting on black velvet of Harmony in a floor length gown. Instead of the dour, masculine black leather sofas and chairs there was an assortment of outlandish objects that bore the unmistakable stamp of a certain scatter-brained vampire. Wesley sat in comfortable ease on a clear plastic inflatable pink chair, Charles Gunn occupied a pink and black zebra striped beanbag chair, another shocking pink leather chair designed in the shape of an H held Fred and Lorne lounged on a low day bed covered in shaggy pink fur.
Harmony stood beside a white board with the words “think pink” and “synergy” written in bubble letters. She gestured to Lorne and nodded. Spike watched as Lorne moved to a side table and put a CD into a portable stereo. With an motion of her hands, Harmony beckoned the group to stand. They moved to a clearing at the far end of the office and spread out evenly, dutifully assuming starting positions. She continued to speak but Spike couldn’t make out the words beyond counting down a rhythm of eight beats.
What followed was a choreographed group number that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Hustle before transitioning seamlessly into free form individual interpretations. Lorne took Harmony in his arms and began an energetic Latin number with twists, pivots, dips and aggressively synchronized hip and elbow movements. Wesley reached for Fred and she spun into his arms. They attempted a less frenzied display that appeared tentative due to the fact that both parties were counting the beats aloud and trying not to get too far off track. Charles Gunn eased effortlessly into liquid arm and leg movements and floated around the room as if sliding on ice.
Dancing. They were all dancing.
Spike stood in speechless disbelief not knowing what was weirder, that the group appeared to be following Harmony’s lead without question or that Angel, throwing all caution to the wind, joined in as an enthusiastic participant. What Spike witnessed went beyond the confines of shocking. Angel willingly shook his groove thing with what looked like shameless glee and considerable coordination.
That pod person thing was definitely going around.