Song extract from 'She's a Sensation', The Ramones: Album, 'Pleasant Dreams'.
My thanks to Ceit for most of the scene in Harmony's apartment.
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Wesley was impressed; Angel had done what he’d failed to do, he’d got Spike to agree to work with them at Wolfram and Hart. Perhaps it was the offer of an office that did it, thought Wesley. He’d probably never know. Close as he was to Angel, he wasn’t ‘blood family’ like Spike.

“You call this an office?” Spike’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he looked around the room with disdain. “It’s smaller than the broom cupboard Xander let me bunk in.”

The office was certainly not of the same palatial proportions of Angel’s but only Spike would refer to it as a broom cupboard.

“Let me show you the facilities,” said Wesley. “Angel asked me to make a few suggestions to help a fellow Englishman feel at home.”

Home, thought Spike wistfully. Haven’t felt at home since . . . No, don’t go there. Buffy’s basement is a big hole in the ground, along with the rest of Sunnyhell.

Wesley led the way over to an alcove set to the right-hand side of a large window. He opened the first of a series of matching cupboards faced in maple. “Here we have a supplies cabinet.”

Spike was surprised by the contents. This was no office supplies’ cabinet; it was a fully stocked refrigerator. There were cans of beer and a bottle of milk, packets of ready-cooked meals and, neatly stacked on the bottom shelves cartons containing what looked like fresh blood. Spike picked one up and held it to the light. “This come with a use-by stamp?”

Wesley reached out and turned the carton around so that Spike could read the reverse side.

“Hmmm. ‘Ts good for another day. How often is this re-stocked?”

“Daily, I think, and the same for the milk. But not the other contents. Apparently you’re to be rationed on that. Imported beer isn’t cheap.”

Spike picked out one of the cans from inside the fridge door. “What the . . . ? Wes! How could you let them do this to the Cream of Manchester? Boddingtons dies at this temperature.”

“I did leave instructions that it was to be stored in another cupboard,” said Wesley frowning. “Americans just don’t seem to appreciate the subtle flavours of English beer."

“No they bloody don’t,” agreed Spike. “Though I quite like a cold Guinness on a hot day.”

“That doesn’t count,” said Wesley sharply. “It’s Irish.”

Spike closed the fridge and began opening other doors at random. The first concealed a microwave oven.

“For heating the blood,” Wesley explained unnecessarily.

“Or spicy buffalo-wings,” added Spike, grinning. From what he’d just spotted in the refrigerator, someone knew his food preferences very well.

Another door dropped down from just below the height of Spike’s head to form a small tabletop. Wesley reached into the cupboard and slid out an automatic tea-maker. In the recesses at the back of the cupboard, Spike could see various packets, labelled ‘Ceylon’, ‘Darjeeling’, ‘Earl Grey’, ‘Lapsang Souchong’.

Wesley coughed nervously. “Um, - I don’t know what your preferences are as regards tea, but I asked for a selection, just to get you started.“ He rummaged in the fruit bowl on the counter-top. “Though I can’t see any lemons; I distinctly asked for lemons . . . ”

Spike chuckled, “Appreciate the thought. Not much of a tea drinker these days.” Spike wondered where all this was leading. Wesley was trying too hard.

“Yes, well . . . perhaps we should move over to the main work area.”

The room was divided neatly into two distinct areas. The half in which they stood was furnished with two over-stuffed leather sofas, facing one another across a low, light-oak coffee table.

Could settle in here permanently, mused Spike. Sofas look comfy. Three-seater looks as if it converts to a bed. Spike wondered who had chosen the furnishings and the colour scheme of dark, slate-grey carpet and midnight-blue blinds. Someone with taste.

Wesley crossed the room to the side opposite the seating, where the desk stood. Spike followed, but stopped as he stepped into the light that was streaming through the large picture window.

“Over here is your Control Centre. Everything can be activated from your office chair. Why don’t you try it out and see what’s been provided?” Wesley turned to see why Spike didn’t respond and was fascinated by the sight of vampire standing close to the window, basking in the sunlight.

“Never tire of this,” beamed Spike. “’S almost as good as the Gem of Amarra, ‘cept you can’t carry it with you. Wonder if they could treat clothes with whatever is on the glass? D’ you think Fred would have a go at trying something like that?”

“I hardly consider that a responsible use of her departmental budget.” Wesley was quick to censure any ideas Spike might be entertaining to find an excuse to get closer to Fred.

“Calm down, Watcher Boy. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was only teasing.” Spike stepped back from the window into the shadows. “Just like the whole not bursting into flames when I step into sunlight that’s all.”

Wesley allowed himself to relax. He was having a difficult time getting to know Spike, but it would be worth the effort. He was determined to fathom the puzzle of the two vampires with souls in relation to the Shanshu prophecy. Spike had just saved the world, and a phrase, he couldn’t remember its origins nor why it kept recurring, was haunting Wesley; Angel’s son must save the world.

He marvelled, not for the first time, at just how different the two vampires were. Where Angel shunned the safe sunlight offered by the windows, here was Spike basking in the pleasure of testing his ‘wonder if I’ll freckle’ theory. Where Angel’s concerns drove him inward into solitary meditation, Spike’s sent him outward seeking company of some sort. Spike was all about action, and as changeable as the English weather; Angel was all about control. Wesley wondered how Angel hoped to control Spike by limiting his activities to those an office had to offer.

“There’s a computer here, with Internet access, Broadband of course, and . . .”

“Broadband?” interrupted Spike, swivelling the chair and testing its tilt action at the same time.

Wesley smiled. Angel really hadn’t a hope of getting Spike to stay at a desk for long. “It means the Internet is always on. Now this control button here,” Wesley caught the armrest as it swung towards him, “is for the television.” This was far more suitable for Spike. A cupboard door on the wall facing the desk slid open to reveal a large flat screen. “And this is the D.V.D. player.” The screen leapt into action, a menu appearing on a blue background. “If you want to listen to some music as you work,” Wesley couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of work Spike might be given; “there’s always the sound system.” The D.V.D. menu was replaced by a long list of albums.

“Are all these mine?” Spike squeaked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Where’d you find ‘em? Some of these are virtually impossible to get.” He began skimming down the list. “ Sex Pistols’ ’Anarchy in the UK’, the live album, ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’. Look, there’s even some Black Flag, and Dead Kennedys!” Spike was practically bouncing with joy.

It’s like watching a child opening his Christmas presents, thought Wesley. When had he last seen Angel show that much enthusiasm for anything? Come to think of it, when had he ever seen Angel show that much enthusiasm? “They were all recommended by Harmony. She seems to know your tastes in music very well.”

“Yeah, well, we had a thing going a few years’ back and she moved in with me. Didn’t end well. She set fire to most of my stuff at one point. Only left me the rubbish I didn’t give a damn about.”

Spike hurtled down the list of albums, changing menus with such speed that Wesley began to revise his earlier notion that Spike was ‘digitally challenged’. “The Ramones, you got me the Ramones’ ‘Pleasant Dreams’!”

Wesley covered his ears and winced as the speakers roared into life.
 
#She's a sensation. She's a sensation.
She looks so sweet. She's a sensation.
She's a sensation.
Good enough to eat.# 

Spike silenced the music with a flick of his thumb, his face adopting a serious expression, the grin replaced by a slight pursing of the lips and a wistful look in his eyes. “Indulged in a little too much of that . . . giving in to sensations.  Led to doing some things I regret, some bad calls.” Spike rolled his neck and pulled himself together with a slight smile. “Had a good ol’ chinwag with Harm the other day. Felt I owed her an apology or an explanation at least. Needed to set the record straight.”

* * * * * *

Having no office to crash in was beginning to get on Spike’s wick; he’d taken to hanging about in the reception area.  On that particular evening he’d perched himself on the edge of Harmony’s desk as she was packing up to leave, taking care to avoid the ever-growing collection of unicorns.

“Person could have a nasty accident on these,” he grumbled, picking up one of the larger statuettes and running his finger along the twisted horn that ended in a particularly sharp point.

“Only if they were doing something a certain other person had told him he couldn’t take for granted any more,” replied Harmony, closing the desk drawer and switching off her work light.

Spike had the good grace to look embarrassed, just for an instant. He replaced the unicorn carefully with its deskmates.

“Anyway,” Harmony continued, “you look a mess. A certain person wouldn’t want to - even if they wanted to.”

Spike finished arranging the unicorns; he’d lined them all up with their horns pointing towards Harmony. “That the best you can do?” asked Spike tilting his head slightly. “If you want to get rid of me, just say so. – Anyway, whad’ya mean, mess? Clean togs, fresh on today.”

“Have you looked at yourself recently? Your roots are showing.”

“Well, as it happens, not recently, no.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Vampire - Reflection. You should know.”

“You are so stuck in the Dim Ages, Spike. Camcorder.”

“Come again?”

“Camcorder. Look.”

Harmony swivelled her monitor towards him, revealing her own image. Spike swung himself off the desk and over to her side, pulling the screen back to its original position. For a moment, he was speechless, amazed by what he saw.

“Bloody Nora. Look as if I haven’t eaten in years.” He tilted the monitor and turned his head for a better view of his profile.

“That’s not what I mean. Your roots need doing. ”Harmony gestured at his hands. “And your nails. Jeez’ Spike, if that’s what having a soul does for you, I’m glad I haven’t got one.” She switched off her computer. “C’mon,” she said, dragging him away from the desk.

“Where are we goin’?”

“Back to my place! You need a lot of work doing on you.”

“Don’t think that’s such a good idea, pet. Remember where you doing the hair and nails used to lead.”

“Eeeew Spike!” Harmony slapped his arm. “So not going there again. No – strictly a girlie night. – C’mon. It’ll be fun,” she wheedled.

“Hey! - Watch who you’re calling ‘girlie!”

Spike chuckled quietly to himself as he allowed her to pull him towards the exit. Dim Ages!