Nine Ladies Dancing

9. On the Ninth Day of Christmas… Nine Ladies Dancing, by Hesadevil

2nd January 2004

Spike leaned against the wall and watched as Illyria studied the man who sat before her holding a small object in his hand.

Wesley shook the snow globe gently and peered into the scene that was now obscured by the swirling flakes.

He placed the ornament carefully on the centre of his desk "For Auld Lang Syne," he murmured, reading the inscription on the plaque at the base of the ornament. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. "I wonder whether whoever gave this to me knows the real meaning of that phrase," he asked, looking up as Angel entered his office.

"What phrase?"

Wesley pointed at the globe. “I was handed this at the party - by a very attractive young woman.”

“Fred?”

“Not Fred. Another attractive young woman.” Wesley pushed his chair away from the desk and went over to the door. “She was wearing a mask,” he added, closing the door softly. “And a rather daring Liza Minelli Cabaret outfit.”

“Lorne said artistes from the past? Liza Minelli’s not dead, is she?” Angel asked, picking up the globe and shaking it.

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Wesley slowly. He stared at the ornament in Angel’s hand. “I got the impression that this particular guest never had an invitation.”

“A gate crasher?” Angel placed the glass back on the desk. “You think there’s something sinister about this thing?” he asked, taking a pace back.

“No – no, nothing like that,” said Wesley reassuringly. “I’m just curious as to why she gave it to me. Why me? And why this inscription?” He took it in his hands once more, turning it over and examining the base for a clue as to its origins. “Made in Bavaria? Hmmm. With an inscription from Scotland. Curious.” Wesley replaced it on the desk and turned back to Angel. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Me? No. Just checking on the team. Keeping a finger on the pulse.” Angel turned to go. “Wes...?”

Wesley waited. Finally, after a lengthy silence, he said. “Yes?”

“It’s just… Is there anything going on? You know, an outbreak of demon violence, a rise in vampire attacks? Anything?”

Wesley walked Angel to the door and opened it for him. “You’ll be the first to know. I will personally inform you of any cases requiring your individual attention.”

He closed the door behind Angel’s retreating back and sighed. “Someone else seems to be doing your job for you out there. If the rumours are true, it looks as though there’s a rogue demon slayer in town. Just like old times.”

The door opened again and Angel’s head appeared round inside the doorframe. “Did you say something about a Slayer?”

Wesley sighed. “Just thinking out loud.”

Angel stepped back inside the office. “What are you doing here, Wes? We’re closed for the holidays.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Wesley replied.

“I live here.”

Wesley watched Angel move to the window and gaze down into the busy streets below.

“Not here, you don’t. Your apartment’s upstairs. What are you doing down here?”

Angel turned and picked the snow globe from Wesley’s desk, turning it to read the inscription. “Visiting a friend,” he said softly.

“The same friend you left the New Year’s party early for?” Wesley asked.

Angel nodded and replaced the globe on the desk. “No change,” he said glumly. “She’s never going to come out of the coma, is she?”

Illyria moved closer to the desk and inspected its contents.

“What’re you lookin’ for, Blue?”

Illyria ignored the question. “What is this day?”

Spike scanned the office walls. Over the filing cabinet, beneath a picture of a Corps de Ballet, hung a calendar with one day crossed through. “Second of January,” he replied.

“Not your linear measurement, half-breed; the Song’s day and its gift.”

Spike paused, calculating in his head. “Think it’s number nine,” he said, finally. “Depends whose version you’re using.”

“You began with the Lord Jesus.” Illyria turned her glacial orbs on Spike, commanding him wordlessly to provide the details of the rhyme’s content. Spike narrowed his eyes and contemplated denying her imperious demand but thought better of it. Sparring with Illyria in the past had been a way of learning where his own strengths and weaknesses as a fighter lay. They’d come too far from those early days and spent too much time in one another’s company for conflict to be of any further use to either of them.

He noticed Illyria glance at Wesley who was making space for himself and Angel to sit by clearing books from the chairs. Spike thought he’d worked out pretty much where he belonged but Illyria was still searching for her place in his world. Now that Wesley was gone and Angel was off god alone knew where, it looked as if the lot of teaching Illyria something about the world had fallen into Spike’s lap. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair.

“You know, it’s been a long time since I knew that song by heart. Ninth day?” He hummed a few lines to himself. “Nine ladies dancing,” he said finally. “Never saw any though.”

“The words of the song have significance, to the worshippers of your Lord,” Illyria announced.

Spike frowned, remembering something he’d learned as a boy. “Something to do with being reminders to the faithful. Buggered if I can remember what, though.”

“Try harder,” commanded Illyria. “I need to know why you have brought me here, to this time, to reopen wounds of sorrow at Wesley’s passing.”

Spike’s patience gave out. “Look, Your right Royal Pain in my Arse, I didn’t bring youYou’re the one doing the Incredible Journey. You work it out.”

Illyria moved towards him, reaching out and touching the side of his head. Spike flinched, expecting a blow but felt only a warm hand brushing his temple, fingers coming to rest above his eyes. He jolted as a spark coursed through his head, probing deep into his brain, awakening memories long buried.

“What did you just do?” he cried as Illyria broke contact and stepped away from him. Spike folded his arms and glared at her.

“Some powers remain in me,” replied Illyria. “I searched your memories in much the same way I can search those that remain of Winifred Burkle.”

Spike closed his eyes against the rising nausea that accompanied Illyria’s invasion of his brain. “Well don’t do it again, Spock. It’s not nice to go rummaging around uninvited in folk’s heads.”

She pulled herself regally straight. “I need no invitation. I am Illyria.”

“Yeah? Well you’re not the Bigwig in this world anymore. Thought you knew that a long way back.” Spike sat on the edge of Wesley’s desk and scrutinised her. “You really should make more of an effort to blend in, you know.”

Illyria looked at her clothing. “I should dress more in keeping with the season? There is little point to that, we cannot be seen.” She turned her attention to Wesley once more. “He speaks of the old times,” she observed.

“You were listening all the time you were doing whatever it was you did?” Spike blinked at her. “Why don’t you just delve into their brains to pick what you want out of them?” Spike pouted and began mumbling to himself. “If I’d wanted a bleedin’ mind suck job, I’d’ve teamed up with that Glory bird.”

Illyria disregarded him and focused on the conversation Wesley was having with Angel.

“Fred’s team is concentrating all its efforts into finding a cure,” Spike heard Wesley say. “It’s one of the reasons Fred agreed to come here, to use the facilities to help people, starting with Cordelia.”

Angel’s face remained impassive. He’d long ago mastered the art of concealing his emotions. “You ever miss the old firm, Wes?” he asked.

Wesley thought for a moment. “Sometimes,” he admitted.

“I miss Cordy,” said Angel softly. “And being out there on the street. You ever miss that? Fighting Wolfram and Hart, not working for them?”

Wesley looked at him coldly. “Have I changed that much since we came here?” he asked.

“Spike said I’d sold my soul to the devil coming here,” said Angel said quietly, by way of an answer.

“I never did!” said Spike indignantly. “What I said was…” He stopped remembering the meaning attached to the ninth verse of the carol. “Souls. That’s what this day’s all about.”

“Explain!” Illyria demanded.

“Nine Ladies Dancing. Nothing to do with partying. Each dance is a gift from the Holy Spirit – sort of crutches to keep the soul out of the devil’s grasp.” Spike bounced onto the balls of his feet. “Good one, Princess.”

Illyria tilted her head. “I do not follow the logic of your words.”

“No logic needed,” said Spike. “Wes and the Mighty Broody One are recollectin’ the old days, fightin’ the good fight on the cheap, keepin’ their souls out of temptation. Can we go now I’m getting’ mighty peckish and I could do with a fag.”

“Wesley remembers something else,” said Illyria staring at the former Watcher.

Wesley was gazing at the empty chair beside his desk.

“Something he does not share with your leader,” Illyria continued.

“How’d you know that?” asked Spike pacing round the room, searching for evidence of anything edible.

“Wesley taught me much, sometimes no words were necessary.”

Wesley finally responded to Angel. “We all had good reasons for coming here, Angel. Or thought we did. I…” he paused, struggling with the emotion Illyria had sensed in him. “I don’t think any of us did it for bad reasons at any rate.”

Angel sighed heavily. “Who was it said the road to hell is paved with good intentions?” he asked bitterly.

Wesley nodded his assent to the quotation. “Someone much wiser than this mere mortal,” he said quietly.

Angel stood up and stretched. “Think I’ll go out and sweep the streets For Auld Lang’s Syne.”

Wesley waited until the door closed behind him before turning towards the office chair beside the desk.

“Lilah,” he breathed.

Spike spun round to where an attractive blonde was occupying what had been an empty chair. “Another ghost of Christmas Past? Thought we were done with the Dickens’ homage,” said Spike scathingly. “Where’d she come from anyway? She’s hot,” he added eyeing her appreciatively.

“This is no ghost. Wesley’s memory brought her here,” Illyria answered.

Wesley stood up and closed the small gap between himself and Lilah. “Why are you here?”

“Because you remembered,” Lilah replied. She flicked her eyes towards the snow globe. “You got my message.”

“It was you,” Wesley said, “at the party. But how...?”

“Shore leave,” replied Lilah, studying her nails.

Wesley smiled. “From Hell? Why does that not convince me?”

Lilah raised her eyebrows. “Still don’t trust me, Wes? What do I have to do to persuade you?” She picked Wesley’s spectacles off his desk and put them on. “You want me to play at being that stick-insect scientist friend of yours again? You haven’t so much as kissed her under the mistletoe yet, have you?”

Wesley swallowed and reached out to take the spectacles out of her hands. “You shouldn’t be here, Lilah. Not now. I’ve done all I can for you.”

Spike opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, so the Bookworm got it on with a hot piece of Totty?” he cried. “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Wesley is not a worm,” Illyria said abruptly.

Spike’s eyes widened even further as he caught the flash of fire in the sapphire eyes.

“He is...” Illyria paused, finding herself suddenly bereft of words for the first time since Spike had met her. “He was much more than that… to me.”

“Well, gotta say, didn’t see that comin’. Who’d’ve guessed? The Ice Queen and Research Man. It‘s always the quiet ones.”

“The quiet ones?” Illyria switched her attention back to Spike.

“Yeah. The ones who no one notices ‘til they do something really amazin’ and surprise everyone.” He paused, remembering the quiet one he’d met years ago. “Tara. She surprised me no end. Shame about how she died. No one deserves to go like that.”

Illyria closed her eyes.

“Hey! What’re you doin’ now?” Spike was seized by a moment of panic as he felt the room slipping away and the earth tilting from under him. “We’re gonna have to fix the way you do this. It’s gettin on my wick.”