Lesser of Two Evils

Wesley rubbed the side of his face in exhaustion, forcing his eyes to take in the information in the hefty file Eve had left behind. But soon, exhaustion gave way to intrigue, then to irritation as he continued to peruse the case document.

After half an hour, he heard something at the door, then grabbed the file as he walked out of his dark office to the dimly lit hallway, stopping her at the door of Gunn's office with a tight grasp of her elbow. When she turned to him, she was not alarmed, but merely annoyed as he gestured with the file in his other hand.

"Why did you have this assigned to me?" he asked her, gruffly.

"Why not?" she said, smiling a cryptic smile. "You are the head of the occult department, aren't you?"

"You know very well this case does not need my attention. This is more Lorne's or even Gunn's field of expertise."

Eve yanked her arm back to place her hand lightly on her hip. "Are you telling me that you oppose my judgment?" she asked, archly.

"Yes, I do," he agreed, meeting her eyes with confidence.

An expression of irritation marred Eve's features as he stared her down. She tried a different approach. "Look, Wesley, I'm the one who's familiar with our client list and..."

Wesley whipped out the case description as he said, emphatically, "This is an application for a bank loan."

"...yes, a binding contract between our client and..."

"What the bloody hell do I know about commercial loans?" he argued.

"...as her lawyer, you are obliged to review any financial transaction..."

"You spewed all the legal nonsense in Gunn's head, let him..." Wesley tried to say, flinging his arm out to gesture at Gunn's office but Eve took the opportunity to place a solid hand on his chest, intimidation masking her face.

"Look," she started, in a no-nonsense manner, "no matter what department you fall under, you all are collectively *all* our clients' lawyers, no matter what your, ahem, *specialization*," she said, with a dry smile, "is. In any case," she brushed off, in airy tones, "this particular client only deals specifically with the occult department, and right now... that's you," she punctuated with a
jab at his chest with her finger.

She smiled as he stared incredulously at her, file hanging limply at his side.

"Oh, buck up, soldier," she cajoled him. "You go down there, read over the contract with her, get her Jane Hancock and all is well. Besides," she added, "I hear her place is a real hot spot. Might be nice to leave this office and find company in something other that something made of recycled tree bark," she mocked, flicking at the case description in his hand.

Wesley glared at her irritatingly smiling face. "Angel's going to find out about this," he finally said, waving the sheet in his hand as a means of warning her.

Eve made a quick face of mock horror and waved her hands. "Ooh, really? Going to tell the big boss on me? Man, you *really* need to get a life," she said, turning away to walk down towards Gunn's office. Then she paused, and looking back, she said, "Get to Ananda's place early, around eight. She packs up quickly. And, uh, have fun," she winked at him, before turning again away from Wesley's enraged face.
________________________________________________________________________________

He rolled up to side of the empty road and looked out through the rain-soaked windshield at the small bar. It looked relatively desolate so Wesley checked the address again. Yes, it was the place. He finally made out the small, hanging sign that simply read: NIRVANA.

He sighed as he put the sheet back into his briefcase and gathered his things from the passenger seat. He once again cursed Eve for assigning this to him. His trip to Angel's office once again reminded him of how royally screwed they were when it came to Wolfram & Hart clients.

"Wes, I don't know what to say," Angel had said. "We're all overloaded with clients. If Eve feels you're the man for the job..."

"So, we're *trusting* them now? Against our better judgment?" Wesley had argued.

Angel had shrugged helplessly. "What do you want me to do, Wesley? Eve's the only one who knows the client list. If this..."

Angel had waved his hand, prompting Gunn to fill in with, "...Ananda..."

"...Ananda only deals with your department, then it's your case."

"What the hell do I know about financial holdings?" Wesley had repeated.

Gunn had sat back and had said, "Look, I'll go over the contract with you and bring you to speed. It's actually not that hard."

"Says the guy who got it all Matrixed into his head," Lorne had scoffed.

Gunn had sent Lorne a look but had turned to Wesley, who had now resignedly accepted his fate.

Angel had seen this look and had tried to sweeten the deal. "Hey... I'll... you can borrow one of my cars."

"The Viper?" Wesley had asked, half curiously and half hopefully.

Angel had cringed and had amended, "Well, one of my cars that isn't the Viper."

Now, Wesley stepped out into the rain and hesitated as he locked the door to the Porsche. The road was dark and deserted, not exactly the place he felt comfortable leaving such an expensive car. Then, he shrugged. It wasn't his car anyhow. And he was sure a corporation like Wolfram & Hart would have insurance against theft on their cars.

Besides, he thought as he rushed out of the rain to the door of the bar and pulled it open, Wolfram & Hart were the evil behind car thieves, weren't they? Would evil really steal from evil? He had to admit he supposed so.

Wesley's internal debate about the struggle of two evils paused as he took in the warmth of the interior of the bar. He was pleasantly surprised. From Eve's ramblings, he had assumed it was a nightclub, some kind of overactive, loud, and rambunctious lounge.

Rather, it was a quiet and polished bar. The room was furnished in elegant woods, booths snuggled in the corners for those who wanted some comfortable privacy, some open tables and chairs off to the side, allowing for larger groups and a long, gleaming counter bar, complete with mirrors on the back that reflected the soft candlelight on the tables in the room, and set the whole place aglow in a dim and smoky manner.

The room was somewhat full and Wesley could surmise that while the clientele was not exactly well-to-do but definitely of a higher class variety. He wondered how many of them were human.

"All of them, actually, although I don't discriminate." Wesley turned to face the short Indian woman, who seemingly had read his mind.

"I, uh..." He began to stutter, unsure of what to say. She relieved him by gently gesturing to stools at the closest end of the bar. He hesitantly followed, taking a seat by her as she silently signaled the bartender for drinks.

"What's your poison?" she asked, softly, turning to look at him.

"Poison?" He stared at her, blankly, before he realized what she meant. "Oh, you mean, drink? Uh, I'm not sure... how about...?"

She placed her hand on his and whispered, "Might I make a recommendation? I have this... knack for choosing the right drinks for someone."

Wesley felt uneasy about this, but didn't dare to voice it, assuming that this was, in fact, the lady of the hour herself. Which meant, she was the client and the client was, unfortunately, always in the right. "By all means," he assented.

As she beckoned the bartender, he took the time to appraise her. Her long black hair was plaited down her back, as was often the case with Indian women, yet she was dressed rather conservatively in a dark grey pantsuit. Only the deep red blouse underneath was the usual vivacious color he associated with that particular ethnicity. She was rather fair, which offset her wide, dark eyes and deeply colored lips. He noted she was rather young to be a proprietor of an establishment as old as this one and wondered if she had only recently arrived to America as he had. But he quickly dismissed that since her voice bore no accent as she said, looking straight at Wesley, "Joel, bring out new friend here... a British Comfort. I'll have the usual."

Wesley waited until the bartender had nodded and then retreated to place the order before asking, "Simple guess, I imagine, my accent giving it away?"

The woman looked almost horrified before leaning over to say conspiratorially, "Never make an obvious choice of drink, Mr. Pryce. I chose this drink less because you are obviously British, but more because you look like you need some Comfort."

Wesley pondered that for a moment, frustrated that she was apparently much better at reading him then he at reading her. He felt vulnerable as he reached for his briefcase. "Ms. Ananda," he said, hoping his assumption was indeed correct, "I've gone over your case file with..."

She grinned slightly as she interrupted, "Now, now, Mr. Pryce, no need to *dive* into business now. I like to get to know my legal representation first and you're new to Wolfram & Hart, aren't you?"

"Well, yes," Wesley said, peering at her, bewildered. "I'm sure you've heard of the changes that have occurred at the firm?"

"Changes?" she asked, curiously. "No, I haven't. What changes?"

Wesley was taken aback. It was unusual to meet a client unaware of their arrival. "I apologize. I had rather assumed the firm sent you a letter detailing the change in ownership."

She waved a hand absently and said, "Oh, I've been so busy these days, opening letters has become a novelty I haven't indulged in a while. The firm has a new leader?" she asked, conversationally.

"Yes, ma'am," Wesley affirmed, pulling out some sheets from his briefcase. "I have the paperwork right..."

She pushed the sheets back before he could take them out and insisted, "No, you tell me. What happened?" she asked, her full attention turned to the news he was sharing.

Wesley wasn't sure how to explain everything that had happened, but the look on her face was inviting and soon, he found himself telling her everything, how Angel Investigations got relocated to Wolfram & Hart, how they'd spent the last few weeks running themselves ragged trying to catch up, how every step they took was an insecure one, unsure of the intentions behind every one of the firm's surprised moves.

She listened patiently, stopping him only to ask the occasional question. Somewhere in the middle, the bartender came with their drinks and by the time they had finished them, he was nearing the end of his tale and she was asking, "...and I suppose you all feel the same towards your clients? I know Wolfram & Hart haven't always had a client list that met all ethical or moral standards."

This only served to remind Wesley that he was still dealing with a client, a Wolfram & Hart client to say the least, and no matter how comfortable or reassured he felt with her, he still had no idea of her intentions. It put back the unease in the conversation.

She must have felt this since she signaled to the bartender to bring another round and then turned back to him, saying, softly, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, but I'm an honest person. And I did choose this law firm for a reason. But I see that you and your people are still at odds with this perception of right and wrong and that's natural. It's an issue that has plagued this world since the beginnings of time. I hardly expect you to come to terms with it in a matter of weeks."

"So, you're evil?" he asked her, hesitantly.

"Oh, I don't see it like that. Evil is such a *strong* word." She peered at him as the bartender slid the drinks towards them. "We're *all* evil, Mr. Pryce. It's the bane of our existence. What separates the wicked from the righteous is not the actual presence of evil, but the act and the quantity and quality it's effectuated in."

Wesley felt the smirk on his face before he could stop it. The woman was quite philosophical. "Ms. Ananda..."

"Please, if we're going to discuss this properly, you should just call me Ananda."

Wesley paused, then nodded, "Wesley," he offered. "Ananda," he started again, "it has been my experience that the presence of evil festers acts of evil, hence bringing the two to be one and the same, don't you agree?"

She raised an arched eyebrow. "Were that the case, you and your group would not have agreed to join Wolfram & Hart, no? It would suggest that by placing yourselves in proximity of evil that you would allow it to infect your good work."

"True," sighed Wesley. "Bringing us to our unending predicament. Whether we can efficiently use the tools provided to us by evil means in the aim of achieving some good. That and trying to stay ahead of the senior partners."

"Ahh," agreed Ananda. "I gather you have met them?"

"Not exactly," Wesley admitted. "But we've somewhat crossed paths."

She lifted her drink. "Your journey into this dilemma will never be complete until that happens, Wesley," she said, cryptically, before taking in her drink in one shot. She placed the empty glass upside down on the counter, prompting the bartender to come and refill their glasses.

Wesley tried to stop the bartender before he did, but the man was too quick and he was faced with yet another drink. And although he had initially met the drink with trepidation, he was hard pressed to tell Ananda about his two-drink rule and leave the drink unsavored. She truly did know how to pick the right drinks.

"What's in this?" he asked, taking a sip of the refreshed drink.

"British Comfort? Let's see... It's Southern Comfort and gin but with some orange juice and some lemon juice. Acidity that sometimes synonymous with the British," she chuckled.

The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement, as he remembered how his father wouldn't drink his tea without squeezing bitter lemons into it.

He looked over to see her slam another shot down, then signal the bartender for another.

Surprised, he asked what she was drinking.

"Eight Second Ride," she answered, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Guaranteed to make your forget your troubles for a while, but *well* worth the trip."

He eyed her, speculatively. "Looks rather potent."

"It is. Bourbon, gin and Jagermeister. Lethal combination, but hey, I own a bar," she said, gesturing out to the room, "it goes without saying that I'm a seasoned drinker."

He nodded, amused, as she accepted the refill her bartender gave her.

"So, not that it's any of my business, but what do you need the loan for?" he asked her, as way of re-establishing a conversation with the eccentric owner.

"Oh, nothing major," she brushed the question aside. "Just want to do some... expanding, I guess you could call it."

Wesley looked around. "Not much place to do that here. Or were you looking into another location?"

Ananda smiled, sinisterly. "Oh, no. This is the best place for my little establishment, no need to move around." She picked up her drink and pointed at Wesley with it. "Things aren't what they seem, my new English friend. Perception is everything."

Wesley shook his head. "I... I don't understand. This place is in the middle of nowhere. You'd find a greater clientele if you moved closer into the city," he observed.

"Ah," she chimed. "But then I'd lose the feel of the place. This is a place where people come to get away from the city. Away from their problems, their troubles. A better place, even if it's for a short time."

"Nirvana?" he asked, referring to the bar's name.

She leaned over and whispered, "It's secretly ironic. Nirvana's eternal, never-ending happiness. This place," she nudged her head, "not so eternal, but happiness," she gestured to her drink, "in abounds, you know?"

"Hmm," he said, playing with the glass in his head. "Sounds like heaven on earth," he commented.

"Something like that," she answered. "Can you help me make it happen?"

Wesley looked around and admitted to himself that it would be nice to help someone bring people bliss, be it for a few hours. He felt amazingly better and he'd only been here... he looked at his watch... two hours! The others, which he was surprised to realize he had thought none of here, must be worried about him. Time to wrap this up.

"Yes," he said, immediately. "I think I can."

"Good!" she exclaimed, holding her glass up to clink his. "To happiness!"

"To happiness," he returned. They clinked glasses and emptied them, the bartender close by, setting out to refill them.

"Come now," she said. "Pull out the papers and show me where to sign."

Wesley pulled out the sheets from his bag and set them before her. "I can go over the contract..."

"No, no, no," she brushed off, with a wave of her hand. "Just a pen and the dotted line, Wesley, I trust you."

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, then reached into his jacket and pulling the pen from his shirt pocket, he said, "Well, then, just sign here, here and here," showing her the places she should sign.

Ananda took the pen from him, then looking over the sheets, she added, "And of course, silly of me to ask, but you did get this disenchanted, right?"

"Disenchanted?" he asked.

Ananda's hand with the pen stopped short of the sheet she was about to sign. "Well, yes, from any spiritual loopholes that could have been hexed on the pages?"

Wesley's blank face indicated he had no idea what she meant. She reluctantly capped the pen again and faced him. "You didn't do a spell to check the authenticity of the sheets, did you?"

"Um, well..." he stammered, trying to remember any spells that could be done to paper.

"It didn't occur to you why I dealt with the occult department, Wesley? Why no ordinary lawyer could have handled such a simple transaction?"

"Of course, it did!" he exclaimed. "I told them..." He stopped before he spilt the fact he hadn't wanted the case to begin with. "I thought it was strange to be assigned to your case."

"Well," she started, "I have many enemies, who would love to catch me in a compromising position, you understand? I deal with Wolfram & Hart since they always manage to find at least three or four hexed 'clauses' in the documents I come to sign. They didn't tell you?"

Wesley shook his head. "Communication between us and Wolfram & Hart is... strained, to say the least. I'm sorry."

She sighed as she handed him his pen. "No, I'm sorry. Guess you came today for nothing."

"Well, not for nothing," he assured her, as he packed the sheets back into his briefcase. "I had a lovely time and it was a pleasure to meet you."

"It was," she agreed. "I'm glad Wolfram & Hart is in such capable hands. And in any case, this misunderstanding gives you reason to come again?" she asked, hopefully.

"Not that I needed such an excuse," Wesley reiterated.

"Good, then we are well met," she answered, with a smile.

"That we are," he answered. He gestured to the bartender for the bill, but Ananda slapped away his hand reaching for his wallet.

"Your money's no good here, you know."

"But..." he retorted, thinking of the four drinks he consumed.

"It isn't," she insisted. She took his hand as he helped her off the stool and walked him to the door.

"Just promise me you'll come again."

"I will," he said, solemnly.

He face broke out into a grin. "Then, that's payment enough."

He returned her smile as he said, hand at the door, "Good night, Ananda."

"Good night, Wesley." She watched as he headed out, back into the pouring rain, towards his car. Only when the door swung close, did she permit herself a small smile, thinking Wesley was an interesting person, indeed.
________________________________________________________________________________

He was having a bad day.

After returning from Nirvana to the office, he briefed Angel on the papers, which surprised the vampire to no degree. He, too, had never heard of someone jinxing magical clauses into contracts. But Angel wasn't the one who needed to know about them, Wesley thought. No, that was *his* department and he was going to make sure he was on top of it.

Spike, hanging about in the office at that time, noted dryly that if anyone would come up with something like that, it would Wolfram & Hart and wasn't it ironic that they were the ones undoing them now?

True, it added to Wesley's feelings of insecurity as he set his department in motion to examine the contract. That and when he had to pass by Fred's lab and endure another round of Knox's incessant meddling and banter, in order to have her lift any traces off the paper. It soured his mood further and by the time he reached his office again, he was surly.

Which was bad news for Gunn and Lorne waiting in his office, the former needing the legal update of Ananda's holdings and the latter wanting information about Nirvana.

He had to once again explain what happened, adding a few more details than he had given Angel and Fred, for Lorne's benefit. Wesley was surprised to note that even mentioning the bar helped to lift his spirits a bit.

"Wonder if they have a decent Sea Breeze?" Lorne mused, after Wesley finished explaining about the drinks he had.

"I'm sure they do," replied Wesley, rubbing his temples and thinking he could use another British Comfort at the moment.

The update finished, Gunn clapped his hands as he rose. "So, you'll get the signed, unmagiced papers back to me...?" he asked, in his unfinished question.

"Soon," Wesley said, a little too quickly. "As soon as I get the contract ready, I'll swing by and have Ananda sign them."

"Hey, you let me know, handsome, I'd like to check the place out with you," said Lorne, following Gunn out.

"We'll see," said Wesley, afraid to promise more. For some reason, the thought of Lorne in that bar unsettled him. He felt slightly selfish, not wanting his friends to know about it. But the feeling of wanting to keep Nirvana a place for only him outweighed any guilt he had. No, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be taking Lorne to Nirvana when he went back.

Which he hoped would be soon. That feeling in him caused him to pick up the phone and hit a few buttons. Soon, he was raging at his closest department associate that he'd better have the trace analyzed and a set of counterspells outlined by five or it would be his head. He hung up as the associate tried to plead that until the science department sent up the traces, there was nothing *to* analyze.

But frankly, Wesley didn't exactly give a damn.
________________________________________________________________________________

He returned two days later. Despite Wesley's demanding regime on his department, it took that long to get all the curses lifted, a total of five. Ananda did indeed have some enemies.

On any ordinary day, it might have surprised Wesley why a quiet and obviously harmless proprietor like Ananda would even *have* any enemies, human or not, but for some reason it didn't. He just navigated his car down the rain-slicked roads towards Nirvana, anxiously anticipating...

Well, he wasn't sure *what* exactly, but something about the bar endeared him to it. Something... indescribable.

He found the bar much easily this time, the sign banging against the gusts of winds against the wall. He parked in front of the bar and headed in, his head tucked against the downpour.

Once inside, he felt calmer than he had felt in days. He made his way to the bar and asked for Ananda. The bartender assured him she would be out soon and would he like a drink?

Wesley ordered a British Comfort, naturally, and looked about the room as he waited. He spotted a few men in the corner. Taking the drink the bartender slid at him, he walked over and saw they were playing darts. Marvelous! His favorite pastime.

One of the men spotted him watching them and nudged another. He asked, "Why, you're new around here, aren't you?"

Wesley was surprised to hear the man was English, too. He nodded, "I'm... an acquaintance of the owner."

The man surveyed him and then offered, "Well, any friend of Ananda's is a friend of mine. Name's Grant, David Grant."

"Wesley," he introduced himself. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce."

David introduced his friends as Duncan Reagan and Billy Louis. Duncan, who both looked and sounded *very* Irish, gestured at the dartboard and asked, "You play any?"

"A few," Wesley admitted.

"Fancy a game, then?" David asked. "You and me against this sorry lot?"

Billy, who Wesley soon learned was very competitive, exclaimed, "Hey! I wouldn't throw weight like that around if I were you!"

"Yeah, I'd be watching who you call a sorry lot, David. You've yet to win a game!" crowed Duncan.

"Well, that was before I met ole Wes here," said David, clapping him on the back like an old friend. "He'll put you both in your right spot, I imagine."

Wesley said nothing, but smiled as he lined up to take the first shot.

They played for three hours. Duncan was right, David was the worst dart player Wesley had ever met. But luckily, Wesley's score all but made up for it and by the time Ananda came over to see Wesley, the score was evened up. But Wesley was beyond caring. He had five drinks and was having the time of his life. It was only the sight of Ananda that reminded him of his duty and he halfheartedly left his three new friends to talk business, despite their groans of reluctance.

"Oh, come on, Wesley, one more game!" begged Billy.

"You can't be leaving us tied up like this," complained Duncan.

Wesley shrugged as Ananda pulled him away, laughing. "Sorry, boys, I'm only borrowing him for a few minutes. Then, you'll get him back, I promise!"

She led him away to one of the small booths on the side, smiling as she settled in beside him. "You made new friends, I see."

Wesley looked over to where Duncan was armwrestling David for the next round. "Good chaps," he admitted.

"Yes, they are," she said, looking at him, thoughtfully. Then, she asked, "Wesley, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, busying himself with the papers she had to sign.

"Doesn't look like nothing. Come on, I thought *we* were friends."

"You are!" he exclaimed. "We are! I mean... it's complicated," he finally managed to say.

Ananda was silent, looking down at the sheets in front of her. "Mmm-hmm."

"It's... hard. I'm not really... happy."

"In Nirvana?" She looked at him, slight mock shock on her face. "How so?"

"Not here," he assured her. "I mean, other than here. Work, I guess. I just... haven't felt it until I started coming here."

Ananda nodded carefully as she patted his hand. "I understand. Many come here and feel like that, disassociated, confused. But you have to remember, Wesley, the pains of the world are temporary, just like the happiness you feel here. It's all temporary."

"Then what?" demanded Wesley. "I go and feel like crap for bloody days, then come here and feel amazing for a few hours only to go back to that crap again?" he exclaimed, incredulously.

Ananda looked at him, then smiled as she nodded. She bent down to sign her name successfully on the three lines Wesley had marked and handed him his sheets. "Welcome to Nirvana."
________________________________________________________________________________

Over the next few weeks, the caseload on Wesley increased as it did for the rest of the group. Wesley grew more and more irritable and continuously snapped at others, growling at the employees and sending snide remarks that had even Spike running for cover.

Lorne watched from Angel's office as Wesley, in the hallway, threw a few sheets in his assistant's face, hearing the dimmed argument through the glass about how Wesley wasn't pleased the unbinding ritual for the Gaaboa demon wasn't going to be ready for the upcoming full moon.

"Lorne?" he heard Angel call. Turning, he saw Angel with his hands out. Apparently, he had been talking to him as he watched Wesley.

"Sorry, Angelkins, come again?"

"I just explained everything, Lorne," Angel said, frustrated. "Weren't you listening?"

"No," Lorne admitted, glancing out to see Wesley stab at the elevator button, impatience rolling off his body.

Angel sensed the mood change in Lorne and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Have you noticed Wesley's getting a little..." Lorne struggled for the word, then bent his fingers to emulate claws and said, "me-ow, lately?"

Angel shrugged. "We're all at little stressed now, Lorne," he emphasized.

"I know, I know," Lorne brushed aside. "I mean, more so." He looked at Angel, expectantly. "I'm getting bad vibes off this one, Angelcake. I think you should speak to him."

Angel looked at him, irritated, then sighed, as he realized Lorne was right. "Fine," he said, reluctantly. "I'll.. I'll speak with him."

"Good boy!" Lorne crowed, leaping out of his seat.

"But you know I'm not good with the whole... feelings thing," Angel protested.

Lorne clapped his hand on Angel's shoulder and said, "And yet, somehow, you brood better than the rest of us. You'll do fine."
________________________________________________________________________________

But apparently, Angel didn't do so well, Lorne noted, as Wesley stormed out of Angel's office a few hours later, his face a mask of anger, making a beeline for the elevators.

Lorne sighed heavily. Never send a souled vampire to do a handsome empath's job.

He followed Wesley out.
________________________________________________________________________________

As Lorne glided the car through the roads a few lengths behind Wesley's, he was surprised to see it stop in an empty street just outside of L.A.'s main center. What in the world brought Wesley all the way out here?

It was one of those instinctive things, Lorne supposed, or maybe the waves of guilt rolling off Wesley's aura that prompted Lorne to go the incognito road and see exactly where Wesley was off to, rather than confront him the Wolfram & Hart lobby as he originally intended to.

Now, sitting idling in one of Angel's cars, which he borrowed, Lorne was even more surprised to see Wesley climb out of the car, opening an umbrella.

He blinked. Nope, still wasn't raining, he saw, the California sun beating down its golden rays on them. Yet, Wesley turned his body in, as if shielding himself from a heavy wind or downpour.

Strange. Very strange. Perhaps it was time to get a certain Watcher to sing a few notes for him again, get to bottom of this.

He parked the car a few yards away, cursing the lack of any other cars that would make this less conspicuous. He looked up to see the door that Wesley rushed into, pausing only to shake invisible water from his umbrella before closing it. He glanced around until he spotted the sign, almost so easy to miss.

NIRVANA.

It spoke of possibilities, some of which seemed a little foreboding to the empath.
________________________________________________________________________________

It was like night and day.

Lorne opened the door on the empty street and entered the crowded room. The air was thick with the scents of people mashed into a small room. It was hot and damp. Music blared from its interior, beckoning those lined up in the small area in front to come get swallowed into it.

He passed the line waiting, as was his custom every other nightclub he went to, and tried to go in, but was stopped at the door by a huge, burly bouncer. "Sorry, this place is by invitation only."

"Oh, sweetbuns, there isn't a place in L.A. I'm not invited to," he laughed off. "Check the list. It's Lorne."

The man looked down at his list and shook his head. "Sorry, you're not on the list."

Lorne looked at him, clearly shocked. "What do you mean, I'm 'not on the list'? I'm never 'not on the list'!"

"You're not on the list," the man repeated. A few girls came from behind Lorne and the man smiled at them and let them through. His smile faded as he looked back at Lorne.

"I'm on the list," insisted Lorne, pushing the man to see the list. "Check it again. That's Lorne. L-O-R-N..."

The man pushed Lorne back and put the clipboard aside. "Look, you're not on the list, so why don't you make it easy on yourself and move along, okay?"

"This is impossible!" cried Lorne. "I demand to see your manager. Bring him here!"

"You're making a scene," the man said, approaching him, menacingly. "You'd best be off now."

"What are you going to do?" threatened Lorne. "Beat me up?" he joked.

The man didn't answer, but merely cracked his knuckles in anticipation.

Lorne's eyes widened and he gulped but luckily was spared the ensuing beating by the arrival of the thin man in a blue polyester suit. His shirt, open to reveal a chest full of gold chains, was green and the ensemble was topped off with a blue hat on his head and shiny black and white loafers. The man looked like he just rolled off a time capsule from the sixties. "Problem, Bub?"

"Yeah," Bub answered, never taking his eyes off Lorne. "This chump thinks he's on the list. Won't leave like he's asked."

"Really?" The man in polyster looked Lorne over. "Nice suit," he remarked, snapping his fingers to emphasize the point. "What seems to be the dealio?"

Lorne straightened his lapels and said, "I'm the head of the Entertainment Division of Wolfram & Hart."

The man nodded and waited for Lorne to continue. Lorne shrugged as if to say, 'what do you mean and?'. He repeated, "I work for Wolfram & Hart."

"So?" Bub answered for the man.

"So, I'm Lorne!" he cried. "I get into any club... any club!"

"Yeah, well, not this one, pal," the man said. "We're pretty exclusive."

"Exclusive?!" shrieked Lorne. "I am exclusive! I define exclusive! This is impossible!" he raved.

The man looked at Bub and said, calmly, "Call the cops."

Bub turned to the phone behind the small desk and Lorne threw his hands up in defeat.

"All right! All right! I'm leaving! Sheesh! How does a tightwad like Wesley get into a place like this if I can't?" he mumbled as he made his way through the throng of people to the door.

The man stopped and turned back in surprise, gesturing to Bub to put the phone down. "Wait. You know Wesley?" he called out.

Lorne turned and absently waved his hand. "Yeah, a friend, whatever."

The man's face broke out into a smile and he waved Lorne back. "Well, hey, should said so before, tiger! Any friend of Wesley's, you know, hey! Friend of mine!" he said, pointing his two index fingers at Lorne in gun fashion. "Come on in," he said, flinging an arm around the surprised Lorne. "Name's Sid, I own this joint. What do you think?"

Lorne took in the sight of the nightclub as they walked in. To his immediate left, was a long, glistening bar of glass with neon light shining from its interior which was lined with scantily clad men and women, ordering drinks, talking, laughing, grinding against each other. Off to the right, was a huge dance floor, a dj and his sound system at the very end, pumping hard and vibrating music that the packed room was gyrating to. At the other end of the dance floor, the only place not littered with dancing bodies, was a huge stage that Lorne assumed they used for live performances.

"It's... It's... amazing," Lorne said, unable to find another word to describe it.

Sid laughed and clapped him hard on the back. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink." Sid pulled him to the long bar and turned to him. "What's your poison?"

"Sea Breeze," Lorne said, distantly, still looking around.

"Sea Breeze? Come on, tiger, you can do better than that!" Sid crowed. "Let me make a choice?"

This rang warning bells of familiarity in Lorne's mind, but he was curious so he pushed it aside and said, "Sure, what do you recommend?"

Sid looked thoughtfully at him and then snapped his fingers. "Green and Mean! Yup, that's it! 'Cause deep down, I know there's a real tiger in there!" he crowed, lightly punching Lorne in the stomach.

Lorne laughed uneasily, trying to avoid Sid's punches. "Hey, where is Wesley, anyhow?"

Sid laughed as he shouted the order to the bartender and pulled Lorne to a side table. "Somewhere around here, I bet. The boy's a party animal! But I'm sure you knew that."

"Actually... no, I didn't," Lorne confessed, uneasily. "Didn't think this was his kind of place."

"And whose place did you think this would be?" Sid asked.

"Mine, to tell you the truth. This is really happening," Lorne said, as he looked about appreciatively.

Sid looked up as the waitress brought them their drinks. "Good, 'cause I have a proposition for you."

The statement didn't register with Lorne as he looked at the drinks. Something familiar... "Uh, didn't Wesley say that the owner of this place was a lady?" he asked Sid.

"Who, Ananda?" Sid asked and saw the name ring true on Lorne's face. "Yeah, she's the owner, part-owner. With me. She takes care of the money stuff, very 'silent partnerish'. *I'm* the real deal. I manage and oversee the place, keep it jiving, keep it happening. And I want *you*," he pointed at him, drink in hand, "part of that."

"How so?" Lorne asked, curiosity piqued.

"See that stage?" Sid asked, pointing. "Been empty since we opened. Haven't found an act worth, you know, christening the place with. But now I see I wasn't talking to the right people. That is, till now."

"And you want me to find this act for you?" Lorne questioned, seeing himself on familiar ground again.

"No!" exclaimed Sid. "That's like asking a surgeon to send a first-year med student to open me up, no, man! I found the act! I want *you* to perform!"

"Me?" Lorne was taken aback. He hadn't performed since his Caritas days and now his time was filled promoting *other* people's acts, *other* people's careers. He hadn't even *thought* of performing again.

"Yes! You're the only one classy enough, but still hip enough to please the crowds. I say, one night a week, how about it? We'll fill the rest of the week with your acts, or some of the new djs I found, but the first night, it's gotta be you! What do you say, tiger?"

Lorne thought about the pile of work at the office, knowing he wasn't going to be able to squeeze a commitment like that in his schedule. But then he looked at the stage and saw himself, belting out a classic Aretha hit, to the crowd of dancing bodies below and before he could think about Wolfram & Hart, he found himself saying, "You're on. One show, premiere night. As for the schedule, I'm sure we'll work something out."

Sid's face broke into a wide grin as he howled, "Yes, sir! That's my tiger! Green and Mean! Drink up, boy! To happiness!"

And, not knowing why it seemed so natural, Lorne clicked glasses with Sid and swallowed the green and potent drink to mark the occasion. "To happiness!"
________________________________________________________________________________

Lorne stayed at Nirvana for three hours that day, never once bumping into Wesley.
________________________________________________________________________________

It started to add up, though, the hours Wesley spent away from the office, the hours Lorne spent away from the office and soon, Fred, trying to track both of them for days, had enough.

So, when she spotted Lorne leaving Wolfram & Hart Friday night, she ran after him, trying to catch him before he left. She ran out just in time to see him hop into the waiting limo. And while normally that wouldn't faze her as Lorne was accustomed to taking the Wolfram & Hart limos everywhere, it was the fact he *looked both ways suspiciously* to see if anyone was looking before getting into the limo that had her pausing.

She waited a few seconds after the limo inched away and then went over to the valet, asking for a limo that would follow that car.
________________________________________________________________________________

When she arrived in the empty street, no car was in sight, except for the empty Wolfram & Hart limo parked outside a decrepit, old building. She walked hesitantly to the door, the low hanging sign almost hitting her in the head. She moved around it swiftly and read: NIRVANA.

Wasn't that a group? she thought, absently.

Then she placed a shaking hand on the door and opened it.
________________________________________________________________________________

The first thing that struck Fred was the flying arm of the drunk man to her side.

"Oh, pardon me, miss, didn't see ya there," he slurred, as he tried to pry her hands of her bruised nose. "Did I hurt ya?"

"I... I'm fine," she said, shakily, covering her smarting face with her hands even more tightly.

"Come now, show old Hank your shiner," he cajoled, his stale whiskey breath brushing her cheek. "I'll kiss it and make it *alll* better."

fred tried to back away, horrified, when she felt someone come between her and the drunk Hank.

"Now, Hank, I ain't warnin' ya again. When a lady says no, ya stay offa her."

"But I..."

"No buts, Hank. If I hafta warn ya again, y'ain't comin' back, ya hear?"

Fred heard Hank sit back down, grumbling under his breath, but saw nothing but the back of the flannel shirt of the man who stood up for her. But now, he turned towards her and said, "Ma'am, y'all right?"

Fred nodded, still holding her hand to her face. He touched her elbow hesitantly and, guiding her to the long bar to the side, said, "Come now, let's have a look-see at the bruise Hank no doubt left ya with."

Helping her up on a stool, he carefully pried her hands away from her face and said, "Oh, look there, not too bad, actually," taking a cloth off the bar and gently wiping some of the blood from her nose, "little red's all. It'll clear up faster than you can say cowboy."

"Um, really?" she stammered. "I don't look too hideous?"

"Naw, you're a right beauty, if I might say so myself. Take a look," he said, pointing to the mirror behind the bar.

Fred looked and cautiously lifted a hand to her nose. He was right, it was a bit red, and stung when she touched it, but it wasn't as bad as she thought. The problem of her face, resolved for now, gave her the chance to look at her rescuer in the mirror.

He was tall and wide, shock of sandy blond hair and green eyes. He was dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, flannel... and a Stetson? In L.A.? She looked around, wondering where the hell she was.

"Ma'am? You okay?" the man asked, afraid of the look on her face. Fred ignored him and looked around.

The room was dark, with the few stray overhead lights keeping it from total oblivion. Scattered wooden tables and chairs, the pool tables to the side where Fred hear the occasional crack of pool games being broken, and the bar she sat at that housed a few people at the other end, drinking. A soft, twangy song played on the jukebox which stood at the other end of the room.

"Ma'am?" he rescuer asked again and Fred whipped her head back to him.

"What *is* this place?" she asked.

The man laughed as he made his way behind the bar and began wiping the glass he had seemingly put down before he came to put Hank in his place. "This here's my bar, pretty lady. Though I must admit, we don't get little things like you in here too often."

Fred tried to smile, but her sting in her nose from the movement turned it into a wince as she turned on her stool to face him. "I don't... go to bars often. Not since... well, I mean, I *used* to, back home... not here," she babbled. The man continued to wipe the glass as he nodded.

"Didn't reckon so. Pretty lady like you shouldn't need a place like this. Where's home?"

"Home?" The question threw her off guard. At first, the image of the Hyperion came to mind, then she remembered she didn't live there anymore. Home was Wolfram & Hart now. But she then realized she meant home with respect to the statement she just made. "Texas," she answered. "I used to live in Texas."

The man grinned, excitedly. "Really? No fooling? I'm from Texas, too. Where exactly?"

"Uh, Lubbock, the High..."

"High Plains? Why, I'm from a ways south of that, Odessa, actually, east of El Paso. Well, I'll be! Ain't that a coincidence!"

"Yeah, well..." Fred drawled, uneasily. There was something strange about all this, something she couldn't quite place. This all seemed so... familiar, which was strange since Fred had no idea why a desolate bar would. Then, she remembered Lorne and asked, "You didn't, by any chance, see a friend of mine here, did you? Goes by the name of Lorne? He's... uh, was wearing a blue
suit..."

The man simply grinned again and said, "Yeah, I know Lorne. What a character that one is! He drops by every so often for a drink, left not even a few minutes before ya walked in."

Fred shook her head, confused. "But the... limo, I saw the limo and..." She tried to think back, retracing her steps.

The man paused cleaning the glasses and peered at her. "Are ya sure you're okay, ma'am? Ya look a little dazed."

"I don't know," she admitted, lifting her hands to her head, running them through her hair. "I just thought... and it's weird... and I'm tired, ya know?"

"I reckon," the man agreed. "Hank's got hisself a heavy hand and I imagine that hurt on yer face did ya no good. How's about a drink? Get y'all relaxed and then some."

Fred looked at him, a bit relieved. True, she didn't drink often, but right now, her head was hurting like mad and a drink sounded, well, heavenly. She nodded, but when he asked what was her poison, she looked up confused again. The man noted it and relieved her confusion by saying he had a knack, see, where he could recommend the best drink for a customer. Something he picked up from a friend.

"Why, a fellow Texan like you, ain't no drink that'll soothe that hurt and worry better than a Southern Kiss. Amaretto and our own Southern Comfort... makes it all better, don't ya think?"

Fred stayed in Nirvana for two and half hours talking to Jake, as his name turned out to be. She toasted to happiness with him and forgot about her worries. And when she left the bar, she felt a sense of loss, a returning to reality that both shocked and almost awakened her to the pain she felt in her face and her heart. She began counting the seconds before she could return here.

And return she did.
________________________________________________________________________________

The tension increased another fold at Wolfram & Hart that week. Even Angel, not the most observant of the group, began to notice the sniping and peripheral anger in the office. And when Fred snapped at Harmony for bringing her her coffee without the usual cream in it, Angel knew something was up.

"Fred's a little off, isn't she?"

Angel turned from the window in his office where he saw Harmony scuttle past Fred, coffee in hand and a grimace on her usually smiling face, to fix Fred's order, and looked at where Spike was leaning against his desk.

"What?" Angel answered, tersely.

"Fred," he pointed out the window to her, standing and jabbing impatiently at the the elevator buttons. "She's not herself."

Angel looked at Spike, who, for once, had a real expression of worry on his face. He knew Spike cared little for anything in this office, but he knew he held a soft spot for the young girl and so took the comment seriously.

"She's a little distracted."

Spike raised his eyebrow. "Distracted? No, she's bloody off her rocker. She's been snarking at everyone who crosses her path, including me!"

"So, is this what this is about?" Angel asked, taking his seat behind his desk. "You don't like Fred yelling at you like the rest of us?"

"No!" retorted Spike, standing to face him. He gestured wildly as he explained, "Any ponce like you can see that something amiss around here! The chit's been taking everyone's head off and she isn't the only one. Your Watcher's become surly, that green poof's being slinking off all over the place and now Fred's gone daft. Explain that, Peaches."

"First of all, don't call me Peaches," Angel warned. "Second of all, we've all been under a lot of stress lately, okay? I tried to talk to Wesley, but he's in a mood. Now, I have a lot of work to do, Spike, take a hike," he said, jerking his thumb at the door.

Spike ignored that and rolled his eyes. "Oh, bloody hell, need I do everything myself? Fine, *I'll* get to the bottom of this."

"Fine," Angel said, curtly, turning back to the document on his desk.

"Fine!" Spike repeated, storming out of the room. Then he came back, standing in the doorway, focused and grabbed the edge of the door and pulling hard, forcing the door to slam in his face. Then, at least contented to get the effect of the door slam, he marched out towards the elevators where he saw Fred go down.

Angel paused and looked up after him. As much as he hated to admit it, Spike had a point and since Spike was obviously going to start with Fred, he figured a divide-and-conquer could work in this case. He snapped the folder on his desk shut and made his way to Lorne's office.
________________________________________________________________________________

"...and pull up Madison vs. Retplevack to see what the penalty was there. I've got a four o'clock meet with the witness so I'll need those statements ready. Good, okay... Thanks," Gunn said, as he hung up the phone with his assistant. He sighed as he looked at the stack of folders in his inbox. No way he was going to get this all done.

He reluctantly grabbed the next case folder and saw it was Wesley's case. Opening it, he scanned the report that waited his approval:

...bank loan approved with three percent interest over a two-year period commencing week of... all parties in accordance with rules and regulations of... five percent profit routed to subsidiary account number #67GP-0109-JQ326... late penalties include a seven-percent fee that binds said party...

Wait. Gunn reread the second-to-last line. It appeared the proprietor had signed off to allow a third party to siphon off a five percent profit for... well, for no reason? It didn't make sense to Gunn that even if this was right, that it would be in a bank loan approval form. But there it was, snuggled in with the extra comments below. He was surprised he even caught it.

Gunn looked back to the case file. NIRVANA. Hmmm, oh! That was the bar place Wes mentioned a few months ago. The case he hadn't wanted.

Funny, Wes didn't mention a third party.

Gunn grabbed the folder and headed out of his office, down the hall. Maybe Wes knew what this was about.
________________________________________________________________________________

Angel rapped softly on Lorne's door. When he heard nothing, he was about to leave Lorne a message on one of those stickies he left on his door, when the door opened and Lorne's assistant, Van, poked his head out.

"Y-Yes, Mr. Angel?" the boy stammered.

"Uh, is Lorne around?" Angel asked.

Van shook his head, vehemently.

"Where did he go?"

Van laughed, uneasily and said, "He's out, Mr. Angel... But maybe I can help," Van offered, quickly.

Angel raised a hand and backed away, slowly. "No, it's okay. Just wanted to, you know, *talk*." Then Angel stopped. "Know where I could reach him?"

Van checked the DataFax he held and said, "I don't know, sir. Mr. Lorne's penciled in a few hours as, uh... Nirvana?" He showed Angel the entry. "I don't know what that means."

Angel read the single word and nodded, thoughtfully. "Thanks," he told Van and made his way to Wes' office. Wes might know.
________________________________________________________________________________

Spike almost bumped into Fred as he entered the lab she was exiting. Almost bumped since he wasn't concentrating and Fred walked through him before she realized what happened.

"Oh! Sorry, Spike, didn't see you there," she exclaimed, looking back at him standing just inside the lab.

"Where you running off to, then?" he asked, concern on his face.

"Um, just... out," she stammered, unable to look him in the face. "I'll, uh, be back later."

Spike focused and placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head to have her look at him. "You're beginning to worry me, luv."

"Me?" Fred asked. "Oh, no," she waved away. "I'm fine! More than fine. Just a little, you know, uh, distracted! But I'm fine, no need to worry."

Spike cocked his head and answered, "Okay, now I'm more worried. You're echoing the ponce, so I know something's up."

"Nothing's up, Spike!" she retaliated, quickly and loudly. "I'm fine! God!"

Spike's expression didn't change, despite her outburst. He merely watched as she raised her hand to her head, then, calming, she lifted her hands in surrender. "Look, I'll *be* fine. I just... I'm going out, okay? Whatever you want will just have to wait."

She turned as to leave, but he blinked out and appeared in front of her. "Where are you going?" he asked again, insistent.

"Out, Spike," she said, irritably, trying to move past him, only to have him move in front of her. "It's none of your business."

"I want to know," he urged her. "You're acting all funny and I want to know what you're all secretive about."

Fred looked up at him, exasperated. She wanted to go desperately, but knew if she told him he would want to come. On the other hand, she knew when Spike's mind was made up... he wasn't going to leave her until she did.

He must have read her mind as he added, "I'm not leaving till you tell me. Maybe I'll just follow you."

"You would, wouldn't you?" she said, sarcastically.

Spike shrugged, nonchalantly. "I *am* a ghost. That's what spooks do, don't they? Haunt the ones they..." He stopped and his eyes widened, then he added, quickly, "You know, annoy people and scare the crap out of them..."

Fred rolled her eyes, not buying it, nor wanting to spend any more time bantering with him. "I'm going to a bar, okay? Just a plain, ole bar."

Spike looked taken aback. "Oh, well, that's a surprise. Never figured you for a lush. You been on the sauce, then?"

"Lush? No, I'm not..." she began to exclaim when she realized what he meant.

Spike raised his hands and said, "It's okay, I won't tell them," jerking his thumb upstairs to imply the others. "In fact, I never thought a drink now and then did any..."

"I'm not an alcoholic!" Fred insisted. "It's just... It's a place, okay? To get away from... here. From everyone. And I'm going now." She moved to the side and passed him.

Spike turned to see her go to the elevators. No matter what she said, he still worried. And that bothered Spike since the last time he worried about someone, he ended up with his skin and organs blazed away. But that still didn't rid the feeling he had when he saw how Fred banged at the elevator button, as if her anger would make it come faster.

One way to fix that. He called after her, "Can I come?" Then to himself, he muttered, "I could fancy a drink, right about now."
________________________________________________________________________________

Angel and Gunn arrived at Wesley's office at the same time, but Wesley was remarkably absent.

"Seen Wesley?" Gunn asked Angel.

Angel shook his head. "Looking for him myself. He leave a note?"

Gunn checked his desk and answered, "Nope, I'm gonna check with that pansy of an assistant of his."

"You do that," Angel agreed. "I'll ask Harmony to run this Nirvana reference for me."

He made his way to the door before Gunn stopped him by asking, "Nirvana?"

"Yeah," Angel said, hesitantly, seeing the look on Gunn's face. "I was looking for Lorne and his assistant said he penciled in a Nirvana for a few hours. I was going to ask Wesley, but does it mean anything to you?"

Gunn wasn't sure what to say. "I'm not sure, but I think I know where Lorne is, at least."

He showed Angel Wesley's case file and Angel looked up at Gunn, worried. "And maybe Wesley."
________________________________________________________________________________

Fred and Spike arrived at Nirvana twenty minutes later. Fred had been unable to shake Spike off her tail and reluctantly brought him with her, knowing she really didn't have a choice anyway. He appeared in any of the cars she set out to take, ignored her when she said it wasn't his kind of bar, stating a bar was a bar and as long as they were liscensed, he really didn't care *what* kind of bar it was, and simply smiled when she begged him to leave her alone.

He was going with her and *that* was final.

She sulked and he took it with a smile, but complained when the ride, taking longer then he anticipated, led them to the deserted sector and in front of the old building.

"I don't get it," he stated again, "L.A.'s chock full of bars, what in the bloody hell makes you come all the way here for a nip?"

She just rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the door, as soon as she parked. Spike climbed out to see her disappear in the building and followed her in, noting the sign that hung outside the door with passing interest as he went in as well.

NIRVANA.

Well, wasn't that just... peachy?
________________________________________________________________________________

Angel and Gunn crawled down the empty streets and Gunn craned to see the street numbers through the windshield. "Almost there," he affirmed. "Should be the second door down."

Angel parked and the two got out of the Viper, looking at the building with wonder.

"*This* is Nirvana?" Angel asked.

"Looks more like a building hazard waiting to happen to me," mumbled Gunn, surveying the broken sign. He gestured it to Angel, who read the single word on it and confirmed the location.

"NIRVANA," he read. "So, this *is* the place. Something's not right here, Gunn."

Gunn looked at him in complete agreement, but figured there was only one way they were going to find out anything. He opened the door and he and Angel walked in.
________________________________________________________________________________

When Spike walked in the bar, he was very surprised. First, that the bar inside was so different from its exterior. And secondly, since for all Fred's griping that this bar wouldn't meet his taste, it was more his cup of tea that what he had ever imagined for Fred.

It was dark, it was packed and it reminded him so much of the now long gone Bronze, right down to the tables and bar along the side and the dance floor in front of the open stage where a band was playing a rock number.

He glanced around to find Fred, but with the wealth of people, he had a hard time spotting her. She can't have gone far, he thought, making his way to the bar.

The woman behind the bar saw him and yelled over the music, "What's your poison, sweetheart?"

Spike turned to her and then yelled back, "Whiskey, straight up."

She nodded, but before she went to fill his order, he asked her, "I'm looking for a girl."

The woman smiled, seductively, and answered, "I'm free after eleven, lover."

Spike blinked then, smirked as he clarified, "No, I'm looking for a brunette, a friend of mine," he added, seeing her frown and noting her blonde hair. "She just walked in, tall, skinny thing. Looks like a deer caught in headlights?"

The woman nodded and pointed to where Fred was sitting father down the bar, talking to the muscled bartender behind it. She laughed at something he said, tossing her head back.

Spike frowned at that and moved towards her, ignoring the woman's attempt to strike up a conversation with him. He tapped Fred on her shoulder and she turned to him, surprised to see him.

"Spike?" she asked, as if he hadn't walked in with her.

Spike focused and grabbed her elbow, pulling her away from the bartender, giving him a quick once-over that both apologized for taking her away and warning him to *stay* away.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, irritated. He barely made her out over the music.

"Is this why you're here?" he yelled, to make himself heard. "To nail Steroid Boy over there?"

"Spike!" she hissed, shocked. "That's none of your business. And pipe down, you're embarrassing me!"

"What?" he yelled, trying to hear her, but the music was too loud.

"Shh!" she shushed him, moving farther from the bar, so he could follow her. "Why are you yelling?"

He blinked at her, then gestured to his ears. "Fred, you have to speak up," he said, loudly. "The music..."

"I said, why are you yell...?" Then she turned and looked around. In the bar, there was no noise, except the jukebox palying softly. She looked at Jake, who was scrubbing the bar but keeping a eye on her and her 'friend'.

Spike, on the other hand, saw her glance around and then motioned her off to the far side, which had a small alcove that muted the music.

"What is *wrong* with you?" she demanded.

"Wrong with *me*?!" he exclaimed. "You're the one jumping on the first bartender you see!"

Fred's mouth opened into an 'O'. "I am not!" she said, indignantly. "Jake's just a friend! How could you...?"

"Oh, Jake, is it? That's the wanker's name?" he argued. "I've got a few words for Jake, I do..."

"What are you going to do, Spike? You can't hit him!" Fred retorted. "Now, just stop this, you're really embarrassing me! I told you not to come!"

Spike pointed at her and said, "You said this bar wasn't my kind of place, liar! But now I know why you *really* didn't want me tagging along. Why else would you be in a place like this," he gestured, "if you weren't aiming to score!"

"I resent that!" she cried back. "I have no idea what you're trying to accomplish, Spike, but if it's ruining my life, then bravo! You're doing a bang-up job!"

Spike looked at her, anger coursing through him. "I am? You're the one ruining yourself, missy. You know, you never would have spoken like this to me before you met this bugger. He's no good for you."

Fred crossed her arms. "Oh, oh! Yeah? Well, *maybe*," she stressed, angrily, "*maybe* I finally figured out why everyone else *hates* you so much. You're really... annoying," she began to count off her fingers, "and rude, and selfish..."

Spike's face was crestfallen as he whispered, "You don't mean that..."

"Really? Don't I?" Fred threw back. "Ever since you got here, I've tried to help you and you've done nothing but give us your stupid attitude, like you're better than all of us. You irritate Angel, make fun of Lorne, put Wesley down, ignore Harmony, mock Charles and order *me* about. And it's always 'bloody' this and 'bugger' that and it's so... *annoying*! I mean, Wesley doesn't talk like that and he's British, too!"

"Are you done?" Spike said, having turned away from her in mid-speech so she wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing his face.

"Yeah, you know, done with you!" Fred added. "Just go back home, Spike."

She turned and walked back towards Jake, leaving Spike alone in the alcove. He was so distraught by what she said, he didn't notice the woman come up behind him.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

Spike turned and saw the woman, the large black woman in the red dress. "Everything's bloody wrong," he said, before he could stop himself. Then he looked at her and asked, "Who the hell are you?"

She extended her hand and introduced herself by saying, "Call me E, I own this bar, saw you and your girl have a fight. Want to talk about it?"

"Yeah, well, *E*," he stressed with disdain, "not looking for a pep talk right about now. Just want me a drink to drown it all out."

E smiled and beckoned him with her finger, knowingly. She led him to a secluded table to the side and when they sat, the waitress brought over Spike the drink he had ordered earlier.

"Whiskey?" E said, wrinkling her nose in disgust as he downed the shot and gestured for another round. "How unimaginative."

"What's it to you?" he asked, brusquely as he saw the woman and the waitress exchange silent, yet knowing looks.

E turned to him and said, "I'm ordering you another drink, one I know you'll love."

"That so?" Spike drawled.

E nodded. "Just this knack I have. I can look at someone and choose the perfect drink."

"Really?" Spike asked, not really interested. "Must come in handy when you own a bar."

"It does," E gushed. "So, does my other knack of making people feel better. Now, why don't you tell me your woes?"

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," she agreed. And she wasn't surprised when Spike raised a brow, then proceeded to spill his life story, starting from when he was first turned, right up to his fight with Fred.

In the interim, he had downed five of the drinks the waitress brought, and by the time he was done his tale, he took a sip of the sixth and asked, "What is this?"

E smiled. "Thought you'd like it," she said, as he nodded, taking a sip, not stopping to wonder how he was drinking. "Quite appropriately called a Vampire Slayer."

Spike spewed the red liquid in his mouth and choked out, "What?!"

E didn't pause, somewhat expecting the reaction and continued as she took a napkin and wiped the liquid where it got her, "Cognac, rum, Scotch, Southern Comfort, Jagermeister and a touch of grenadine... you really hold your liquor well, Spike." She paused and looked at him, thoughtfully. "You know, you told me your story and you keep saying how nothing was fair and all. Tell me, if you could have one thing, one thing to make it all fair, to make *you* happy, what would that be?"

Spike chuckled in disbelief and was about to give her some cocky answer, but caught her look and answered seriously, "Buffy."

"The Slayer?" E asked, carefully. "The one you just said was better off without you, who would never love you?"

"I may not make her happy," Spike started, "but maybe I am selfish. She makes *me* happy."

E stared at him, and then, as if coming to a decision, replied, "Not selfish. Honest, but not selfish."

She pointed across the room and Spike followed the direction of her finger to see a table at the far end, and the girl sitting there turned to look at him.

Buffy.

Spike broke out into a unconscious smile as he rose, jostling the table and spilling his drink. He fumbled around the table and began marching to her.

E lifted her glass, a secret smile on her face, and toasted to happiness, for the Slayer and her vampire.

But her smile faded as she followed the vampire's progress and he faded out just before he could reach the Slayer's table.
________________________________________________________________________________

"Whoa."

Gunn felt the pumping of the music before hearing it and looked on as a girl and guy slid past between him and Angel to join the horde of people jumping and gyrating to the scritches and scratches of the dj on the stage. Two male rappers encouraged the crowd by waving their hands as they rapped along to the dj's beats and the waitress, passing by to gaze appreciatively at Angel, took her order to the bar on the far left.

"What is this place?" Angel asked, as he walked forward.

"It's... the tightest club I've ever seen!" exclaimed Gunn, looking around in amazement.

Angel looked around and saw the near-empty room, the wood tables and chairs, the fat bartender taking the order from the sullen waitress, the drunks congregating at the end of the long wooden bar, the rowdy youngsters in the corner, laughing and groping at the other waitress. He saw the old men to his side, staring at him as they sipped their lagers and commented loudly amongst themselves about the government and the state of the world.

He shook his head, as he saw Gunn's reaction to it. "Club might not be the word for it," he said, quietly. "Maybe bar?"

Gunn looked at Angel and shook his head in disbelief. "You know you really should get out more, Angel. Just 'cause the place serves alcohol doesn't mean it's automatically 'just a bar'."

Angel shrugged in confusion. "No, I just *thought* it looked like one."

Gunn wandered into the middle of the room and turned to Angel. "Oh, man! I love this beat!" He began swaying softly, watching the drunk man in the corner, singing an old Irish tune, rather off-key.

Angel blinked in confusion. "Gunn, are you okay?"

"Yeah!" Gunn smiled. He said, loudly, "I know it's not your thing, but trust me, it's best song in L.A. these days!"

Angel was again struck with confusion. He came up to Gunn and whispered, "Gunn, it's an old Irish drinking song. Haven't heard that one since I was human."

"What?" yelled Gunn, still dancing. "I can't hear you, Angel, speak up!"

Angel grabbed Gunn by the arm and pulled him away, to a table where he made him sit. Taking the seat behind him, he turned to Gunn and said, "Something's wrong here. You're acting strange."

"Acting strange?" Gunn said, in disbelief. "Angel, I know you haven't been out much lately but *that*," he pointed to the rapper on stage, "is not an Irish drinking song. It's L.A.'s newest and rising star. You can ask Lorne."

Angel looked at the still-singing drunk and answered, "I see a drunk, singing very badly."

Gunn scowled and looked again. "I see a rapper on stage. A very famous one. One that... wouldn't be in a deserted, out-of-the way place like this without everyone knowing," he added, as if it began to make sense.

Angel shook his head. "I think we're only seeing what we want to see."

"Nirvana," agreed Gunn. "Eternal happiness."

Angel nodded. "This is an old Irish bar for me, some kind of nightclub for you. Maybe everyone's perception is different."

"How perceptive," said the woman. Angel looked up and saw an older woman, in a green dress, shock of red, flowing hair.

"Who are you?" asked Gunn, who saw the fine black woman in red halter top and black leather pants.

"I own this place," she said to them. "And you two put me in a bind."

"That so?" Gunn asked. "Why's that?"

"You came together," she said, taking the seat in front of them. "Most people who seek Nirvana are loners, and usually have a drink before calling their friends to tell them of the wonders of my establishment. That is... if they ever wish to at all."

"So, we figured it out, your cloaking scheme, making the perfect bar or club for every person?" asked Angel.

"Cloaking..." the woman scoffed. "This is *more* than *cloaking*," she insisted, vehemently. "Do you *know* how many layers of magic is needed to even create *one* of these environments?"

"Three hundred and eighty-two?" guessed Gunn. And when she looked at him, surprised, he lifted the case folder he had retrieved from his bag and consulted to show it to her. "You have to declare all use of magic to the Ministry when running an establishment of this size."

The woman nodded. "You're from Wolfram & Hart," she figured out.

"Charles Gunn," he confirmed. "And this is our CEO, Angel."

"Ah, Angel," she breathed. "Wesley told me about the changes at my law firm. I admit I had pictured you differently."

"Wesley?" asked Angel. "I would have thought you would have already known. Everyone knew we were taking over Wolfram & Hart before *we* even knew it."

She waved a hand, absently, and added, "Oh, honey, I don't listen to gossip like other demons, it's so... uncivilized. But I admit I was happy to hear you had moved up in the world, Angel."

Gunn snorted. "If taking over an evil law firm is moving up..."

The woman looked at Gunn. "Hasn't been bad for you now, has it?"

Angel was about to answer when Spike materialized next to him. He groaned. "Even in my dream bar, you're here?!" he exclaimed.

"Bloody..." Spike looked down to where Angel and Gunn were sitting down beside him. "Oh, bollocks. Where's E?" he demanded to the woman sitting with them.

The woman frowned. "I am E... well, not here, but there. How... how did you get here?"

Spike paced a few steps, enraged, then turned to the woman, pointing threateningly at her. "I don't appreciate these games you're playing, woman! You can't just toy with a bloke's feelings like that! You can't..."

The woman rose and lifted her hands in surrender. "Spike, calm down... We'll figure this out, just tell me what happened."

Spike's eyes flashed and then he sat heavily down and said, "I drank your drink, told you my bloody life story and asked me what would make me happy. I was walking towards her when I blinked out and then when I blinked in, I saw all these... bars and clubs... and now I'm here! I want to see her!" he raged, rising to his feet. "You take me to Buffy!"

"Buffy?" Angel asked, now very suspicious. "Buffy's not here, she's..."

"...here. I saw her," insisted Spike. "I want to see her," he repeated to the woman.

But the woman was still thinking about what he said. "Blinking. Does this 'blinking' happen often?" she asked him.

"Not often enough," muttered Angel.

Spike ignored him, a more important issue at hand. "Yeah, what of it?"

The woman shrugged. "Somehow, you got stuck between layers and something called you to Angel's bar. I'm guessing there's some kind of connection between you two?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Grandsire."

"Oh," the woman said, relieved. "Guess that explains it."

"No, that doesn't. I want to go *my* bar. Not this stale pub," he said, glancing about. "So, do your thing and transport me there. Got find Fred anyway."

"Fred's here?" Gunn asked, straightening in his chair.

The woman looked at Spike and answered, "No transporting. You are here, just on the wrong layer. In fact, you're all here," she said, answering Gunn's question. "Lorne's up there," she said, pointing to the drunk/rapper on stage, "and Wesley," pointing to the man at the other table, "and there's Fred," pointing to the woman speaking to the bartender.

Gunn looked at the woman and said, "That's not Fred."

"Not as we recognize her," Angel answered, figuring it out. "They're here but made to match the surroundings we're in."

He turned to the woman and said, "Turn it off. All of it."

"I beg your pardon?" she asked.

"You heard me. Turn it off," he ordered, rising from his seat. "Show us what this place *really* looks like."

"I can't *do* that," she protested. "My clients..."

"...will understand." Then he saw her point and reiterated, "Fine, just turn it off for us," Angel requested. "And my employees."

The woman pouted, but Angel gave her a look so she waved her hand and all was white.
________________________________________________________________________________

When the light cleared, they were in an empty room, broken chairs and tables all about, lined with dust. The bar was devoid of anything and the only occupants were the six of them.

Wesley looked up from the table he was sitting at. Fred turned from the empty bar to face them. Lorne stopped in mid-note on the rickety stage. Angel, Gunn and Spike moved from the table they were at, their steps echoing in the sudden silence of the room.

"Where'd she go?" asked Gunn, quietly.

"Here," said the small voice. They all turned to see a young girl of about eight in pigtails, Mary Jane's and a soft white dress, standing by the bar.

"You are?" Fred, asked, still dazed from the change of the room.

"I'm the owner," said the girl, in a high-pitched voice. "Welcome to Nirvana."

"What's going on?" demanded Wesley.

"Something's wrong," she said, forlornly, looking at Angel. "It's not working right."

"What isn't working right?" Lorne asked. "It was fine just a second ago!"

Gunn raised his hand. "We had her turn it off. It was... it was doing something to you guys, making you act weird."

"It's not supposed to," the girl said. "It's supposed to make you happy."

"How?" Angel asked the girl.

She stepped amongst them and explained, "I eat it. All the bad stuff. People come in feeling all bad. I eat the bad stuff and they feel happy. But now, people are leaving and they get more bad stuff on them. And I don't know how."

Gunn thought quickly and asked, "Is there anyone... with you? Eating with you?"

The girl shook her head, mournfully. "I'm all alone."

Gunn looked up and pulled the case folder. "The loan, Wesley, did you get all the hexes off?"

"Well, yes," he said, "My associate assured me..."

"But did *you* check it, Wes?" demanded Gunn.

"Well," Wesley stammered, "no, I was..."

"...in a rush to get here," surmised Gunn. Then he looked at Wesley, sympathetically. "I get it, bro. But somehow, a hex was left on and Ananda... uh, you," he told the girl, "signed off to let a third party get five percent of the 'bad stuff' she took from folks and I guess, launched it back on them when they left."

"Recycled anger and pain?" mused Lorne. "Sounds lethal."

"I'll say, if this is true, it could have eventually killed us," Wesley added.

Spike asked, "So, all that horrible stuff Fred said to me before, she didn't mean it?"

Fred looked up guiltily and said, "Oh, no. That was real. Not exactly the way I would have said under normal circumstances, but real enough." When Spike looked away, she came up to him and said, "Look, Spike, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... explode at you like that, but..."

Spike looked back at her and said, "I get it, ducks, I'm not the brightest bulb but I know when I've been an ass. You had every right to say what you said."

Fred smiled, sadly.

"Still hurts like a bitch, but understandable," he added, sardonically.

"So, now what?" asked Lorne. "If it's in the contract, we can't do anything about it."

"Please, you have to help me," pleaded the girl.

Gunn was looking over the contract. "We have to find a loophole."

"Yeah, but you drafted it, Charles," said Fred.

Gunn looked up. "Damn fine work, too. Going to be hard to find something wrong," he joked as he took the contract and sat down.

The girl walked up to Angel. "Want a drink? I have the perfect one!" she said, enthusiastically.

"Are you even old enough to serve drinks?" he answered, skeptically.

She scowled. "I'm two thousand and forty-two years old," she said. "And you're mean!"

Angel looked up and shrugged. He walked over to the bar with the girl as the others discussed the problem further.
________________________________________________________________________________

As Gunn searched for a way to nullify the contract, Fred asked Wesley if he didn't find it strange that Wolfram & Hart was defending someone who was obviously doing so much good.

"Well, I wouldn't imagine it's all good, Fred," he answered. "It's still quite addictive and that's not good."

"Plus, you don't get to face any of your problems, apple-pie," added Lorne. "Not exactly healthy for the psyche."

"So, then... she's evil, right?" Fred tried to understand. "Should we be even helping her?"

They all looked over to where the girl was serving Angel his drink, an Angel's Delight.

"Well," said Wesley, looking back at them, "I suppose it goes back to what Ananda was telling me. About balancing priorities."

"Come again?" asked Lorne.

Wesley leaned back and explained, "The lesser of two evils. Ananda was trying to tell me that sometimes you have accept that all the evil in the world cannot be obliterated, that now we have to learn to choose our battles wisely."

"So, we fight the big baddies and let the little ones go?" Fred asked.

"He means the little bit over there isn't doing enough harm to warrant the fight," Spike grumbled from his seat at the next table, where he was nursing another Vampire Slayer.

Lorne nodded. "Makes sense. I mean, sure, she isn't helping anyone really deal with anything and in the long term, those problems could destroy you, but in general, she isn't exactly killing you and I'm sure people *could* use the relief every once in a while."

"In the end," Wesley told Fred, "it's the equivalent of someone with a eating disorder, or a drug problem... or a drinking problem. It just covers it up... and delays the inevitable."

"That's so sad," mourned Fred. "It's..."

Fred was interrupted by Gunn clicking his flip phone closed with a snap and rising from his place in one motion. "I think I got it," he announced, coming over to their table. Angel walked up behind him as the little girl came over with a tray of drinks, handing each person their own.

"So?" Angel asked.

Gunn smiled as he pulled the sheet out. "My associate just ran a trace on the account number siphoning off the profits. It comes from our very own Wolfram & Hart."

"What? We're taking the bad stuff?" Wesley asked, incredulously.

Gunn nodded. "Seems the partners were hoping we'd overlook the hex and were using our own inadequacies for their own purposes."

"Well, if the account is part of Wolfram & Hart, we'll just stop it. Close the account, right?" Angel asked.

"We could," Gunn agreed. "But then the question still remains: why were the senior partners doing it to begin with?"

"I thought we established the senior partners were nutzoids?" complained Lorne.

"Well," Fred said, considering Gunn's question. "Maybe they knew we'd come here, maybe they thought they can get to us like this? I mean, Wes *did* say all that repressed anger *could* have killed us."

"Made it look like an accident," Gunn mused. "Due to the malfunction of Nirvana."

"How could we miss something like this?" demanded Angel. "Wesley, are you sure you ran the proper tests?"

"I'm almost certain," insisted Wesley, defensively. "Unless..." he began.

"Unless what?" Angel stressed.

"Unless the traces were compromised to begin with," he answered, looking at Fred.

"Me?" she cried, "but I didn't..."

"Not you," he reassured her. "Knox."

"Knox? But Knox wouldn't..." She looked up at the others, uncertain. "No, I mean, he's not *evil*... Lorne, you read him, remember?" She looked at him for support.

"I'm finding it harder and harder to rely on Lorne's findings," Wesley said, dryly, crossing his arms. "The readings have been faked before..."

"Now, wait a minute, that was one incident..." Lorne began to say, defensively.

"Okay, enough," Angel said, stopping what was to be an ensuing fight. "Look, I think we can agree that until we figure out what the senior partners are up to, we have to be more careful. No more laxness about our duties, no more socializing with clients, and we don't trust anyone there. From now on, only those present in this room are considered trustworthy. Without exception."

He looked up and saw their faces. He sighed as he saw the understanding and reluctant agreement in them. He turned to the little girl and said, "We'll have your problem fixed within the hour."

"Oh, goody," she said, h