Author's Notes:  Thank you very much to those of you who have reviewed and e-mailed.  A special thanks goes out to my friend DaphFlamm, who has been an immense help on this fic and has never seen an "Angel" ep!

Chapter 2:  The Duel of the Fates

"You see, I knew this was going to happen!"  Angel exclaimed.  "This was a bad idea.  I don't know how many times I've told you…"

            Spike cut off what was surely the beginning of a sanctimonious speech with a disgusted sigh.  "Relax, Peaches—they can take care of themselves."  Upon further consideration, he gave a little shrug.  "So it might get a bit messy."

            He lowered himself into a cushioned booth, wanting a front-row seat for the proceedings.  Around him clustered the rest of the newly-restored Fang Gang, all leaning forward in their seats and holding their breath in nervous anticipation.     

The god-king of the primordium and the Texas Twig had just declared war.

"So it has come to this," Illyria stated, staring down her opponent with an almost coldly casual air.

            "Yep," replied Fred just as evenly, drawing out a long, serrated knife.  "I'll cut, you choose."

            "Your terms are reasonable."

            Fred boldly reached out with the knife… and in one lightning-fast flick of her wrist she expertly sliced an extra-large, double-stuffed pepperoni pizza into two equal, cheese-smothered halves.

            The question that had haunted and perplexed the group was finally to be answered.  At long last they would know which of two virtual bottomless pits could eat more food—and it was to be decided with an eating contest to end all contests, right here in the epic battleground called Pizza Hut.

            "I do not need to partake of deceased animal and plant matter in order to function," Illyria informed them all grandly.       

"And there goes my appetite," Gunn muttered to himself, unceremoniously dropping his piece of pizza back onto his plate.

"Oh, please," Fred smirked at her demon opponent.  "I didn't see that stopping you from attacking that box of Krispy Kremes last week.  You're just trying to cover up so when you lose you'll have an excuse."

"You know nothing of my motivations!"

"I was trapped inside you for three months.  Trust me, I know."

Illyria had to give her that one.

Fred leaned forward on her elbows, smiling her sweetest smile.  "So put it where your mouth is."

Indignant, Illyria's eyes flew wide open, and she gave a very regal sniff.

"Ohhhh boy," Lorne said, letting out a long whistle.

            The slighted demoness eyed the two halves of the pie in front of her… and then in a flash of movement took up a personal-sized pizza from a neighboring table and put the entire thing into her mouth.  All eyes were glued to the visible progress of the pizza as it traveled whole down her throat. 

            "Aw, man—that's just not right!"  Gunn exclaimed, feeling a bit queasy.  It had reminded him of those nature programs on PBS—those horrible ones where snakes gulped down some rodent five times their size.

            Fred went a little pale.  Illyria just looked on, supremely satisfied, and started in on a slice of pepperoni pie.

            "Her jaw… it just sort of unhinged," Angel said, goggle-eyed.

            "It is a remnant of my native form," Illyria informed him around her mouthful of pizza. The haughty words lost quite a bit of their grandeur, rendered totally incomprehensible by her stuffed-mouth condition. Spike had to laugh.  Finally, they'd stumbled on a way to end those never-ending brag-fests of hers.  Honestly, she could speechify twice as well as Angel.

            Actually, he knew one other way, but the fact that she was dribbling melted cheese down her chin ruled out any kissing possibilities for the time being.

            Fred, watching Illyria's attempt at a coup d'etat, grabbed a breadstick and bit down—hard.

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            About a half-hour later the two competitors were running even, having polished off two full pies, a basket of breadsticks apiece, and at least three pitchers of cola.  Spike wondered if he should say something—Illyria on a sugar-high just didn't seem like a keen idea.  Nah—more fun that way.  

            Their audience had grown considerably, too.  The epic battle of goddess vs. physicist had attracted the entire restaurant, aided by Lorne's dramatic play-by-play of the events.  Particularly interested was the table full of male teenagers from whom Illyria had "borrowed" the personal pizza earlier.             

"Those cretins are lusting after me," she told Spike, not sounding particularly disturbed—but definitely indicating that he should be doing something about the situation.

            " 'S the leather, Blue," he explained, smiling and wiping some pizza sauce off her nose with a napkin.  "Reckon they can't help themselves."

            "Or it could be the fact that she put their entire pizza into her mouth," Wes murmured under his breath.

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Two hours and some twelve-odd pizzas later….

            Wes was rubbing Fred's stomach—quite possibly it was the first time she'd ever had a visible one—looking very much like an anxious labor coach.  Fred's face was a definite greenish shade, but she was pluckily eating along.  Spike's vampiric reflexes kept his own love from falling face-forward into a pizza.  She shook off his assistance and managed another two bites of Veggie Lovers.  Her leather skinsuit creaked in protest. 

            They really couldn't hold out much longer, but they were at a dead tie.  Someone had to give.

            "I blame this on you," Illyria groaned, looking queasily towards Fred.  "This shell is too weak and fragile."

            "Yeah, so sorry about that whole hollowing-out-my-insides thing.  I didn't exactly have a sign up that said 'Open House, come on in,' you know."  There was less harshness in the words than probably one would expect—both of them had taken to blaming Knox for the whole event.  Better for group dynamics, that way.  Fred winced and held her stomach, making Wes jump nervously.  "That didn't feel a whole lot worse than this, actually."

            "Do you yield then?"  Illyria tried to sound commanding, but didn't quite pull it off.  Anyone could have sensed the hopefulness in her tone.

            Fred reached for the Cinna-sticks in reply.

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            Fifteen minutes later…

"Well, good news all—the place is out of pizza, out of side orders, out of any kind of carbonated beverage," Lorne announced, coming over the table from the ordering counter.  "Looks like a draw, ladies!"

            Fred and Illyria looked up at him, too crammed full of food to react.  Illyria resembled something approximating a turquoise hamster, what with a sickly green shade mixing with her blue tint and her cheeks all puffed out.  Oddly enough, the two combatants were leaning up against one another for support.

            "Awww, would you look at that," Lorne continued sentimentally.  "Over-dinner bonding."

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            Much, much later that night (or, the following morning…)      

            When Spike nipped into the drugstore a few blocks down from the Hyperion, he was surprised to meet Wesley there as well, half-awake, paying for an order at the counter.  He himself was used to keeping nocturnal hours and knew that Wesley was, too, so it was a further surprise to see the other Englishman completely blurry-eyed and tousle-haired, weaving on his feet.  The only explanation was that he'd been awakened unexpectedly from a very deep slumber.

            "Hey, Percy—what're you doing up past your bedtime?" he joked.

Wordlessly, Wes held up a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

"Ah."

"And you?"

            Spike produced a bottle of his own.  "Same.  'Cept 'm betting Fred didn't tell you to fetch her a bottle of 'oozing pink healing toxin.'"

            Wes gave a tired laugh.  "No, I can't say that she did."

            "Or threaten to crush every bone in your body if you didn't get it back in ten minutes."

            "No, not that either."

            "Well, 's all for effect, y'know," Spike continued offhand.  "Get past that an' she's right cuddly."

The two men stood in silence for a moment.  "You do realize you're whipped," Wesley finally came out.

            Spike's mouth twitched.  "Kinda the pot callin' the kettle black, idn't?"

            Wesley looked aghast.   "I'm not whipped!"

            "Right…. Least 'm man enough to own up to it.  And mine ruled the whole bleedin' world once—make that several bleedin' worlds—so I think I've got an excuse."  Wes seemed to be considering this.  "'Sides, Leery jerked you around by the nose well enough before all that business with the battle."

            "And before, you never allowed her to do it.  Until…"  He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

            "Yeah, I know, until I fell in love with her," Spike admitted, blurting the words.  "But we're both happy, aren't we?"

            The two men looked at one another in perfect understanding.