Part: 13

Disclaimer: Even AU, I don't own them

Feedback: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?

Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.

Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. Italics indicate thought.

AN 2: Apologies for the long hiatus. Fortunately, the technical difficulties have given me time to write, and Miles To Go Before I Sleep will be updated regularly right up to the end

Angel POV

10: 48 AM

June 23, 2005

382 Deschenel Avenue, Redgrass, Michigan

Ah, Angel loved the smell of explosions in the morning. He darted past the smoking ruin of the fuse box and used his elbow to bash in the window of Wilkins' backdoor. By the time Spike pulled a green-faced Wesley around to the backyard, Angel had raided half of the room overlooking the pool.

"What do we got, Peaches?" Spike asked, looking nearly ecstatic.

"Smashable things," Angel responded, examining Wilkins' pool table with the excited air of a professional vandal. When he saw the pool cues hanging on the rack, well, that just sealed the deal. He pulled three of the cues off the rack, taking a few seconds to smash the fourth and final one over his knee. He tossed two of the cues to Spike and Wesley, who fumbled for a moment before catching his.

"What exactly do you intend for me to do with this?" Wesley asked, holding the cue like it might suddenly bite him.

"Percy, honestly, even a well-bred boy like yourself should know the basic properties of vandalism," Spike laughed, swinging his pool cue like abaseball bat and knocking a stereo off the shelf where it had been sitting.

"I-Angel, are you…" Wesley trailed off as when he noticed that Angel was using his keys to carve deep gashes and obscenities into the felt surface of the pool table.

"Go to the front of the house, Wesley," Angel murmured, staring at his handiwork. The cuts all lined up with each other, and the curses were symmetrically placed. Good. "Keep a look out. Break anything you can. Spike, you take the upstairs. I'll take the rest of this floor."

"Right-o, poof," Spike saluted him cheerfully with the pool cue and darted out of sight down the hallway. Wesley gave Angel a last look backwards and followed his countryman.

Continuing on his mission of chaos, Angel smashed anything that hadn't already been destroyed, which included the rest of Wilkins' stereo equipment. It was almost a shame to smash the expensive gear, but there was no way they could efficiently take it with them. With on last glance back at the pool room, Angel went down the hallway.

He made a pit stop in the first room he came to, which happened to be the bathroom. A mere two minutes later, Angel left the bathroom in a state of total destruction. In addition, it would soon be completely flooded, due to the fact that he had ripped the faucet off the sink (causing water to begin spewing from the pipe), blocked the tub drain, and then allowed the tub to begin filling up. It was a good moment to be him.

Spike POV

Spike was crowing over his good fortune to be allowed to raid the upper levels of Wilkins' lair. The upstairs was always where the good stuff was kept. The blonde made his way from room to room, merrily smashing. It felt good, especially considering the fact that Wilkins' home looked like an old woman had been responsible for designing it. The wallpaper alone was enough to make his eyes bleed. Hell, Wilkins' might even thank whoever had put large holes in his walls and used a pocketknife to shred his wallpaper. It meant that the mayor would have to get new wallpaper, better wallpaper, and that would make everyone happy.

The blonde reached Wilkins' bedroom and considered it for a moment, twirling the pool cue thoughtfully. What would make the best statement? Robbing the mayor, obviously, but what then? Spike distractedly raided Wilkins' dressers as he considered. Tearing the sheets and comforter in two? No, not a big enough statement of loathing, but hey, a Rolex and was that a stack of money? Hmm, breaking the entire bed in two might work, but it would take too much time. Oh yes, definitely a stack of money. How to properly show the burning hatred of a vandal? Oh. Yeah, that'll do nicely.

Spike finished raiding the room, finding two more Rolexes, several sets of cufflinks, a pistol (which he left untouched), and what appeared to be about two thousand dollars worth of dosh. He nearly cackled, but controlled himself. Cackling evilly was Angelus' thing, and Angelus was a ponce.

After checking through the rest of the bedroom, Spike found nothing besides a small, portable safe. He considered it for a moment before tossing it in the pillowcase with the rest of the pilfered items. It didn't weigh that much. Probably just filled with boring legal documents, but hey, Spike was an opportunist. Besides, he bet Peaches hadn't come up with nearly as much, considering the big poof was mostly on a search-and-destroy mission.

Smiling, Spike squatted down on his heels and pulled out his ever-present Zippo light. He lit it smoothly and held the flame to a corner of the bed. The blankets caught fire easily, and spread. Hopefully, most of the bed would burn up. Spike stood up and smiled. Beauty.

When Spike left the bedroom, he backtracked, intending to go to the other side of the upstairs area. The stairs opened up onto the foyer, and there he was greeted with a bizarre sight. Well, then again, it wasn't particularly strange, especially considering Angel's average, but Wussley was certainly making a big deal of it.

'It' was the rumpled rug in the foyer that Angel was staring at as though it was speaking prophecy to him. It was a nice enough rug, Persian and fairly expensive looking. Someone (Spike would bet his duster that the someone was Angel) had caused it to slide into a corner and wrinkle up. Git was probably running and slipped, Spike thought with amusement, but his mirth was tempered by the knowledge that Angel was having one of his episodes at the worst possible times.

"You wanna snap out of it, Peaches? The Watcher is starin' at you like you've grown a third eye." Spike was trying for sympathetic instead of cross. He knew Angel couldn't help himself.

"Can't," Angel responded tersely, still staring at the rug. His hands were clenched tightly around the pool cue. Oh, bollocks, Spike groused. Wesley had stopped keeping watch, instead opting to stare at Angel with a look that was half befuddled, half calculating.

"Well then, do whatever the hell it is you need to do to become useful again, you great prancing fairy," the blonde man snapped, idly stepping back to kick a hole in the staircase railing. They were running on a time limit and Angel was buggering it up completely.

Angel needed no more encouragement. He dropped the pool cue and the pillowcase, nearly pouncing on the rug in his haste. Spike watched, somewhat incredulous, as Angel dragged it back to the middle of the foyer, where it must have been previously, and carefully smoothed out the wrinkles. After arranging the tassels on the rug just so, Angel stepped back and examined the rug critically. Apparently, it met the approval of the great poof's chemically imbalanced brain, because he beamed up at Spike like a happy puppy and stated, "Okay, I'm good."

"That's dandy, lardass," Spike responded pleasantly. "Now get back to work."

Angel scowled, but obediently smashed a picture frame that had been hanging on the wall. "I am your boss. You're not allowed to call me 'lardass'," he muttered petulantly.

Spike gouged a hole in the wall near him with his pool cue and responded, "I wouldn't care if you were the damn President, I'd still call you lardass."

Still grumbling, Angel disappeared into another room to wreak more havoc. Spike grinned cheerfully. Now that the ponce had gotten his moment of crazy out, he'd be focused for the rest of their little adventure. The blonde man moved towards the nearest room. Wilkins had to have something else worth stealing, right?

Wesley POV

Wesley couldn't understand it. Angel and Spike acted as though they were doing nothing wrong. It was like they weren't even aware that their lives were in danger every moment they were in this house. On the other hand, if Wesley became any tenser, it was likely that he'd explode. Would Angel pick up the pieces, he wondered idly, snorting unexpectedly at the sheer strangeness of the thought.

The scene a few moments earlier had been both unexpected and very educational. Wesley had been keeping watch as ordered, his anxiety mounting the longer the trio was in the house. When Angel had run by, he'd thought very little of it, besides being briefly amused when the rug slid beneath his leader's feet and nearly toppled the big man.

The former Watcher had, however, become very interested when Angel had stopped dead, staring at the disheveled rug with a kind of passive horror. Wesley had been about to ask what was wrong when Spike appeared.

So, the question became, what exactly had he witnessed? It had never crossed Wesley's mind that Angel might have some sort of disorder. He had just assumed that the big man was a very neat person who, as Gunn had put it, 'cleaned things like a neurotic raccoon'. But it did make a sort of sense. Angelus was very clean too. Wesley wondered if either of their parents had been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The sound of something very large hitting the floor came from the room Angel was in, accompanied with the sounds of smashing glass. Wesley winced and returned to keeping watch. Now was not the time to ponder the eccentricities of his partner in crime.

They had been in the house for longer than five minutes, but less than ten. Wesley's stomach was cramping with nervousness and his hands were sweating inside of the gloves. He could actually feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he glanced down at his shaking hands with interest. He wasn't used to actually being out in the field when it came to crime. Normally, he planned and plotted and made connections. Breaking and entering was a whole new experience for the former Watcher, and so far, he didn't like it in the least. It was very…messy.

Angel emerged from the room he had presumably finished vandalizing and went past Wesley towards what looked to be the kitchen. (The sack over Angel's shoulder was half full. With what, Wesley wasn't sure.) However, halfway into the room, Angel paused and turned, staring at the Englishman for a moment.

"Yes?" Wesley asked.

Angel was silent as he studied Wesley. Then he quietly said, "Smash out the windows," and entered the kitchen.

Wesley was perplexed, but then realized Angel meant for him to shatter the windows on either side of the door. The Englishman did so quickly, wincing at the loud sound of shattering glass.

Spike's cursing echoed down from the upstairs area, as it had been the entire time. Sounds of crashing emitted from where Angel was trashing the kitchen. Wesley kept staring at the road, waiting for the cars to begin coming en masse to arrest and kill them. He actually felt as if he was going to vomit and he prayed that he didn't. Spike would make fun of him for it. Wesley's traitorous brain kept providing him images of crime scenes, broken and bloody bodies that were beaten past recognition. Then he started to substitute the faces on the bodies with himself or Fred or one of the others and he felt even more nauseous. Deep breaths, Wesley told himself. Those two know what they're doing. Just keep watch and…is that smoke?

He looked around frantically, sniffing the air like a dog, before noticing that there was a thin trail of black smoke coming from somewhere upstairs. "Angel! Spike!" Wesley bellowed, suddenly very alarmed. Was the house going to burn down around them?

"Is someone coming?" Angel asked as he skidded around a corner, eyes wide and worried. Wesley noticed, somewhat confused, that the entire left side of the mercenary's body was covered in a white substance. Good God, I hope that's not cocaine, Wesley thought inanely, before Spike poked his head over the banister to ask what was going on.

"Something's on fire" Wesley pointed, " and it's coming from upstairs!"

"What?" Angel quickly came further into the foyer to see the smoke. "Oh, God! Spike, what did you do!"

"I set his bedroom on fire." The tone in which Spike answered indicated that this was really something that should have been obvious.

It hadn't even occurred to Wesley that Spike might be responsible for the fire, but it made perfect sense. Only he would actually set the house that they were still in ablaze. Angel and Wesley exchanged incredulous glances before focusing heated glares directly on the blonde man.

"Don't give me that look, you nonces," Spike protested irritably. "S'not like the house is going to explode!"

"It might, you idiot!" Angel yelled up at him. He was twirling the pool cue in his hands, seemingly unaware that he was doing it.

"We're runnin' out of time anyway." Spike, to Wesley's absolute amazement, pulled out a cigarette and lit it, leaning casually on the wall. "We should leave now, while the going's still good."

"Fine," Angel spat, glaring at his fellow assasin. "Get down here and go to the garage."

Spike grinned and darted to the stair railing, sliding down with a whoop. "Mess with his cars, yeah?"

"Yeah," Angel agreed. He headed towards the front door, but, stopped suddenly and called, "Spike? Do not set anything on fire."

"Sure, right," Spike called back dismissively, before turning a corner and disappearing.

"I'm serious, you little pyro!" Angel screamed. He shook his head, looking agitated. "Wes, come on." He opened the door and exited quickly.

Wesley followed him dutifully. "Does he often set things on fire? He's been here for several months and nothing has been incinerated, but…"

"Spike doesn't need to burn things. He just takes joy in harmless destruction." Angel glanced at the exterior of the house and scowled. "Are there any rocks around?"

Feeling more and more like he was in a dream, Wesley gestured towards the flowerbed that was neatly lined with a border of stones. "Burning things in harmless?" he asked wonderingly.

"On a scale of Gandhi to Apocalyptic," Angel shrugged, then reached down and picked up a rock. Wes actually saw him grin a little as he heaved the rock through a window that Spike had missed.

The Watcher was edging towards the car, desperate to leave the scene of the crime right-the-bloody-hell now, when the garage door seemed to explode outwards. Wesley shrieked and tumbled onto the lawn, bruising himself as he landed awkwardly. Angel, true to form, remained completely calm as the car that had just bashed its way through the garage door screeched to a halt in front of them. Spike was in the driver's seat, grinning like a madman.

"That was fun," he laughed as he exited the car. "I've always wanted to do that."

As Wesley picked himself up off the grass, he glanced at the car-shaped hole in the garage door, the smoke that was starting to leak from the top corner of the house, plus the smashed condition of the car that had been used as a battering ram, and decided that Spike was far more then harmlessly destructive. The blonde Englishman was edging towards menace to society.

Angel rummaged around in his pillowcase for a moment, before pulling out what appeared to be a can of spray paint. "Take care of the car," he ordered Spike, tossing the can to him. "Wesley, smash out the car windows and lights." The Watcher realized with a start that he was somehow still holding the pool cue.

"Where are you going?" Spike asked, shaking up the can of paint.

"Following your lead," Angel responded sardonically. Without another word, he sprinted out of sight behind the house. Wesley was understandably confused and edging towards panic.

"You'll catch plenty o' flies that way, but it won't help destroy the car," Spike snapped, and the brunette realized his mouth was hanging open.

Grumbling about insane thieves and being killed, Wesley nonetheless began to bash in the windows and headlights of what had once been a very lovely black Camaro. Spike was busy as the back of the car, spray painting something onto whatever space hadn't been smashed. Once Wesley was satisfied with the state of the windshield, he darted back to see Spike putting the finishing touches on his artwork.

"'Burn in hell, you motherfucking cracker'," Wesley read aloud, confusing ratcheting up a few more notches.

"Think it shows enough hate?" Spike asked, looking smug as he examined the words.

"Erm, Spike, I'm not sure you can actually call Mayor Wilkins a 'cracker'," the Watcher pointed out.

"Why not?"

"Because you are also Caucasian."

Spike snorted. "Pfft. Semantics."

Before Wesley could interrogate Spike further, Angel darted around the side of the house, looking pleased with himself. "It's time for us to go. Now!" He was halfway to the car before he realized that neither of his partners in crime were following. Wesley was taking a moment to recover his senses. Spike was busy gloating

"Oi! Hey, admire my graffiti, you selfish ponce!" the blonde yelled. Rolling his eyes, Angel ran back to look at the words scrawled on the hood of Wilkins' car.

"It's lovely. Monet himself couldn't have done better. We need to go." The fact that Angel looked anxious was enough to tip Wesley over into full-blown panic.

"Fine," Spike acquiesced with a smirk, and then all three of the men ran to their car like the hounds of Hell were following them.

Angel leaped into the driver's seat, Spike following him closely, while Wesley sprawled into the backseat gracelessly. The car squealed away from the house, and as the brunette Englishman glanced back, he was able to see that Angel had set Wilkins' hedges on fire. Too much burning, he thought incoherently.

"That was easier than I thought it would be," Spike muttered, stretching in his seat like a content cat. "Peaches, are you aware that you're covered in white dust?"

Wesley was unable to relax. He was actually shaking the entire drive back to the warehouse. Spike and Angel occasionally glanced back at him, and, seeing that he was still a nervous wreck, simply went back to watching the road. It wasn't until Angel had parked outside the warehouse that Wesley actually took a deep breath and tried to still the shaking.

"Are you better?" Angel asked, noting that the Watcher seemed less like he was about to start screaming.

"I think so, yes," Wesley replied, taking another deep breath. Now that he was finally back to the warehouse that he called home, the adrenaline thrumming through his system became an almost pleasant buzz. A natural high.

"So, you've finally gone and done something nasty," Spike observed. "How do ya feel?"

Wesley considered. He was dealing with the aftereffects sheer terror. He was bruised and still shaking a little, and it was unlikely that he would be able to go to sleep for the next two nights. "I feel quite nice, actually."

Angel smiled and Spike cackled, "We've corrupted Percy and pissed off Wilkins. Today's a good day."

Once in the warehouse, Spike knocked to indicate to Lorne that he should open the door. While Lorne was busy fumbling with the locks, Wesley examined Angel once again. It seemed very odd to him that the mercenary would panic over a rug out of place but be unaffected by having flour covering him. The Watcher made a mental note to read up on obsessive-compulsive disorder.

"Is there something bothering you?" Angel asked suddenly, and Wesley started as he realized that he'd been caught staring.

Thinking fast, he responded, "I was actually wondering why Spike sprayed 'cracker' onto the mayor's car. It seems odd to give a racial slur to someone of your own race."

Angel chuckled. "Ah, but Wilkins doesn't know that Spike is white."

Wesley was intrigued. "But why are you trying to make him think that the thieves are a different race?"

Lorne finally got the door open, allowing Angel, Spike, and Wesley to enter the inner sanctum of the warehouse. While Angel and Spike unloaded their pillowcases full of stolen goods onto the floor, Wesley repeated his question.

"Because," Spike answered, "with the exception of Trick, the big shots in this town are all white. The working class is an ethnic soup. If we can make the Hamilton suspicious of his own people, we're one step closer to bringing him down."

"You're hoping he starts being harder on the workers," Wesley realized, feeling awed. "You're trying to start a riot."

"See, boss?" Spike grinned. "I told you the Head Boy here was smart." Angel rolled his eyes and continued sorting through his loot.

"I'm gonna assume things went well," Lorne stated, eyeing the piles of valuables.

Spike cackled. "That they did. Anyone want a Rolex?"

Mayor Wilkins POV

11:30 AM

June 23, 2005

382 Deschenel Avenue, Redgrass, Michigan

Break time was Richard Wilkins' favorite part of the workday. There was just something about watching your favorite soap opera in the comfort of your own home that made the rest of the day go smoother. As his car came closer and closer to his house, he could practically feel the glass of milk and plate of cookies in his hands. In fact, he was so busy imagining the comforts of home that he didn't notice the trail of thick black smoke that was billowing up into the sky until his driver pulled into his neighborhood.

"Now what in the world could that be?" Wilkins asked, leaning forward to try and see where the smoke was coming from. His brow scrunched in concern. He had a bad feeling about this.

"I'm not sure, sir," the driver replied. Wilkins ignored him. Whatever was burning was getting closer. The bad feeling got worse.

It wasn't until the car pulled onto Deschenel Avenue that the mayor's bad feeling was confirmed. As the car pulled up in front of his burning house, Wilkins' stumbled out of the car, horrified. How was this possible? He'd turned off the coffeepot. The stove hadn't been on. Nothing had been on. There was no way…

Suddenly, the mayor noticed his Camaro parked outside of his house. The back end of it was completely crushed and it looked as if the windows had been smashed out. Confused and suspicious, Wilkins drew closer to the car.

"Sir, maybe you shouldn't," his driver exclaimed, grabbing a hold of his shoulder. Wilkins shoved him away and moved towards his car. He barely even noticed the heat that was radiating from his burning house like an oven. His entire world had shrunken down to his Camaro and the writing he could see on it.

Wilkins finally stood beside his car and stared for a long moment. 'Burn in hell, you motherfucking cracker!' was emblazoned on it in canary yellow paint. After a moment, it truly sunk in to Richard Wilkins that the destruction of his house, his car, his property was all deliberate.

Had anyone been watching the mayor's face, they would have seen the alarming change. His normally genial features twisted into a snarl of hatred and his hands clenched into fists. He looked like he was a completely different person; a much more dangerous person.

"Sir, should I call someone?" yelled his driver, who had stayed at a safe distance away from the house.

"Don't bother," Mayor Wilkins called back, not taking his eyes from the car. "I'll call myself.

Angel POV

7:02 AM

June 24, 2005

1212 Whedon Street, Redgrass Michigan

"You could tell when they found out," Gunn laughed. "The foreman was standing there, looking all calm and smug and whatever, then some dude came and whispered in his ear. Suddenly, he starts to panic and do a roll call to make sure everyone was there. Funniest thing I've seen in a while."

"It happened at the weapons area too." Fred grinned. "Only since I'm second-in-command over there, I had to act very concerned. You wouldn't believe how frustrated they were when it turned out that nobody was missing."

"It's going to bother them, that's for sure," Spike agreed, taking another swig of the wine they had stored in the mini-fridge. It was reminiscent of the first night Angel had come to Redgrass, what with the cheap wine and plastic cups, but it was different as well. The entire group seemed more relaxed, happier due to their victory. It made Angel feel…content. Like he was among friends. Even Gunn wasn't as hostile as he usually was. A feeling of celebration was in the air.

"Oh, it did more than bother them, cats and kitten," Lorne replied. "You should have seen the expressions on the faces of the people who came into the Cold Front. They looked like they'd seen their own deaths. From what I hear, Wilkins was in a hell of snit."

"Considering what we did to his house, I'm not surprised." Wesley was at his desk as usual, but he too held a glass of wine in his hand.

"You should've seen this one," Spike gestured a little wildly at Wesley. The blonde man had had more to drink then the rest of them. "Window smashing machine."

"It sounds exciting," Fred giggled.

"It was really nothing," Wesley responded, blushing a little.

"No, no, it was something," Spike argued, grinning. "We need to make a toast." He held his cup into the air. "To Wesley's first home invasion."

"To Wesley's first home invasion," the others repeated dutifully, while Wesley tried not to smile.

This is nice, Angel thought as he drank. Contentment was creeping up on him again, as was exhaustion. This is very nice. They're all very nice. And much to his surprise, Angel realized that he would miss them when this job was over. That was a bad sign.

Angelus POV

9:15 AM

June 24, 2005

Penthouse Apartment, Los Angeles Branch of Wolfram and Hart

Angelus was in the shower when Eve came. His liaison to the Senior Partners didn't seem to comprehend things like privacy, which took some getting used to. But Angelus was nothing if not adaptable. Besides, if he made her give back the keys now, she'd just have new set for the next time she barged in on him while he was trying to avoid work.

The water was almost too hot to stand, scalding his skin. He liked it that way. Angel had the same quirk. It ran in rivulets down his body, too many to count, and they heated him in a way that no amount of blankets or sunlight could. If Angelus could, he would have lived in the shower, simply so he never had to let go of that hot, clean feeling.

The CEO had sensed it when Eve entered the apartment. Nothing tangible had changed, besides the sudden surety that he was no longer alone in his home. Angelus could sense her behind him now, admiring the view. I wonder where she gets the keys, he thought to himself, before turning around in irritation and stepping out of the shower, soaking wet.

"Hello Eve," Angelus said, voice not quite threatening, but certainly not pleased.

"Hello," she responded, not looking up from what lay below his waistline.

Angelus tolerated this for a moment, then became exasperated and snapped his fingers in the liaison's face. "I'm up here!"

"I know," Eve responded, smiling coolly. "Just noticing that you and your brother really are identical."

"Yes, we're considering going on tour." The CEO crossed his arms and glared. He really disliked when his showers were interrupted. "Was there something you wanted?"

Eve met his eyes and he noticed that she looked a bit unnerved. "Yes."

He sighed. "And what would that be."

"Hamilton's people called. He wants to meet with you personally in Redgrass."

Was it his imagination, or had the temperature suddenly gotten colder?

TBC