Part 7:
"There's evidence of a feral lair of vampires down near the Santa Monica pier. We should check it out and clear it if possible, before they set up shop and teenagers start disappearing."
"Great, let's get a move on," Spike replied as he entered the room behind the taller vampire. "I could use a spot of violence myself," he added, making Wesley smile to himself as his previous thoughts were confirmed.
The ride to the pier was a quiet one. It appeared that everyone, with the possible exception of Illyria, was distracted by the day's events. The lair was discovered with ease, as were the ferals, and the fight was short and sweet, if a bit more intense than usual, or even required, given the extreme youth of the loosely aligned pack.
There was actually very little for Wesley, Gunn or Illyria to do, and though the two humans made some attempt to get in their fair share of dusting, Illyria didn't even try, simply standing by and watching the uneven rout with her coldly observant gaze.
Angel and Spike were a whirlwind of violence, fighting back to back to prevent an attack from their flank. Seen with newly opened eyes, even Gunn had to admit that they moved together as one. No longer did he see that elegant motion simply as a vampire trait, but instead as a trait particular to this vampire Sire and Childe, a pair who had lived and hunted successfully together for two decades, before they were separated by fate and a Gypsy girl.
The ride back was as quiet as the one over, until Gunn finally broke the awkward silence.
"I don't know about the rest of you, but I could use a drink. Let's stop."
"Wouldn't say no to one of those myself," Spike agreed readily.
Angel rolled his eyes and smirked. "That's a shock," he muttered under his breath.
His comment was pitched just low enough to appear to be meant for his ears alone, yet just high enough for all to hear. Wesley, sitting directly behind Spike, saw the facial expressions that accompanied it and let out a sigh, relaxing somewhat. The tension that had been present for hours now diminished slightly as Angel turned off the route that led to the Hyperion, and toward a nearby neighborhood bar instead.
They found a table near the back wall and Angel waved them into the booth as he headed towards the bar. He returned a minute later, and shortly after that a waitress appeared with four beers, five glasses and a bottle of Irish whiskey. Angel poured a healthy dose into each glass and pushed one to each of the others in turn. Wesley raised his glass to his lips, then paused and held it out.
"To a good fight," he said.
"Good fight, man," Gunn replied, clinking his glass against the other.
Angel and Spike's glasses joined the other two, and Illyria awkwardly copied their motions with her own, then they all drank deep of the silky smooth single malt. Illyria emptied her glass without pause, then looked down at the amber dregs at the bottom of her glass, inspecting it closely.
"This is a peculiar liquid. It feels cool to the touch, but warm going down. What is it?"
"It's a bit of the Irish, lass," Angel answered, a hint of his brogue coming through. "A little bit of heaven on earth," he concluded, leaning back in the booth and closing his eyes as he slowly savored his own drink.
Sitting directly across from him, on the outside edge of the booth, so that they could protect the humans if required, Spike relaxed fractionally and leaned back as well, watching the dark-haired vampire through half-closed lids.
"The Irish? It has an effect on this human shell unlike the other things I have ingested since coming to this plane."
"Yes, it would, and you might consider slowing down a bit if you don't want to experience the more unpleasant after-affects of this 'bit of heaven'," Wesley said with a smile.
Spike smiled in turn. "He's right, Pet. Fred's constitution wasn't up to that much whiskey in one sitting, much less one gulp. You'd better slow up."
"You called me 'Pet'. Is that another reference to the non-vampire members of a clan?" she asked in all seriousness.
Angel laughed out loud, and Wesley and Gunn, who had tensed at the mention of Fred, couldn't help but chuckle at the atypical response. One lip quirked up and Spike snickered before attempting an answer.
"Just a bit of the English, Pet, just a bit of the English," he assured her, emptying his own glass and pushing it toward Angel for a refill.
"A bit of the Irish and a bit of the English," Illyria repeated to herself, as though memorizing the still-incomprehensible phrases.
"Irish whiskey is a drink, Illyria," Wesley finally clarified. An alcoholic one, which can make the human constitution go off-kilter. An effect that applies to certain other demon constitutions as well," he added, glancing pointedly at Spike, who raised his newly refilled glass towards him.
"Here's to being off-kilter, mate," he smirked, completely unabashed.
"Irish whiskey," Illyria repeated to herself. She stared at her glass, then took another drink, this time a small sip.
"Whiskey is the drink, Blue, and Irish is the particular process used by the inhabitants of Ireland, an island just off the western coast of England," Gunn added to the conversation, taking a deep drink of beer in-between each small sip of whiskey.
"Ireland. A bit of the Irish. England. A bit of the English," she repeated again to herself. "So 'Pet' the way you used it was an English word?"
"That's right, Blue. A bit of slang, a term of affection - Pet," Spike agreed amiably, sipping his whiskey steadily.
"There are other whiskeys besides this Irish whiskey?" she asked, jumping abruptly back to the first topic, her wide-eyed gaze a bit unfocused.
"Yes," three voices chimed in.
"No!" a fourth insisted, causing the first three to laugh in response.
"What do the Scots know?" Angel asked, a scowl on his face. "And don't even get me started on the Canadians. Although they do play a good game of hockey," he added as an after-thought, refilling his own glass absentmindedly.
Two hours, fourteen beers and another bottle of whiskey later, the five arrived back at the Hyperion in a considerably more mellow state of mind than when they'd left it. Each meandered off to their own room and fell into a deep, liquor-induced sleep, for the moment forgetting the momentous disclosures of the day, and the continued discussion planned for the morrow.