The worst of the infection passed, and still Angel tossed and turned restlessly, groaning in his sleep.  Spike tried to calm him, softly singing little snatches of half-remembered Victorian lullabies.

Illyria appeared in the doorway.  “What is that noise you make?”

“It’s a lullaby, pet.  Parents sing them to their kiddies.  Puts them to sleep.”

“The Burkle persona knows such songs.  Shall I sing one?”

“I don’t think—”

But it was Fred’s hand that took Angel’s, Fred’s voice that murmured, “This is a Texas lullaby.”

Illyria glanced at Spike, saw tears in his eyes.  She hummed all night long.