The train chugs along the dusty tracks. The landscape barren, save for a few dead and pointed trees; bleached almost white from the sun, which does not look as strong as it is. He looks out the window. A long rope is trailing beside the tracks; so close that he should be worrying about derailment, but the fact passes him without a second thought.


"He understands me, Lorne! He is smarter than anyone gives him credit for, and he's funny. No one can see that he's funny!" Fred's face spreads into the sort of smile that is almost guilty; so unintentional she doesn't notice how deeply happy she looks. Lorne smiles back, he's never been one to second guess happiness.

"Then tell him that, Freddles! Stop telling me," but his tone is anything but demanding. A pause in the conversation occurs as she considers this. "Oh, fine. Tell me more," he relents, grinning back at her. Her eyes light up as she describes the events of the latest demon-hunting outing, describing Wesley's every heroic move in such vivid detail that Lorne is sure she's making some of it up.


Wesley is thinking about Fred. This is standard procedure for any moment he finds himself alone. If he happens to delve into a memory while among others-fabricated or otherwise-he finds himself grinning, and grinning lead to questions.

This particular instance is unlike the current standard, in fact, it is quite the opposite. Angel stands across the room from Wesley, his arms folded across his chest, his stance wide-non threatening, only Angel can pull this off. Wesley sighs.

"What would you like?"

"You and Fred?"

Wesley pauses. Angel continues.

"Spike said something about it earlier and I just," his voice becomes unsure, the way it often does when he begins to discuss something personal. Fred calls it his 'Cordelia-voice.' "I was just curious," he finishes. Wesley sighs again before responding.

"Curious. Yes, well. So am I."

He returns to whatever book was on his desk, none of the information being absorbed. He notices when Angel leaves the room, and suddenly realizes that the book on his desk is blank.


Lorne offers his arm to Fred as they depart the cafe, it's raining-light and misty-but puddles have formed, and Fred is prone to slipping. Despite the hood that Lorne wears-a yellow plastic that is anything but discrete-Fred feels like a normal girl. She is happy, elated even. She feels as if nothing could dampen her mood, but, as is often the case with thoughts of such certainty, she sneezes.

"Bless you, Buttercup," Lorne says with cadence. "Don't you go getting a cold now."

"Oh, a cold won't bring me down," she replies. "Not anytime soon."


That night a slightly confused Angel sat alone in his suite, just as Wesley was pacing his office, deep in thought. Lorne was singing to himself in the shower-a fast paced jumble of languages- and Fred was combing her hair, smiling at her reflection in the mirror.

Just as all of this was occurring, Fred's window shatters with a crash.