A/N: In addition to being an IWRY story, this also incorporates a prompt from the It's the Writers, Stupid Ficathon. Prompt:
"I hate being pawed."
"Ah, but then maybe you've never been pawed properly."
- Loretta Young and Lyle Talbot in She Had to Say Yes.
Written by John Francis Larkin (story Customer's Girl), Rian James and Don Mullaly (screenplay).

Thank you to my betas, married_n_mich, mommanerd, and sunnyd_lite. All errors are my own. All characters belong to Joss.
Summary: The pipes, the pipes are calling/ From glen to glen, and down the mountain side/ The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying/ 'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

~.~.~.~

"It's as quiet as a tomb out here."

"Maybe, Xander, because we're in a cemetery?" suggested Willow.

"But it's a Sunnydale cemetery," said Xander, his eyes focused on the stake he was flipping and catching. "You know what I mean, right, Buff?"

She sighed. "Yeah. The dead are staying annoyingly dead."

"Annoying? It's good news. Good enough to give the all-clear, like, ten minutes ago. I can't believe we're not already in the Bronze drinking over-priced sodas," Xander said.

Buffy wasn't really in the mood for the Bronze, except she was. The thought that Angel might be there was equally thrilling and terrifying. But if she were honest with herself, she wasn't ready to see him. Problem was, she wasn't exactly feeling explainy.

"Sure," she said, trying to sound excited. "Who's playing?"

"It's not the Dingos. They're playing up by the college," Willow said with pride.

"That's great," Buffy replied. Her enthusiasm almost sounded real. She was glad Willow and Oz were working things out. At least one of them should be lucky in love.

~.~.~.~

Anywhere but here. That's where Angel needed to be. His one mantra for the last few days? Where would Buffy be? His one goal? Anywhere other than that place. Which made him a dull a schoolboy with his first crush for standing in front of the Bronze.

Fighting his desire to stay and skulk, Angel moved past the club, past the pseudo-shabby portions of Sunnydale where it was nestled, past the graying whitewash of functioning warehouses, and on out to the abandoned, crumbling edges. It was hard to picture that there had ever been an industrial boom big enough in Sunnydale to demand so many buildings.

Maybe the industry was building the buildings, he imagined her saying, her sly quick wit masked by the girlish toss of her hair. No self-respecting Hellmouth would be complete without a tasteful backdrop of urban decay.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He'd been foolish to think that putting a few miles between them would create distance. Short of leaving town, there was nowhere else to go.

It was seeing the vampire and the clutch of feathered kolainai docilely sharing alley space that pulled Angel from his self-indulgent reverie. Demons that lived on blood had no allowance for demons that prefer feasting on vampire blood. Why weren't they bent on killing each other? Short of peace on earth, goodwill toward all, there wasn't a good reason he could imagine.

Angel shadowed them from a good distance, wishing to hold the element of surprise. When he tripped on broken up concrete and banged against a metal access door with thump, he figured his attempt at stealth was lost. But the demons didn't even flinch, let alone glance back.

He drew closer, studying them. The kolainai bounced more than normal – and in a distinctive rhythm. He could see it as well in the vampire's movements – as if his swagger has turned to a sway.

There was a rustling behind him, and spinning round, he dropped into a crouch.