"Abby!" the girl called helpfully as she ushered Connor through the living room and toward the kitchen area. "Abby! There's a guy here. I think he wants you."

"In a minute!" he heard his sister call. "I'm doing shots!"

Connor speechlessly followed his new tour guide through the kitchen and into the den, where they arrived just in time to see Abby, on her knees in front of the coffee table, throw back an oversized "shot" from a highball glass. She got it all down, amid much cheering and hollering, and looked exceedingly proud of herself until the glass made its way back to the table and she glanced up to see her brother.

"Connor!" she shrieked, anything but happy to see him standing there. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

She looked around the room for help, but no one was paying her the least bit of attention now that shot time had ended. She waved both her hands helplessly at her sides in a sort of panicked bird flapping motion that Connor found hilarious, but he fought hard to keep his expression blank.

"Oh my God," she repeated, getting to her feet.

She rushed toward him and snatched him up by the arm, dragging him forcefully out of her friend's clutches and away from her drunken comrades.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed urgently. "Did Mom and Dad send you to check up on me or something?"

"No," Connor answered, though he was sorely tempted to tell her yes just to see her reaction. "Where uh … Where are Mom and Dad, by the way?"

Abby huffed and gave him a scathing look.

"Flew to Mexico for the weekend. You'd know that if you ever bothered to call."

"Oh," Connor said, somewhat abashed though he didn't really feel he should be. "Well, uh, what … what's this all about?"

He nodded back toward the room they'd left full of intoxicated merrymakers.

"Please don't tell Mom and Dad!" Abby begged. "Please! I just wanted to have a few friends over. I wasn't doing anything wrong!"

Connor had heard that high-pitched whine before in his own voice enough to know that she didn't believe a word she was saying, but he didn't think it was his place to go all sanctimonious and start scolding her for something he would have done in a heartbeat, too. Still...

"Last time I checked, you're not twenty-one yet," he pointed out. "And I don't think that was apple juice I saw you chugging in there."

"Connor," she grumbled. "It was just a few drinks!"

"Was?" he asked. "So you're done for the night, then?"

Abby made that delightful bird flapping hand motion again, and Connor couldn't help but grin at her.

"Relax," he said. "I'm not Dad. And I'm not the alcohol police. It's not my business."

"Then why are you here?" she asked, but the question wasn't snotty like he'd expected. "Did you break up with that guy or something?"

Oh geez. He really needed to come up with some sort of plausible explanation for why he lived in a hotel with a twenty-six-year-old man that didn't involve vampires, fabricated family ties, or civil unions, but well, he just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

"Abby, I've told you, we're not..." he started, but decided it would just have to wait. "Look, I just need a place to crash for tonight. Well, maybe a few nights, I don't know. Let's talk about this in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed with a reluctant nod. "But you won't tell on me, right?"

"Cross my heart," Connor said solemnly.

"Thanks, big brother!" Abby exclaimed in relief, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him tight. "You're the best!"

"I know," Connor answered, reaching down to get his suitcase. "My room, is it still, you know, my room? Not like, turned into an office or a game room or anything?"

"Yeah," Abby answered. "They're not gonna give away the Prodigal's room. Though I haven't seen Aiden and Maci for awhile, so... Yeah, just make sure you turn on the lights when you go in there."

Connor pulled a disgusted face before telling his sister goodnight and mounting the steps to his old room. He was so exhausted that he doubted even the drunken revelry downstairs was going to keep him from sweet, sweet slumber.

"Whatcha doing?" Angel asked after he had watched Spike for a long time.

"Writin'," Spike answered, not looking up from his journal. "What are you doing?"

"What are you writing?" Angel asked, ignoring Spike's perfunctory question.

"Stuff," Spike replied. "It's private. You can't read it."

"I didn't say I wanted to," Angel answered.

"You do, though," Spike responded. "You're afraid it's all about you."

"...Well, is it?" Angel asked after a moment's pause.

Spike grinned cheekily and glanced up at him from under his eyelashes.

"Not all of it," he finally answered, returning to the scribbling. "But a good bit of it, yeah."

Angel crossed his arms over his chest and frowned down at his teenager, wondering if this was one of those times where it would be admissible for him to force further information from him, but unfortunately, he knew it wasn't.

"Are you writing poetry?" he asked instead.

"What? No!" Spike scoffed in a tone clearly indicating that yes, yes he was. "I don't do that anymore."

"Why not?" Angel asked.

"I just don't," Spike answered hotly. "Leave me alone."

"I liked your poems," Angel said gently. "There's nothing wrong with writing poetry."

"I know that, Angel!" Spike said, rolling his eyes. "But that's not what I was doing, okay? I was … drawing. Here, see?"

He flipped back a few pages and held his journal up just long enough for Angel to glimpse a cartoon caricature of himself, every hair on his head standing at full attention.

"That me?" Angel asked unnecessarily.

"No, it's me," Spike answered sarcastically, but then gave him a sheepish look just in case he'd taken the attitude too far. "It was just a doodle. You know I can't draw like you can."

"It was cute," Angel said reassuringly.

"You would say that about your own ugly mug," Spike mumbled, shutting his journal and shoving it up underneath his pillow since it didn't appear that Angel was going to leave him alone.

He stared up at him for several seconds, but he didn't offer any further explanation as to why he was in Spike's room.

"Am I in trouble or something? I was just being quiet like you told me to," Spike offered. "I wasn't doing anything else, I swear."

Angel laughed.

"I know," he answered.

"Oh."

Angel fell irritatingly silent again, and it was starting to make Spike squirm. What did he want? He'd already got onto him all night long for any and everything, and now that he'd finally just gone to his room to have "quiet time," as Angel had put it, here the big gorilla was breathing down his neck again. Well, figuratively speaking, anyway.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

"I … I think we should talk," Angel stammered out awkwardly.

"About?" Spike asked, genuinely clueless.

"You and me," Angel replied, coming and scooting Spike over so he could sit next to him.

"Okay, Papa," Spike said uneasily.

"About that, for one," Angel said, and Spike just looked at him. "The … the 'papa' thing."

"Oh," Spike said quietly, frowning. "You don't want me to call you that? Okay, Angel, I'm sorry. I'll stop."

"No!" Angel said quickly. "It's not that, it's just … Spike, you're gonna be embarrassed. I know you don't think so right now, but you will be. Not just about calling me that. About a lot of things we've done over the past few weeks."

Spike sat up and folded his legs underneath him. He played with the frayed hem of Angel's old black jeans that he was wearing and just stared at his own feet for a moment.

"I know I'm not me right now," he finally answered. "I mean, I am, but I'm not. I feel like me … but then again, I don't. I … I'm not explaining this very well."

"I think I understand," Angel said. "Go on."

"Well, I just mean... I wish I could keep this body! I'm young and energetic and..."

"Happy?" Angel asked. "Yeah. I wasn't happy when I was seventeen. Neither was Connor. Happiness doesn't run easily in our family, I guess."

"Guess I'm some sort of weirdo," Spike replied with a grin. "But things that used to seem like a big deal just don't anymore, not right now. And you … You're a lot nicer to me, even though I'm getting on your nerves."

"You're not," Angel started, but Spike interrupted.

"Yeah, I am," he said knowingly. "Look, Angel, I know it's not going to last. I realize that. I can almost sorta feel it, you know? Feel that the change is coming, and then I'll be me again, really me. And you don't like that me, so things will be different. I get that, so you don't have to worry, all right?"

"What do you mean, I don't like that you?" Angel asked angrily. "William, that's not what I meant, not at all."

Spike shrugged helplessly. He didn't know what more Angel wanted from him. He'd opened up and been as honest as he knew how to be, but it only seemed to piss his grandsire off.

"I have half a mind to put you over my knee for that, young man," Angel threatened.

"You can't punish me for how I feel!" Spike protested shrilly. "All I said was—"

Blessedly, a loud crash from the lobby interrupted what Spike knew was about to turn into a confrontation. He exchanged glances with Angel, and they both leapt to their feet to go check out the ruckus.