It wasn't as though anything terrible had occurred. One more day of glowering over the maps, chasing Darke like a bay leaf through grim sauce. Dreadful things, bay leaves.

For all his loud gaiety, Damon knew when to keep his mouth shut.

"Once this is over," Angel murmured against him, "I do hope the team gets a break."

"I'm sure the Chief will arrange something."

Smiling as he said it, serene like milk and honey. He wound grip closer around her, the slow, delicious thrill of male muscle nestling in her curve of waist. Their jackets waited in a proper closet and Angel hadn't seen him loosen his shirt cuffs before.

He settled, and stilled. It made Angel wish she knew how to relax, wash off her makeup and really linger with Damon and his couch -- both leather, both grand and sure enough to sink into.

There was a lot to be said for older men. They knew patience.

"May I get you anything, Gella?"

She smiled. "This is fine, thank you."

What a quaint nickname she had. It tasted like someone wholesome in an old-world kitchen, tending a pot of osso buco -- tough meat until it was treated right.

"If I can make it up to you," Angel added -- why? Did she mean it this time? -- "Let me know."

Patient quiet, aging like wine.

"Hmm? This is quite an ordinary thing to want." He lifted a hand, and trailed gloved fingers on her skin; his voice hummed ocean-low against her. "We're only human."

Her wiles had never worked on Damon -- or so it seemed, the proof lay in the pudding and Angel held a spoon. She watched through her lashes, the simple terrain of his shirt at night. Touch blurred on her shoulders.

"Just a thought," she said. Bangs slid farther into her vision and she didn't care, she closed her eyes and was warm.

Sound paled against him, the city traffic a murmur past his heartbeat. Her dress would be rumpled from sitting. Time must have passed outside his arms.

"Anything you'd like from me," he decided, "You can ask for, though, Gella."

Turkey at Christmas, Damon -- she knew that already.