Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who's been reading and offering their support - and thank you for your patience between updates. Life's pretty damn hectic at the moment!

Baltimore, 1944…

Wilheim Brachen's trek from war-torn Germany to the United States had been neither swift nor smooth. In fact, as he hobbled off the boat that had just docked at one of the many harbors along the East Coast – in a state locals called Maryland – he did so with a bad limp thanks to an attack he'd suffered at the claws of a Groxlar beast in southern France.

How the wound hadn't become infected was beyond Wilheim. He kept his head down, hoping no one could see his dark brown eyes. Hoping no one would notice the slash running along the right side of his neck – the result of an ambush from a vampire clan in Morocco.

But those trials were behind Brachen now; he was in America. The first step of his life's journey was complete. Brachen was a middle-aged man, no older than his early fifties, and he was what some would consider classically handsome, with his square jaw and his pronounced cheekbones. Wilheim carried an air of self-importance about him that he had inherited from his father, who was currently one of the highest-ranking officers in Hitler's regime.

Brachen fled his family and his homeland, not out of self-preservation or ideological disagreement, but because his ambitions were too large for his home country. In fact, the whole of Europe couldn't contain Brachen's dreams.

So, thanks to the counsel of the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart – after a particularly jarring trek from this realm into another known as Pylea – Wilheim made his way west, until he set foot in what some called the land of the free and the home of the brave. But in Brachen's brief experience with Americans, he knew neither was the case.

This was a nation, much like those across the Atlantic, that withheld rights based on a person's skin color, that sent the young and the poor overseas to fight in a war that made the older and more powerful a boatload on money. In that regard, America and Nazi Germany were a lot alike in Brachen's eyes.

He hoped to someday use those similarities to his advantage.

A folded-up piece of paper cradled in the pocket of Brachen's ragged, dirt-stained coat held an address for an office building in Washington, D.C. He overheard an argument next to the pier, in which he heard that he wound up in a town called Baltimore – and if Wilheim remembered his studies correctly, he wasn't that far away from the American capital.

Only problem was, he was short on money. While he came from a well-off family, Brachen's self-exile ensured he would never see any of that money himself. He sacrificed decades of potential wealth for a higher purpose, which he figured was not unlike what those who took lifelong oaths of celibacy in joining the clergy.

But Brachen knew his mission would likely bring along its own financial windfall, so it was easier for him to sacrifice his family's fortune. And having the tastes that he did, Brachen knew he would never be able to give up his taste for the flesh.

In fact, if he was to ever Ascend, that very taste would be needed.

He approached a young boy, probably no older than ten, standing on the street corner trying to sell copies of the Baltimore Sun. The boy narrowed his eyes at Brachen and took a step back; in this get-up, Wilheim was sure he resembled a homeless man. Yet Brachen continued his approach, each step slow in an effort to show he was no threat.

"Pardon," he spoke in a heavy German accent, "I'm trying to get to Vashington."

"Well, I don't got no money, mister," the boy announced as a businessman walked past, picked up a copy of the newspaper, and dropped a pair of coins into the upturned hat sitting on the pavement. "Train station's three blocks over."

Thankful for the information, and getting the distinct impression that his presence made the boy uncomfortable, Brachen dipped his worn hat in thanks and hobbled across the busy street in the direction of the train station. He could feel the sun setting as he wandered, passersby giving him strange looks because of his awkward gait.

Brachen hadn't yet figured out a plan of how to get onto a train heading to D.C. without any money at his disposal – in hindsight, grabbing some of his family's wealth before departing was probably a good idea, even if he had been discovered – but he would figure that out in due time.

Even if that meant staying overnight at the train station.

Given American sentiment toward the Germans, Brachen knew a name change was in order, and he needed to learn how to hide his accent and get a better grasp of the English language. His name was the easy part; Wilheim would simply become William, while Brachen – pronounced Brah-kin – would become Bracken, with more of a soft A and not so much emphasis on the K sound.

Wilheim Brachen was just the latest in a long line of immigrants pouring into the United States; if he had his way, William Bracken would become the most powerful man in the country, if not the entire world.

Two years ago…

Most of Kate Beckett's nightly patrols led her to Angel Investigations, because aside from her partners at the Twelfth, Angel was the closest thing she had in this entire city to a friend. It was strange, seeing as how she was a Slayer and he was a vampire, but she had to admit they made a damn good demon-fighting duo.

He was pretty easy on the eyes, too – even if he made ribbing him for being all broody and borderline emo a little too easy. He cursed Twilight's entire existence, if for no other reason than the fact that it gave Kate ample opportunity to playfully compare him to Edward Cullen.

Thankfully for both of them, Angel didn't sparkle.

As Kate had expected, he was at his desk when she opened the door and crossed the threshold, buried in one of the many books that littered his office. Three bookshelves were stuffed to the proverbial gills, and there were stacks of even more books on the floor and on the corner of his desk.

Kate smirked when she saw the book he was reading: Unholy Storm by Richard Castle.

"Don't tell me you're a fan," she smirked.

Looking up and using his thumb as a placeholder, Angel's expression softened when he saw Kate standing in front of the door. He couldn't see any wounds or cuts on her, so that told him the night's patrol had been easy – easy being a relative term in her life.

"Most of the time," he lifted the book. "Not sure zombies are his wheelhouse, though."

Setting the book atop the pile on the corner of his desk, Angel rose from his chair and crossed to the front of the desk. Kate approached him and they briefly kissed before Kate tucked a short lock of hair behind her right ear and cocked her head to the side.

Angel's hand moved from the side of her neck to her shoulder. "Something on your mind, Kate?"

Truth be told, there was so much going on in Kate's mind that she couldn't keep it all straight. The case she was working on with Ryan and Esposito was a particularly strange one – a psychic who seemed to predict her own murder. Normally, Kate would've laughed that off, but now that she had superpowers and was fighting demons in her spare time, she wasn't so sure.

Then there was her mother's case, which hadn't seen a new lead in almost a decade. The detective responsible for the case had long since retired, and every time she reached out to Detective Raglan, he blew her off.

And then…there was Angel. Her guide and mentor in a lot of ways, having taught her about Slayer lore and what it meant to actually be one. He was helpful in identifying demons and figuring out ways to kill them, and he was pretty good in a fight in his own right – though she figured that was because he wasn't entirely on the up-and-up himself.

The whole vampire-with-a-soul thing still seemed hokey to her, but Buffy Summers – who was affectionately known in some circles as "Queen Slayer" – had vouched for Angel, and again, at least he didn't sparkle.

She'd been hurt when he refused to help her with Johanna's case, but with time, she understood his reasoning – and that understanding came much easier when she realized the vampire had feelings for her. He apparently cared for her to the point where the thought of failing to find her mother's killer caused him anguish.

Well, more anguish that he already suffered on a nightly basis. Angel claimed that wasn't the case, but she could tell by the lines in his forehead and the way his brow furrowed that he was putting up a front.

She understood, though, because she put up the same front. It was one of the reasons they worked as well as they did, though she wouldn't call what they had serious. Even in opening herself up, Kate was being cautious. One foot out the door, her father had once called it: a hallmark of every relationship Kate had since Johanna's death.

Part of her felt guilty for that, but Angel didn't appear bothered by it, so for the time being, the arrangement worked well for them. But if things were to progress in any way, shape, or form, there was something she needed to know.

"Who's the girl?" she asked, nodding in the direction of the framed photograph hanging on the wall behind Angel's desk.

Glancing over his shoulder, even though he knew what Kate was referring to, the hint of a smile on Angel's pale face disappeared. He lowered himself onto the edge of his desk, his hands clasping together. His already pronounced brow deepened even more, and even under the dim lighting of his office, Kate could see his eyes darken.

"Her name's Cordelia," he explained. "She was…when I started Angel Investigations in L.A., she joined. She was new in town, lost, we'd known each other when we were in Sunnydale…we helped each other."

Kate took a seat in the chair opposite Angel's desk. The tone of his voice told her what she really needed to know, and as such, her automatic response of gallow's humor – cultivated through years on the force – was shelved for the moment.

"She wound up having visions," Angel continued, "warnings from the Powers That Be of people in trouble. That was how we got a lot of our cases. Over time, we…" A sideways grin threatened to break out. "I guess we fell in love."

Kate frowned. "You guess?"

"Never got to find out," Angel shrugged. That almost-smile disappeared. "It's…probably the most convoluted, complicated thing ever, but she became a higher being, and then she wasn't, but it wasn't really her, and she gave birth to a disgraced Power That Was, and then she…"

Kate averted her gaze when Angel hung his head. "Died?"

Angel nodded. "Before she died…the Powers gave her one last mission: get me back on track." The vampire shrugged. "I'd left Angel Investigations, lost my way. She put me back on it, reminded me who I was. That picture?" He pointed over his shoulder. "It's my way of making sure I don't forget again."

Kate stood and approached Angel, her fingers lightly trailing over his cheek. His cool skin still took some getting used to, and if the detective was being honest with herself, that sensation was a big reason why they hadn't yet slept together. The temperature difference between her body and his still weirded her out a little.

To his credit, Angel hadn't pushed. Though she figured she knew why.

"I'm sorry, Angel," she whispered. "First Buffy, now Cordelia…"

"Told you my love life was a train wreck," Angel quipped, that ghost of a smile returning. He was trying to be funny, awkward as it felt, and his smile grew in gratitude when Kate shook her head with a chuckle.

Suddenly, Kate didn't feel quite so bad for unburdening her baggage onto Angel occasionally – given everything he had endured in almost three centuries' of existence, she figured her life seemed like a walk in the park by comparison. It was clear to Kate just how important Buffy and Cordelia still were to Angel, and yet she didn't feel threatened by either.

"Remember the offer you made me?" Angel asked, grabbing Kate's hand and giving it a squeeze. "That night at the cemetery?"

Kate nodded with a shiver, though whether it was because of the memory or his cold touch, she couldn't say. "Yeah."

"I've changed my mind," he said, noting the shock in her eyes. "If the offer's still open."

"I…" Kate was speechless. She kept her grip on Angel's hand, because as weird as it still felt for his cold skin to be pressed against hers, the contact was her tether. She sometimes wondered if he avoided touching her in certain places because he would feel her pulse. Sometimes, Angel had a look in his eyes that looked like something more primal than lust, and every time Kate paid it any mind, a shudder ran down her spine.

"Angel, you don't have to…"

"I want to," he said, pushing off his desk and straightening his posture. "I wanna help, Kate. I won't promise anything, but…if there's something I can do, I want to."

A soft, tentative smile crept onto Kate's face, and her fingers wrapped around the lapel of Angel's coat – why he insisted on wearing the coat indoors was beyond her – before she leaned in for a kiss. For the first time, the cold didn't bother her. Eyes fluttered shut, lips pressed harder and more insistently against each other, and Angel's hands grabbed her hips.

Breaking the kiss, Kate bit her lower lip and looked up at Angel. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm officially inviting you to my apartment," she said, turning to exit the office and casting a glance over her shoulder. "There's something you have to see."

Present day…

For the sake of convenience, Angel lived in a subterranean area underneath the building that housed Angel Investigations. In many ways, it resembled the set-up he had his first year in Los Angeles, before the building exploded and the base of operations moved to an abandoned hotel.

In a lot of ways, the nostalgia was comforting. All of his memories of Los Angeles before Connor were good memories. The camaraderie he had not just with Cordelia, but also with Wesley and, later, Gunn and Fred was something akin to a family. He never lost sight of the irony of how that all fell apart once actual blood family got involved.

Tossing his coat onto the couch, Angel crossed to his study, flicking the lamp next to the doorway on before crossing to a flatscreen monitor in the far corner. Grabbing a remote, he powered the device on, glaring at the screen as it illuminated, a candid shot of Detective Kate Beckett front and center.

Surrounding that shot was every bit of information Angel had on the murder of Johanna Beckett. Everything Kate had given him. Everything included in the case file filed with the NYPD. Everything his own personal investigation had uncovered – which wasn't much.

His lack of success in unraveling this mystery – while a constant source of guilt for Angel – was not what had undone them as a couple. Truth was, they were too similar in all the wrong ways. The moodiness, the fact that they both erected and hid behind their respective walls. One of them being taciturn was borderline adorable; the fact that they both were was untenable.

Fortunately, Kate harbored no ill will, neither for the break-up nor for the fact that he wasn't getting anywhere in her mother's case. But she had asked him to stop looking into it after they broke up; she had asked him to get rid of what he had.

Obviously, Angel hadn't done that.

Angel wondered how Kate would react if she found out he was still digging. He was doing the exact opposite of what she'd asked him to do, and he knew it, but for some reason Angel could not stop. Now that he was in this, he couldn't back out without any answers. He had poured over every tidbit until it all ran together in his head when he slept, and it got to the point where Angel was certain he was missing something.

Having obtained his own copy of the official police report – Kate Beckett wasn't his only contact at the NYPD – Angel had reached out to John Raglan, the retired detective who had led the initial investigation. But he had been no more forthcoming with him than he had been with Kate, which didn't surprise Angel.

But an examination of the autopsy photos tugged on Angel's intuition, so he had reached out to a retired medical examiner named Clark Murray. He hadn't heard back yet, but Angel hoped this would lead somewhere.

He'd admit to Kate what he was doing, but he didn't want to do so until he had something to show her. It was his – admittedly flimsy – hope that her anger would be tempered by the excitement of his discovery.

Alas, there was no such discovery yet.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

Angel whirled around, startled by the voice he hadn't expected to hear, deflating with a sigh when he saw Faith standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She shook her head when her dark eyes took in the flatscreen before stepping fully into the vampire's office, her heavy black boots clomping against the hardwood floor.

"Faith."

She approached the monitor, studying all of the information therein. She shook her head, refusing to tear her gaze. "Didn't she ask you to stop?"

"I can't let this go," he admitted with a shrug. "Not without knowing."

"So your selfish curiosity is more important than the wishes of someone you have feelings for?" Faith quirked a brow and shook her head again. "She trusts you, Angel. You know how hard that is for someone like her?"

The vampire fell silent, because there really wasn't anything he could say. He knew Faith was right; logically, he understood what he was doing and why it was wrong. But he just couldn't bring himself to stop, and with the recent visit of Senator Bracken and the revelation that Wolfram & Hart had steered Bracken his way…Angel was convinced there was something there.

"Detective Raglan was wrong," he finally said. "This wasn't gang violence."

"And if that's true," Faith sighed, "all the more reason to back off." The Slayer grabbed the remote off the desk and turned off the monitor before turning to regard Angel again. "You're playing with fire here, Angel. You really wanna piss her off?"

"I want to find out who killed Johanna."

"For what?" Faith shrugged. "You think she'll take you back? Her undead knight in shining armor? In case you haven't noticed, Angel, Beckett's a big girl. There's a reason that writer's basing his next character after her."

Angel frowned. "Richard Castle?"

Faith smiled, though it looked more like a smirk. "Yep. He's found his replacement for Derrick Storm and has made it his life's mission to annoy the hell out of your gal Friday."

Angel shook his head, a scowl forming on his pale face. I warned him…

"I'm not…" The vampire sighed. "I know finding the guy who killed her mom won't bring her back to me. That ship has sailed. I just…I need answers."

"For her?" Faith quirked a brow again. "Or for yourself?"