"You were wrong," Buffy crowed triumphantly as she strode into the Hyperion lobby, discarding her purse with a careless flick of her wrist on the reception counter, planting her hands on her hips as she came to stand in front of Angel. "Not you," she pointed to Cordelia. "Your advise totally rocked." The blonde jabbed an irate finger in Angel's direction. "You were wrong about Lindsey."

This should be interesting. Lounging against the wall by his office, the vampire crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed her blankly. "You have one dinner with the guy and already you're singing his praises," Angel drawled darkly, something dangerous flickering within the depths of his expression, warning her that the subject of Wolfram & Hart's little lackey was not a welcome one. "That must have been some three hundred dollar bottle of wine he got you plastered with."

"First of all, screw you. Second of all, double screw you. Third of all, it wasn't like that, I only had one, singular, glass of wine and Lindsey didn't pretend to be anything but himself, which I appreciated. And...he warned me that his bosses have taken an interest in my taking an interest," she said, clearly very proud of herself and her ability to get such a helpful tidbit of information out of him. It was ridiculous: she wasn't a teenager anymore, she knew better. Then again, that was when they'd been in love...then again, look how well that had gone down.

"Well, that can't be good," Gunn muttered from the safety of the desk, flipping the pages of what looked like some Monster Truck magazine.

"No," Angel agreed readily, "it can't. And I take it Lindsey wanted something in return for this oh so generous tip-off?"

Buffy shrugged her shoulders, nonplussed. "He just wanted something to steer his bosses away for the time being."

"Such as?" Angel grumbled disbelievingly.

"A status update. I told him we'd be interviewing the guy who found Sam's mom and that we'd be looking into why Cassidy was in town, that's it."

"That's it?" he parroted acerbically. "That's our whole fricking investigation! Now we no longer have the upper hand!"

"Yes, we do!" Buffy yelled back, going on the defensive, cheeks flushing bright red. "Because Lindsey now knows what not to tell them, and he suggested making a show of working on other cases."

"You don't have any other cases!" Angel yelled, resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall.

"But I'm sure you do!" She was quick to fire back with.

"Actually, it's been pretty quiet around here," Cordelia chimed in, unhelpfully. "Not that I'm complaining: I needed a vacation from the brain-blender that is this job."

Angel glared at her until she went back to painting her nails.

"See? Point made."

"No, point not made." He pushed off of the wall, stalking towards her, letting just the hint of the monster with fangs that writhed under the surface show in the set of his face and the gleam of his eyes. "You talk a big game about being partners, but when it comes down to it, you're more than happy to do whatever the hell you want, consequences be damned. People -real, innocent people- could get hurt because of what you just did, and that's not on me, Buffy: that's on you. And I don't think you're ready to handle that. If this goes sideways -which I guarantee it will, cause things always do when Wolfram & Hart get involved- don't think I'll react too kindly when you try and turn it around on me."

"You really think that?"

Angel didn't hesitate to answer. "Yes, I do."

"Well, then I guess that means I can do this then, and not feel a lick of guilt." Her hand whipped out, cracking across his face, hurting far less than the betrayal brimming over in her emerald eyes. He'd only seen that look once before, and technically it hadn't been him she'd been looking at. It had been Angelus, the night after her seventeenth birthday, when she looked at him as if he were a bad dream, and any minute she'd wake up and things would be different -but, of course, they hadn't been.

"Go to hell," Buffy told him, but she didn't need to: he'd already been there, and was again, seeing her like that. She stormed out -but, in typical Buffy Summers fashion, didn't even forget to pick up her purse as she slammed the door behind her.

At the noise, Wesley chose that moment to poke his head out of the basement. "I guess I missed something, then?"

Gunn put down his magazine.

Cordelia discarded her nail polish.

"Five..." she began counting.

"Four..." Gunn carried on.

"Three..." Wesley teamed up.

"Two..."

"One," they all said in unison, but Angel didn't hear them: he was already out the door.

"I swear to God, if you take one more step, you'll wish you'd never been born when I'm through with you," Buffy threatened venomously as she ate up the sidewalk, trying to outrun him but also trying not to look to obvious about it. Angel, damn him, caught up to her easily. Stupid tall people and their stupid long legs and their stupid fat heads thinking they know everything when they don't, they don't.

The sound of his voice was like nails on a chalkboard, scratching at her insides and tearing at her mind. Very irritating nails on a very irritating chalkboard. "Trust me, it won't be anything I don't deserve. Look, would you just stop for five seconds and listen to me?"

"Keep trying to apologize and see what happens, I dare you."

"You know, there's never been a single dare in my life that I've ever turned down," he half-smiled, going for levity, trying to get her to meet his gaze.

She did, but only so he could see when she rolled her eyes at him. "Let me guess, you were that one kid who always jumped across the lake in the summer?"

"More or less," Angel said, taking a step in front of her so that she couldn't go any further. "I am sorry, though. What I said, it was out of line, okay?"

"Good, I'm glad you've recognized that: the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Now, will you stop being my problem and leave me the hell alone so that I can be mad at you, in peace? You know, without you around?" Buffy pleaded, voice tinged with the slightest edge of hysteria.

"Ah, but if I'm not around, then I can't make up for it and you'll descend into a downward spiral of hating my guts which I really, really don't want."

She stopped, of only because of the raw honesty in his voice. "Why? Why don't you want that?"

In that moment, a million things flashed across his face, a million things Buffy had no hope of deciphering. He was a closed book, and she knew s that if she ever got a peek in there, it'd probably be written in a language she couldn't understand anyway...or would scare her so much she'd wish she'd never heard the name Angel Investigations.

"Because there have been to many that have," was his eventual reply, the words seeming to be dragged up and out his throat against his volition. "Because I've hurt people, people I care about, and I never learn. I even did it recently, and now my friends don't trust me, not like they used to. Because I ruin everything I touch...but I don't want to ruin you."

Buffy sighed, slumping against a streetlight, kicking at a curling piece of newspaper on the sidewalk. "That's a pretty big thing to say to someone you're only just partners with," she replied, eyes narrowed carefully as he dared to step closer.

"True," Angel conceded, "but I thought it was what you needed to hear, deserved to hear. I want to work this case with you. I want to see justice done. And I don't want you to hate me by the end of it."

"Jury's still out on that one," she quipped, seeing a tiny smile break out on his face, broad shoulders shrugging in his coat. "I know some people. I guess I'll just have to change your mind."

"Oh, you won't. No one makes up my mind but me."

"I don't doubt that."

Pushing off the light, Buffy stuck out her hand, threads on her dress glinting in the light. "Peace?"

Angel took it. "Peace."

She held on longer than was strictly platonic -but then again so did he- and she wiped her hand nervously on her skirt, hiking her bag higher up her shoulder. "So...there's this great diner right around the corner I know from when I was a beat cop. Wanna grab a cup of coffee and just...give this a break for a while? Pretend to be at least somewhat normal?"

"Yeah, that's sounds great," he said, adorably transparent.

Angel offered her his arm.

Buffy took it.

If she wasn't the Slayer, Angel would have been seriously worried about how much sugar he just saw Buffy put in her coffee. She practically emptied out the dispenser of all those little packets! Then again, the coffee wasn't exactly top notch so...

Leaning back in the booth, the worn vinyl seat crackling against his coat like saran wrap on a cheese platter, Angel just sat and watched as Buffy fiddled with the tables tiny jukebox, trying to see which songs still played, the neon open sign out front illuminating her face in brilliant flashes every few seconds. It will still so strange, seeing her like this. Being with her like this. Yes, they'd gone out plenty of times when they were dating, had at one point spent practically every possible waking moment with each other, but it had been...strained, after he came back. Different. The threat of Angelus, the memory of him and what he'd done, most of all to her, hanging like an unseen spectre between them. Unseen, but still felt. Out of sight, but not out of mind. He couldn't forget, and a part of her would never forgive, and Angel wouldn't have wanted her to.

It had been his fault, not hers. Not just Angelus's, but his. He never should have fallen in love with her in the first place, never should have led her into a position, a relationship, where she could get hurt. He was nearly 225 years older than her at the time: he should have known better. He still should now.

And yet here he was. And there she was, right in front of him, smiling at the waitress and telling her to have a good night as she goes off shift and he vaguely recalled the story she'd told him, her time in L.A. when she worked at a diner, trying to forget, forget killing him, forget that she was the Slayer and how such a title came with cruel, impossible, world-deciding changes and decisions.

Was this the diner? Did she remember it still, somehow, someway?

"I lied, earlier, about this place," Buffy said quietly, as if she could read the contents of his thoughts like they were printed on the menu, right next to the specials. "I used to come here with my cousin sometimes after we'd been at the library studying. She liked the whole retro thing, chequered outfits and chrome and all that kitschy 50s America, varsity jacket and milkshake stuff. It wasn't really my scene, but I went along anyway. Whenever we came in here, all the guys used to flirt with her, but she'd hardly ever notice. But I did. I noticed everything, which is why I'm so good at my job. Which is why I know there's more to this Lindsey thing than you're telling me. If you don't want to tell me, fine. But I'd appreciate it if you did."

Angel took a sip of his mediocre coffee, if only to buy himself some time. "I..." How did he put this? How did he say this? To her, of all people? She was still Buffy, and when -when, not if- she got her memories back, she'd remember this, remember what he'd done. That he was far from the good man she'd believed he could be. That he may fight for the innocent, but he was not among them, and would never deserve to be.

"I had this friend," he began, idly turning his cup on its saucer, around and around and around. Spinning circles, just like Darla had spun circles around him. "I'd known her for a long time, almost all my life. I'd been a bit of a layabout, no real sense of direction or purpose. She gave me one. Not a good one, but one nonetheless."

"Like a gang?" Buffy wondered, no hint of judgement to be found. As a 'cop,' she'd likely seen a lot of bad things, bad situations, but even so...he knew, in his heart, that that was just Buffy. She wasn't one to judge without all the facts. She genuinely believed in the goodness of others, and anyone she found in trouble she always tried to help them see that what they were doing was wrong and that there was another way. Hell, she'd left Spike in charge of looking after Dawn, so that really did say a lot about her capacity for acceptance.

"Sort of. But I eventually...changed. We lost touch. I didn't see her for a long, long time, except once, four years ago. And she certainly hadn't changed. But then, this year...she did. She agreed to work for Wolfram & Hart, a special advisor on a case they were working."

Buffy frowned, chewing on the end of her straw thoughtfully. "What kind of case?"

Angel's grin was as sharp as a sword, a gleaming slash across his face. "Mine. They hate my guts since I've gotten rid of some of their biggest clients." She didn't need to know in what capacity he'd done so. "They wanted to take me down, and thought she'd be the perfect person. Then she found out she was sick. Like, dying sick. And...she'd had enough. She was gonna walk away from them. Find herself, her real self, in what little time she had left. Only the firm wouldn't let her, wouldn't let go of an asset that valuable. So, against her will, they pumped her full of some crazy drug concoction that would save her, and made me watch. And that brief, tiny glimmer of a good person, that kind of person that I could forgive, that I wanted to forgive, wanted to find some kind of peace...was snuffed right out of here. It was like it had never happened, she went back to being her old self, maybe even worse. So I hate them for that. For using her to get to me, and just for using her. No one deserves that, not even her."

Buffy was silent a long minute, likely trying to digest all of that -or the muffin she'd picked up at the counter, he couldn't tell. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching out to put her hand atop his, clunky ring glinting gold in the harsh florescent lights. "It sounds like you cared a lot about her."

"I did," Angel admitted, "once."

"Is that why you're so sad all the time?" Is she why you're sad?

So she'd picked up on that, huh?

He shook his head, retracting his hand from under hers. "No, it's not," was all he said. The source of his sadness was sitting right in front of him, giving him a soft look from under her lashes like she'd try to take all his pain away if he asked her to, or would try even if he didn't. His sadness was blonde hair and green eyes and a wit that could cut and a smile that could break your heart and put it back together in a blink. His sadness was the chill of cemeteries and the warmth of a beating, human heart beside his own. And it would never, ever go away.

Buffy nodded, clearing her throat and going back to playing with her straw. "Sorry, I did say we weren't gonna talk case-stuff." Lips pursed, she tilted her head like she was going through a mental catalogue of potential things to talk about.

Angel decided to save her the trouble. Finishing his coffee, he tried to ask as nonchalantly as possible, "Are you, um, gonna head home now? I know it's been a long day for you and all."

"Majorly," she acknowledge, ultimately shaking her head. "But no, I'm not all that tired. Why?"

All he said was, "How do you feel about karaoke?"

Lorne had been around for a long, long time. He'd met pretty much every kind of person there was to meet: good, bad, in the middle, didn't know or didn't care. Vampires, werewolves, gods, goddesses, demons of various shapes and sizes and dress senses. But, at the end of the day, they all had one thing in common: everyone, no matter who or what they were, wanted a place to kick back and be themselves.

Caritas was that place.

But still...he was surprised when he felt a tingling sensation crawling up his neck, every hair standing on end. Power. Very powerful. Not in the magical sense but...strong. Willful. Brave like a knight of old, but less with the chainmail and more with the highlights and quipped attitude, he'd wager.

Turning from where he held court at the bar, Lorne surveyed the room, watching as the door closed behind Angel and a mystery blonde. The mojo definitely wasn't coming from him, so it had to be her. She didn't look like much, she was almost a head shorter than Angel, wearing a red top and a black skirt and boots, but the green-skinned demon knew better than most that looks could be deceiving. His eyes narrowed, trained on the distance -practically non-existent- between the two. Mmm, interesting. Could this be...her? Whatever woman had broken Angel's heart, or was it the other way around? He'd heard rumours -who didn't in this town?- about the Slayer, as well as bits and pieces he'd gleaned from Angel's squad of superheroes, and the brooding bat was looking at her with an expression that Lorne could only be adequately described as 'heart eyes.'..

So, this was Buffy Summers, amnesiac Slayer. Angel really had gotten her to come here after all. Nice.

Excusing himself from the bar, Lorne slithered through the crowd, finally coming to a stop in front of the pair. "Angelkins!" the demon exclaimed jovially, holding his arms wide, the sleeves of his plum-coloured suit flapping like excited birds. "A pleasure to see you here, as always." He turned his attention to Buffy, offering her a rare and genuine smile. "And who might this charming belladonna be?"

"I'm Buffy, a friend of Angel's," she said, and if he hadn't known the vampire so well, Lorne would have missed the way he puffed up, just a bit. Aww, what a sap. "And you are?"

"Lorne, owner of this mighty fine establishment here."

"It certainly is...interesting," Buffy conceded, taking a curious look at the assembled patronage.

"Interesting my middle name, cutester. Now, why don't you fix yourself a drink at the bar while I have a quick convo with your boy here? Put it on my tab; my treat," he said, before hauling Angel towards his office, slamming the door soundly behind him.

Massaging his temples, Lorne let in a long breath before meeting Angel's soulful eyes and saying, "Have you lost your mind too? Bringing the Slayer here? Bad move, cupcake. Just because Caritas is sacred, non-violent ground doesn't mean that things don't happen from time to time. Like, a lot of the time."

"I know, I know..." Angel trailed off, slumping against one of the bookcases, shoulders hunching in with defeat, curling in on himself like a squashed leaf. "I just..."

"Wanted her to be part of your world?" Lorne offered, perching on the rim of his desk, gaze filled with sympathy.

Angel nodded hollowly.

"Just outta curiosity, how did you explain all this to her? She's not the Slayer anymore; she doesn't know any of this stuff exists."

"I, uh, told her it was one of those LARP things," the vampire admitted, staring down at his shoes like they were the most interesting thing in the world -which they weren't, 'cause they were scuffed to hell and *Angel, when was the last time you cleaned those, 1880?- obviously embarrassed. "She seemed to buy it, I think."

Krevlorne was far from convinced. "So she'll think all the horns and the tails and the breathing fire is just...people being really committed to their thing?"

A nod. "Right."

"Okay. I can work with that. But you owe me," the demon warned, opening his office door, the noise of the bar coming back like a rushing wave. "You owe me big time. Like, when you get married to her, I get to best man at your wedding. Not Wesley Wyndham-Picklehead or Charlie Cheesecake, okay? Me."

"Lorne, you don't even know my real name," Angel protested, only to realize the hole he'd dug for himself.

"Excellent. We'll start there. What is it?"

"Liam," Angel murmured, soft enough that he could barely hear it, pained enough that he almost wished he hadn't brought it up. "Liam O' Connor. God, I haven't said it in a long time. Not even Buffy knows."

"Well, it'll be a surprise when you sign the marriage certificate. Now, come on, it's ungentlemanly to leave a lady waiting," the demon said, making his way back to the bar, expecting to find the Slayer hunched over a martini, trying to act like she wasn't freaking out.

However, that was far from the sight that greeted them. It wasn't even in the same ballpark, or stratosphere, or freaking universe. Buffy Summers, Slayer extraordinaire, was with a Chaos demon, flinging back Tequila shots like they were water.

"Angel!" she cried when she caught sight of the great lump. "Hi! You know some really nice people. Zachariah here was complimenting me on my boots."

"They're real killer."

"See?" Buffy says with an air of vindication. "I have to admit, my expectations were pretty low, I was thinking you were gonna drag me to some Byron-esque hole in the wall filled with dripping candelabras and incense and little nooks where you can sit and brood surrounded by velvet curtains or whatever, but this is actually nice, really nice. And the talent, the time and effort all these people must have gone to for all this hair and makeup and costumes...it's inspiring. You, Angel, are just full of surprises," she exclaimed, poking him playfully in the chest, green eyes shimmering with an alcoholic haze. She was totally buzzed, and definitely enjoying herself,; Lorne considered his work very much done.

"And you are full of Tequila."

Buffy pulled back, an indignant frown marring her face. "Are you suggesting that I'm a lightweight? I can hold my alcohol like a champ thank you very much."

"Yeah? Wanna bet?" He grinned, because when was the last time it was like this with her? Was it every really like this? Was it ever fun just for the hell of it, pressing each other's buttons because they knew they could get away with pretty much anything when it came to their verbal tête-à-têtes?

Why had he been so scared for so long to show her that he really wasn't all doom and gloom all the time?

She bobbed her head enthusiastically, long hair almost swaying into someone's tumbler of whiskey -luckily they don't seem to mind. "Oh, I do. Twenty bucks says I drink you so far under the table you'll be going through to the basement."

"Make it thirty and you're on. Jerry, another round for me and the lady."

"Aww, you called me a lady." Buffy pouted. "I'm touched. Also, this is the twenty first century and I can pay for my own drinks, thank you."

"Yeah, you can," Angel agreed easily, cocking one hip lazily against the side of the bar, "but I'm gonna be getting thirty bucks from you already, so it seemed unsporting for you to part with any more."

"Oh, you are so going down," she said, but there was a bright, electric smile on her face, one that sparked his blood and made him feel loose and lively and free, like for five minutes he could sloth off the invisible weight he was carrying around and just be in the moment.

That was always the danger with her.

She burned so bright she blotted everything else out, even his own conscience and sense of reason.

He can never afford for that to happen again, no matter what. Even if she makes him feel human, he will never be anything but a vampire, the only one with a soul. The only one who can lose it.

Buffy does, in fact, drink him under the table.

No, she will never shut up about it.

Someone was going to treat themselves to a new pair of shoes this weekend.

Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Happy 2024! I'm just going to leave this here and pretend it hasn't been forever and a day since I last posted...

All my love, Temperance Cain.