Over the past few months, Angel felt he spent more time at Caritas than he did at the Hyperion. He was enough of a regular now that it wasn't an unusual sight to see him sequestered in a booth with Lorne or nursing a drink at the bar. And tonight was such a night.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favourite brooding vampire," Lorne declared, clad in another of his customarily garish suits -this particular number was orange with a blue shirt and a Paisley tie. He gave him a smirk, tipping his drink in a mocking salute. "Say, Angel, why don't you open up those pipes and give us a reason to get drunk, eh?"

"If it was anyone else but me, I'd say my feelings were hurt," Angel drawled, giving him a smirk of his own and leaning back in his corner of the booth. He'd warmed to the owner considerably since their first encounter, and his humour no longer bothered him. Much.

"Come now, Handsomeness, you know I'm just teasing. I think you're swell." Taking the seat in front of him, Lorne crossed an ankle over a knee and templed his fingers under his chin. "I know why you're here," he declared ominously.

Angel raised a brow. "Do you now."

Lorne gave a graceful sweep of his hand, twisting his glass on it's coaster. "But of course. I hear she's small, blonde, fiery and likes to tease you. Come to think of it, she sounds much like the last one..."

"Lorne," he warned with enough of a bite in his words to let the demon know this line of conversation would not end well. For him, anyway.

"Gosh, you're so tense. It's no fun. The Slayer's in town, and all is not well in Angelville," he said with a pout.

Angel fiddled with his own drink, unable to meet the Host's piercing gaze. "How much do you know?"

Lorne shrugged nonchalantly. "Not much," he admitted. "I'm a demon, so I know the basics for my own continued existence. I've heard rumours, about the power she has, that's she's different from the other Slayer's we've had. And I know that your heart's got her name written all over it."

The vampire tried not to balk at his words. "You can tell?"

Lorne tipped back his head, letting out a deep laugh. "Oh, Sugarplum, I could tell from the moment we met, even more so when you sang. But what I can't tell is what's got you so knotted up like a beginner's knitting class."

"It's complicated."

The demon gave him a look. "I think you know how to uncomplicate it."

Angel glowered. "I'm not getting up on stage.

"Come on, isn't this why you came here?!" Lorne exclaimed, eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mischief. "You've got to give to get the goods, that's how our economy works. That, and video games."

"Fine," Angel conceded. "I'll sing. Just for you, though."

Lorne clapped his hands, eagre as always. "Sing away."

Clearing his throat, feeling like the world's biggest fool, Angel scanned his mind for something to sing. There.

"'Don't tell me it's not worth tryin' for

You can't tell me it's not worth dyin' for

You know it's true

Everything I do

I do it for you.'"

If he'd been human, Angel knew he'd be blushing a mortifying shade of tomato. "Satisfied?" he ground out.

"Very," Lorne purred. "Good ol' Mr Maple Man. What's with the pick, Robin?"

"It was at number one long enough: who doesn't know the words?" Angel remarked. The Host gave him an unimpressed snort at his stalling. Finally, Angel revealed, "It makes me think of Buffy. She was always willing to fight -including me- to be together, and I'd do anything for her. I still would. And in all my life, there's nothing I've ever wanted more than to be with her."

Lorne was silent for a minute. He choked out, "God, that's so beautiful," before shaking himself and getting down to business. "You're in love," he began his assessment with. "Don't need to tell you that part. You're confused, because she doesn't have any memory of you or being the Slayer, so she's practically an average human. You want her, but you don't want to hurt her, which is sweet. And you think it won't be permanent, so why bother opening yourselves up to that pain again? Especially after your little Darla fiasco, which may have been more about your Slayer than you -or I- realized at the time."

"And? None of that helps me with getting her memories back," he said, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"It's a good thing you're dead; you'd be on your way to one helluva widows peak with all that hair tosslin'," Lorne mumbled into his drink. Knowing he was right, Angle decided not to chuck his drink in the demon's face. Admirable restraint: Wesley would be so proud.

"Look, you know how my shtick goes, Angel. I can only read the soul of who's singing. And since you're not the one with the memory problem, your soul doesn't have the answers you need. One thing I can say, though, is that the Powers are gettin' antsy. With the other Slayer toiling away in Sing Sing, no one's fighting the forces of darkness. Well, someone is, but I don't think the Powers believe they're up to scratch. Picky little devil's, or angels or whatever."

Angel crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward. "So if I got Buffy here..." he trailed off purposefully.

"And she somehow felt the urge to burst into song? I'd be able to fill in your gaps for you," Lorne finished. "Say, is this what's it's like to be part of your investigation team? I must say, I kinda like it," Lorne mused, knocking back the last of his drink.

"Yeah, like you being on my team would ever happen," Angel chuckled.

Lorne tried not to look affronted.

"Now I just have to find a way to get her here, and sing. Great. In the meantime, I'm meant to meet her for a stakeout in an hour. How the hell am I going to be able to stay cool and not give all this away if I'm thinking about how much I still want to kiss her?" he asked aloud, yet he didn't really expect an answer.

Lorne slid out of the booth, cradling his empty drink, giving Angel what he suspected was an encouraging pat on his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll do just fine, buddy. How hard can it be to be in a confined space with your ex honey for countless hours on end?" Then his face fell. "Actually, now that I've said that aloud, I realized just how hard that sounds. No wonder you're always brooding."

The pair had decided that doing recon on this laundromat should be their first step in gathering information. Yes, the clothes thing could be nothing, but they both agreed it was worth investigation all the same.

Buffy had insisted that Angel's car would be better suited for the job, and he'd readily agreed.

There they were. Sitting in his car, her riding shotgun next to him. Snacking on a box of Oreo's and fiddling with his car's stereo.

Angel had thought he was going to die many times in his existence, but being with Buffy in his car seemed like it would take the cake and actually do him in.

"Are you sure you don't want one?" Buffy offered the box to him.

Angel declined with a shake of his head, eyes glued to the traffic on the street. They hadn't seen anything yet, but now was not the time to let his guard down. Especially not over cookies he couldn't even eat properly. "I'm good."

Buffy popped another one in her mouth. "You're probably the only person I've ever met who could refuse an Oreo. You're special. For being anti-sugar. God, I don't think I could live without sugar," she mused, pulling her hair back, another cookie clamped between her teeth. He hadn't even seen her get that one out of the box!

A smile graced his face, and he couldn't help but tuck in a bit of hair she'd missed into her ponytail. "Thanks," she murmured, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

"You're welcome. The whole point of a stakeout is being able to actually see."

Angel mentally chastised himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid move. Despite everything Cordelia had said about her still loving him, he was still a stranger. So, boundaries. Boundaries were good, boundaries were important.

But when had he ever been able to stay away from her?

Needing something to do, Angel took a sip of his coffee, the heat a welcome feeling.

"Have you ever been on a stakeout before?" Buffy asked, stashing her sugary treats in his glove compartment with a snap. He absently hoped she didn't get crumbs in his car.

"I've done reconnassance of varying degrees," he conceded, "but I've never called any of them 'stakeouts,'" he said, putting air quotes around the word. "We're not in an action movie or a TV show, after all."

She laughed next to him, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "I know that, dummy. I was only curious: I don't know a lot about the P.I. biz."

"Well, it's a lot like your job," he explained. "But I'm the boss, and I get to pick the cases. I'd never turn down anyone who needed serious help, but I'm not gonna take a case just because it pays well and waste my time and theirs."

"That's admirable. Not doing it for the money, I mean. I'd imagine for most people that's not the case."

"When I first started out, I didn't even charge people," Angel admitted sheepishly.

"I bet Miss Chase was thrilled about that," she remarked with a snicker.

Angel rolled his eyes. Even without memories, the two couldn't get along, could they? "Yeah, she wasn't doing a happy dance about it. But she's come around since then."

"Glad to here I missed the worst of her. You're a quite the puzzle," Buffy seemingly blurted out of nowhere.

Angel turned to face her. "How so?"

Buffy turned as well. "You give off this whole 'dark and mysterious' vibe, this kinda lone wolf thing, and yet even I could tell in under five minutes that all the people you work with, you really care about them. You trust them, and I get the feeling that isn't a typical thing for you. You're caring, and yet distant. Ergo, Puzzle Guy."

"Chiaroscuro

Buffy cocked her head, ponytail bobbing. "Cheerywhatnow?"

Angel smothered a laugh at Buffy and her penchant for mispronunciation. He knew it wasn't a lack of knowledge, but rather the fact she liked to be funny, and didn't like to be obvious with her intelligence.

So he said, "Chiaroscuro. It's a term used for paintings done only with black and white. It's about conveying contrasts, the importance of balance."

"How you can't see the light without the dark, and vice versa?" Buffy supplied easily.

"Exactly."

"That makes sense. You like art then?"

Angel thought of the countless sketchbooks he'd gone through in all his years, of dark nights when nightmares that were all the more terrifying because they were rooted in his realest memories plagued him, the memories of Angelus and all he'd done, all he'd delighted and reveled in. Or, more recently, all the pictures he'd captured of his forgotten time with Buffy, having wanted some tangible proof out there in the world that they'd shared such a perfect day, rather than it only surviving as a figment in his mind.

"Yeah, I like art."

"I have no artistic skill whatsoever. I've always admired people that do."

He couldn't exactly tell her he'd had over two hundred years of practice.

Suddenly, Buffy tapped him on the shoulder, pointing through the windshield. "Is that our guy?"

Angel mimed a squint. "No, he's too short."

A beat of silence. Then, "You know, something just occured to me."

"What?"

"That you haven't asked me for my first name. I know yours, so isn't it only fair you know mine?"

Angel mentally cursed himself for such a glaring slip-up. He picked up his coffee, buying himself time. He merely said, "I like to keep things professional."

"Well, that's not fun," she pouted. More serious, she said, "It's Buffy, by the way. My first name."

"Short for Elizabeth?" he asked pointlessly.

She shook her head. "Nope, just Buffy."

"It suits you."

"Thanks. I think," she smiled up at him, green eyes meeting his. And he thought of another night, a night when she'd looked at him like that, the night that had set them down this road they were now on, a collision they'd naively thought they could handle: the night he'd kissed her for the first time, and how everything had seemed to stop, how there'd been nothing but her and him. And him betraying her with his deadly, deathly secret.

"Angel?"

"Hmmm?" he murmured distractedly.

"That's our guy."

Everything hurt. From her knees to her back to her arms. If her eyebrows had muscles, Buffy was sure they'd be barking in some kind of protest. Why did they always make pursuing perps look so much easier on TV? Probably because they can't run far without hitting a set wall, she thought bitterly. At least she'd had the forethought not to wear heels.

Leaning against the wall by Interrogation Room 3, Buffy tried to keep as still as possible as Stevens finally got around to interviewing Samantha Blackwell, even though it wasn't procedure to interview family members in interrogation rooms, in front of a camera no less. It didn't sit well with her. She could just about make out his disinterested tone, Samantha's calm yet firm replies. She knew all the questions the Detective would ask, and she also knew he'd get little answers. Buffy and Angel certainly hadn't got much out of their Dry Cleaning Guy. She'd gone on foot, Angel following in his car so they could block him off; yet he had barely said a word. He was either getting paid too well or he was scared of whoever was holding his leash. The boyfriend? Someone else? They didn't know who.

Buffy regarded Samantha carefully. She was pretty, with her light brown hair and freckles and her blue eyes, their puffiness -from tears she'd likely she'd in recent days- still noticeable even with her glasses. Buffy couldn't imagine losing her own mother. Luckily, Joyce Summers was travelling Europe, taking her gallery on the road and enjoying what the world had to offer her. Buffy was so proud of her, for putting herself out there and trying something knew. And she loved getting postcards from her, full of her stories. No, she couldn't imagine losing that.

She sympathized with Samantha: her own father had been absent for the last ten years of her life, and her mom had been the only real family she'd had. Buffy had had friends of course, at Hemrey, at Northwestern -before she'd dropped out- and at the Academy, but never anyone truly close. Not even any of her boyfriend's over the years had she developed any real sense of attachment or physical connection with. Especially after Celia.

A sound caught her attention: squeaking. The kind of squeaking you only get with expensive shoes, the Italian leather kind that are usually only worn by...

Lawyers.

Indeed, a retainer of them stalked the corridor like panthers, briefcases seeming to swing in unison. Two men and a woman, the taller of the men standing slightly in front, the leader of the pack. Great.

Buffy hoped Angel, who was currently watching the interview going on at the monitors behind the two-way glass didn't get caught, or come out any time soon.

The hot-shot came to a stop before her, a charming smile plastered like cheap wallpaper on his face. "I'm Lindsey McDonald of Wolfram and Hart. I believe your Detective is currently interviewing my client."

Buffy stood up to her full height, positioning herself more fully over the door, arms folding over her chest in defiance. "This isn't an interrogation, Mr McDonald, only an interview. Your client isn't being accused of anything, nor is she going to be charged at this present time, so you have no business here." At least, she really hoped that was the case, although she could see how someone like Stevens might think Samantha was guilty.

Lindsey leaned in closer, eyes taking her in. "That's funny," he drawled, "because that's not what I heard. Are you going to stop me from seeing my client?"

Buffy gave him a savage grin. "No, I'm not going to stop you. I'm just going to stand here, by this door, which I'm perfectly free to do so. Unless there's some new law about loitering I don't know about?" she remarked drily.

Lindsey let out a dark chuckle that stirred the hair by her face and set her teeth on edge. "Well, aren't you a firecracker."

"My fire won't be the only thing crackin' if you don't back off," Buffy warned.

"I'd like to see you try," he said, something dangerous glinting in his eyes.

"Lindsey," the woman said sharply.

Lindsey turned to her. "Don't worry, Lilah," he said with a lazy grin, "I got this."

"What's going on here? I thought I heard voices." Stevens opened the door, keeping it half closed as he demanded, "You lawyers?"

"We are, sir. And our client is being interrogated without legal representation present which is in clear violation of..."

Stevens cut him off bluntly. "Don't tell me what it's in violation of, boy. She may be our lead suspect," at this Buffy balked, "but there ain't no need for you yet. So get lost. And you," he turned to Buffy, "why don't you make yourself useful and get me some coffee." He shut the door so hard the blind rattled.

"Well, that went well," the woman -Lilah- mumbled.

"Enough, Lilah," spat Lindsay, running a hand through his hair.

He turned his attention back to Buffy. "A pleasure, Officer. I'll be seeing you again."

He strode off, cronies falling into step beside him.

Angel chose that moment to come out, staring at the lawyer's retreating form with a dizzying amalgamation of distaste, anger, concern and (fear?) on his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking as if he wanted to give her a hug and was restraining himself. But Buffy knew that was impossible: they weren't exactly best pals, and he didn't seem like the type for physical affection anyway.

Buffy let out a long breath, tension still wracking her body. "Lawyers," she bemoaned.

"Ah, enough said," Angel quipped.

Recalling his earlier expression, she turned and asked, "You know those guys?"

"I've had dealings with them. None of them fun."

"I think that Lindsey guy was trying to hit on me. Ugh, gross," she shuddered, missing Angel's look of pure fury that was gone in a blink.

Squaring her shoulders, she moved away from the door and down the corridors, quickly making a beeline for the break room that was usually deserted at this time in the morning. Shutting the door, Buffy unceremoniously fell into the nearest available chair. She gazed at him through a curtain of hair. "Find out anything useful?"

Angel flipped the chair beside her, straddling it and planting his feet firmly on the floor. It was kinda hot, actually. She banished the totally inappropriate -yet totally true- thought away. "Nothing I didn't already know myself," he conceded. "Minus the fact that Sam is the prime suspect, which I think is completely unjustified, and a little stupid this early in the case. Everything Sam told the Detective she'd already told me. Except about her dad: supposedly he tried to make contact with her five months ago but she didn't follow it up. Said she didn't want to get to know the man who had abandoned her mother so carelessly."

She could understand that.

"So, back to square one," Buffy declared, head slumping onto the table in defeat.

Angel's hand darted out, finger hooking her under her chin. "Don't get defeated so easily. The pieces are all still coming together, but something will turn to up. It always does," he said, intense and passionate, chocolate brown eyes pleading her not to be discouraged, that she wasn't alone and that they'd work it all out.

She believed him. She didn't know why, but she did.

"You're right," she agreed, attempting a smile that probably came out more like a grimace, due to her being hunched over. "We just gotta keep chippin' away at it."

"That's the spirit." Her discomfort must have still been present on her face, for he asked, "You okay? You gave our guy quite the take-down last night.'

She nodded. "Fine."

Angel smirked. "Liar," he declared, although there was no real fire in his words. Soundlessly, he got up and moved to the tiny fridge, scanning its contents. Settling on some ice, he grabbed a wad of paper towels and wrapped them around it. "Not as good as frozen peas," he acknowledged, "but I'd have been immensely surprised if the LAPD were focusing on eating their greens when stocking up on snacks."

He passed the makeshift ice-pack to her, hand grazing her knuckles. A kind of jolt seemed to pass from him to her, something she'd never felt with anyone else but had experienced with him twice now in as many days. Buffy chalked it up to exhaustion and fabric static and took the ice, putting it on her throbbing lower back.

"Thanks. You're a real angel." She said it with just enough sincerity to make him smile and just enough teasing to roll his eyes.

"Samantha was signing paperwork when I left; she should be done soon," he noted. "Want me to ask her a couple of questions, see if she knows anything about Laundromat Guy?"

She turned the idea over. "No," she eventually decided, "she's been through enough today as it is. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, I'm more concerned with why that law firm were sniffing around."

Angel asked, "You think they might be involved?"

"I don't know," the blonde admitted, "but something's telling me that our girl Samantha didn't hire them, so why were they even here in the first place?"

"I'll see what I can find out," Angel said, rising from his chair and spinning it back around. "Sam's gonna stay at the Hyperion, but are you sure I can't drop you off? You look exhausted." There was real concern shining there, a genuine worry for her well-being that she never had directed at her, unless it was her mother.

"Nah, I'll be cool here. You just make sure Sam gets to the hotel okay."

"As you wish," he said, and vanished out the door.

"You know, if it's gonna be too much trouble for you, I can always stay at a motel, fly under the radar and all," Samantha protested as they pulled up to the Hyperion, darkness having made it's bed for the night.

"What have I said, Sam? It's not charity: you're in real danger here. It's no trouble. Shocking as it might be, a hotel is supposed to have more than one person living in it," he joked as he cut the engine.

"So Cordelia and Gunn and Wesley don't live there with you? I would have thought it would be easier to all stay in one place, but I guess it would be kinda cool to have a place like this all to yourself," she mused as she got out, simultaneously pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose.

Angel was glad he was a vampire and had perfect eyesight: he didn't think he could stand wearing glasses all the time, especially having them fall off and the lenses keep breaking. He didn't bother to tell her that living in a place like the Hyperion by yourself may be cool, but was also incredibly lonely.

The vampire shouldered open the doors, noting Wesley's presence with a smile and a nod.

"Sam, you remember Wesley."

Wesley put down the book he'd been perusing, offering his hand. "A pleasure to see you, Miss Blackwell. I take it you didn't encounter any problems at the station?"

Sam took his hand, giving it a brief shake. "No, the Detective who interviewed me wasn't exactly warm and cuddly, but it's nothing I'm not used to. Then again, it's not like any of that's important, since he's not going to be the one to actually get justice for my mother, or keep me safe. Not like you guys."

At that, Wesley blushed, clearing his throat a little. "Right. Yes. Well...I'll show you to your room, if you want," he said, entirely flustered now.

Angel hid a laugh.

Sam smiled up at the Englishman. "That would be great."

With a wave at Angel, the two disappeared up the staircase. It didn't bother him, Wesley being sweet on her. She was a nice woman, and while there was no iron-clad rule about not dating clients, he still worried. He didn't want to see Wesley get hurt.

His mind was suddenly pulled back to his promise to Giles. Going into his office, Angel picked up the phone and set about filling the Watcher in.

But fate had other plans, for the former librarian didn't pick up the phone. "Yello, this is Xander Harris, keeper of keys and master of comics. How may I serve you on this fine, non-apocalyptic day?"

"Xander."

Despite being miles away, Angel swore he felt the guy tense.

"Howdy?" the Scooby offered.

Angel got to it. "I need to speak with Giles. Is he there?"

"No, he left about an hour ago: he should be at his place. What's up with you? You know, not that I actually care or anything..."

"He wanted to know about Buffy," Angel said, getting annoyed. Why else would he be calling, as Willow had pointed out last time?

"Oh, right, I almost forgot. You've been keeping an eye or a fang on her or whatever," he remarked with just enough bitterness. Angel sympathized, but now wasn't the time for hashing out feelings.

So he let the comment slide. Mumbling a thanks, Angel was about to finish the call when Xander declared, rather imperiously, "I've never liked you. I've never kept it a secret, either. We're all holding down the fort here as best as we can, but at the end of the day...we're not her. We miss her, and we just want her back safe. And if you're helping with that..." he trailed off again. "Well, then I guess maybe you deserve a little benefit of the doubt, just saying."

"Nice of you to say," Angel replied, feeling a little stunned. Had that much really changed since he'd left?

"Yeah, well, going out with an ex Vengeance Demon gives a man perspective. Be careful," he said and hung up.

Angel spared Xander a thought -only a thought- before calling Giles.

"Giles? It's me. No, hold your horses, nothing's wrong. I just wanted to fill you in on some stuff I'd gotten out of Buffy about her current... situation. You might want to put the kettle on, it could take a while."

Author's Note: Happy belated 25th anniversary! I'm so sorry about the lateness, I've been having problems with my tablet, nothing new there. I'll be posting chapter six right after! I do not own the rights to 'Everything I Do,' of course. What did you think of the song choice? And of Lorne?

Reviews brighten my day!

Until we meet again...in about five minutes.

All my love, Temperance Cain.