"I must say, I'd heard your account of course, yet seeing it for myself was an entirely different matter," Lindsey admitted to the woman currently lounging in the chair -his chair- behind his desk. Her eyes were not on the view most office dwellers would kill for, but on filing her nails with what appeared to him to resemble a shard of bone. So long as she didn't make a mess on his carpet, who was he to stop a goddess from doing as she wished?

"That hurts my feelings, Linds. I thought I was a trustworthy source," she pouted, her daringly low cut -even by L.A standards- red dress rippling around her as she crossed her legs. She was pretty, but not his type. He liked his women a little less Bond Supervillain and a little more grounded, although his recent feelings for Darla would suggest otherwise. Besides, a being like Glory, he imagined, would be impossible to shop for: what do you buy the goddess who has everything?

"Of course you are, Miss Glory," he replied smoothly, pouring himself a drink from one of his many fine crystal-cut decanters, "but a firm like Wolfram and Hart had to be careful about operating without every piece on the board. We've been blindsided before," he was shameful to admit. Angel was still a thorn in his side, and in the firm's, despite all that Darla had inflicted on him, tempted him with. And it was a thorn he saw, he felt, every time he looked down at his missing hand, every time he put on this plastic fake. Every time he saw his guitar gathering dust in the corner of his apartment. But Angel was not their focus at the present time, although Lindsey was sure he'd involve himself soon enough. A man like Angel always wanted to protect what he perceived as his.

"Of course you have. Pesky little heroes, strutting about in their capes and their leather. But now look at them, look at her. The Slayer, going on coffee runs for fat desk cats and impounding cars parked by fire hydrants. Isn't it...glorious?" She gave a delighted laugh at her own pun, but Lindsay did not return it. He wouldn't have pursued Glory's methods, for he had learned with experience that the best way to deal with people -or things- like the Slayer was to just get it over with and kill them. This mind-altering, this toying, a cat batting at a mouse...it was not in his nature. Lindsay had been raised better than to play with his food.

"While your plan does seem to be unfolding nicely, may I remind you that you're hardly at the finish line yet. You still don't have Dawn," he reminded her, taking a sip of his Scotch and leaning a hip against his desk.

"I know that," Glory snapped like a petulant teenager, "but the Slayer bitch hurt my feelings, my pride. Forgive me if I wish to revel in her being brought low for as long as I can."

"Do you have intentions to move soon, then?" Lindsey inquired, in case the information proved useful in his bid for vice-president, give him the edge over Lilah.

"When the time is right," she merely said with a wave of her polished hand. "Sunnyhell is currently cut off, and that's great, and I'm the only one who can get through my little bubble, but getting to Dawn...that will take work."

"Our resources are at your disposal," he offered magnanimously, but he mainly just said it so she'd get out of his chair and leave. That was his seat of power, no one else's. Not even a crazy goddess who could kill him with a blink of her lashes and then go out for ice cream and a spot of shoe shopping. "Wolfram and Hart is nothing if not generous, especially to those of such a...unique clientele as yourself."

Glory rose, sauntering over, wrapping her red talon-like nails around his white and purple striped tie. "Well aren't you just the sweetest little thing," she purred in his ear, the honey of her words undone by the power-hungry glint in her eye. She pushed him away just as quickly, unsatisfied by his lack of reaction.

"Come on, Lindsey. Don't you think I'm pretty?" She twirled her skirts for emphasis, a child playing dress-up in mommy's clothes.

"Very pretty," he told her.

Instantly, she was on him again, this time with that bone nail file pressing into the sensitive flesh of his throat. "Don't lie to me, Lindseykins. If there's anything I can't tolerate, it's lies." This was not the woman talking, but the goddess, the behemoth of power that roiled and roamed under her skin, under the pretty package.

Lindsey gave her his best smile. "You're gorgeous."

"Better." She flicked the nail file at his desk, where it embedded itself in the wood. Damn. He'd have to get HR to fix that for him. Glory hopped up onto the space beside it, wobbling it back and forth. "My time will come," she promised him darkly. "My time will come, and the world shall bow and tremble in my wake. Alters and effigies will be carved in my likeness, and the mortals will fall at my feet like apples falling off trees. And then I'll invite all my friends, all my nasty little friends, and they'll play with their new toys, all shiny and bright. But not for long. Lucky for Buffy and her worms, they won't be alive to see it."

The world was going to hell, then. But not before Lindsey had settled his score. He yanked the bone-shard out of his desk, extending it to her like a knight presenting his best sword to his lady. "You don't mind if I have a little fun with her before you do?" he asked with all his considerable charm.

She lapped it up like a cat with the cream. Glory's smile was positively wicked as she tossed out a bored, "Knock yourself out."

On a 'normal' day -if such a thing ever existed for such an organisation such as theirs- Angel was the cook in the 'family' -if you wanted to huddle a motley crew consisting of an ex Watcher, aspiring actress/Seer, ensouled vampire and a street fighter under such an umbrella term. But Angel was currently sparring with Gunn in the new training area he'd set up in the hotel's basement, having made a considerable effort to make it efficient, safe and not looking like a medieval torture dungeon. So Wesley took it upon himself to make breakfast for Miss Blackwell, figuring she could do with a warm meal rather than whatever leftover bagels and various chocolate pastries Cordelia had forgotten to throw out.

Some might consider the fresh orange juice, the pancakes with whipped cream smiley faces and toast with the crusts cut off a little excessive, and a great waste of time, for a client Wesley had only had two brief conversations with, and who's contents had been 'Hello, nice weather we're having', 'Did you find the place okay?' and 'What slimy ball from hell do you think is trying to kill you?' didn't exactly make one fast friends, but Wesley believed in making an effort. For him, he associated many memories with what people said was the 'most important meal of the day': his mother, flipping pancakes and listening to the radio, chiding him sweetly to put his books down every once in a while and take in the world around him, laughter and warmth and happiness and safety. He had always been close with his own mother, and although they had drifted apart over the years, he still loved her very much. He himself may have changed, but not that.

Angel had killed his own mother -or rather, Angelus had- Cordelia didn't really talk to hers and Gunn had never known his, so only Wesley could really at least try to understand and sympathize with what Samantha was feeling.

And she was rather pretty.

Balancing a breakfast tray he'd dug up from the kitchens in one hand and the morning paper under his arm, Wesley knocked on the door of room 316.

It opened almost instantly. Samantha stood by the low hall table, dressed in a long-sleeved white T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, drying off her hair. She gave him a bright smile, eyes crinkling behind her glasses.

"Hi, Wes," she greeted. "What are you doing up so..." Samantha trailer off at the sight of the tray in his hand. "You made me breakfast?" she asked incredulously.

Wesley willed himself not to blush. "Y-Yes," he stammered out. "I hope you don't mind, I just thought you might like something that didn't, uh, come out of a paper bag or wasn't ultra-processed."

She chucked the towel onto a nearby chair with enough carelessness that if he hadn't been so nervous he would have laughed heartily at, although he didn't think Angel would have felt the same: he was rather protective of this place.

"No, of course I don't mind. I think it's real sweet. I didn't think anyone would care enough, actually," she added as an afterthought. Another smile graced her face, this time more sly, yet also shy and hopeful. "That's a lot of pancake for one girl, and I'm sure you haven't eaten yet. Would you want to join me?" she asked him.

Wesley gave her a smile of his own. "I'd be delighted to. So long as I get to do the crossword," he countered, gesturing to the paper.

Samantha laughed, opening the door wider and ushering him in, sneaking a strawberry while she did so. "Sure thing, Wesley. I'm more of a Word Search girl anyway."

And wasn't that perfect?

Gunn didn't consider himself a violent person. Other people did, that he knew. And maybe he had been, maybe he had taken things too far sometimes in the name of 'justice' and 'doing what was right.' But he had to admit, to him there were few things in life sweeter than sparring up against a worthy opponent, of the breath sawing out of your chest, adrenaline running on high.

Angel certainly delivered on that.

Since working with Angel and his crew, Charles Gunn had learned a lot about himself, about his limits, were he stood and what he believed in. He'd also learnt a lot about fighting. This was an unique experience, after all: who else would be able to train with an actual vampire, learn their strengths and their styles, and then be able to deploy them on other vampires, albeit bad ones? It was a priceless tool, and Gunn had to admit he'd become so much better with it in his belt.

And the big guy needed it too, Gunn could see. The release, the easing of that tension and the weight of all he was and all he'd done, he needed that clear-headed focus that only a fight could bring, the rest of the world just fallin' away.

He seemed to need it pretty damn bad that morning in particular.

The training room was dark, the blinds shut down tight over the windows (another good exercise, being able to attack in darkness, since most vamps came out at night, anyways) the clash of wood as their quarterstaffs met filling the air.

Gunn was loath to admit it, pride being what it was, but most days he knew Angel could kick his ass in three seconds flat no matter what he threw at him, but he just chose not to, for he wouldn't learn anything then. But today...today something was eating at him, and he was taking it out through him.

Dodging a lethal swipe to the ribs, Gunn parried, but only just, wood screaming against his palm at the force of Angel's attack, the sheer power behind it almost enough to bring the guy to his knees. Almost.

Flipping on the training mat, Gunn used his momentum to get behind Angel, going for a sloppy swing to the vamp's back, but Angel didn't even blink before he was taking a swing at Gunn's legs, going for his kneecaps, trying to knock him down. But Charles Gunn was no bowling pin; he was a fighter, and he'd grown up in the streets, in the dark and dirty corners. So he knew how to fight dirty, too. Like a javelin, he threw his staff at the wall, momentarily distracting Angel.

Enough so that he could partially open the blinds, letting just enough sunlight in to make Angel curse and waiver in alarm.

"That's not exactly fair," Angel chided, annoyed but not angry. Gunn took that as a win.

"What's not fair is you tryin' to skewer me in half with your staff, dude. I may look tasty, but I do not do well on a barbeque. You wanna tell me what's got you so riled?" Gunn asked, hopping down and grabbing a bottle of water, buying Angel time to gather his thoughts. Or dismiss him entirely.

Angel mumbled, "It's nothing," putting his own staff back in its place on the wall, turning to go and brood/sleep until sunset, knowing him.

He wasn't giving up. "Like hell it's nothing," Gunn persisted, darting in front of him. "Angel..." he trailed off, fighting for the right words: fighting with his fists was much easier, and more natural, to him. "Look, I know we ain't having sleepovers, painting our nails and watching John Cusack movies, but I like to think that we at least respect each other, respect each other enough to not lie. If something's bothering you this bad, and I can help, then I want to, alright? You won't do me, or yourself, any good by beating the crap out of anything that moves."

He'd felt like that, after Alonna had died, when the rage had burned through him, so hot and so deep he wouldn't have been surprised if he started burning on the outside, too, spitting fire, and not in the rapping kind. Angel had helped him gain control, gain focus, given him ways to channel that burning into something useful, something to help other people with. The least he could do was hear the guy out.

Angel slumped onto the matted floor, legs spread out before him like a doll. Gunn sat across from him, legs crossed, spinning his bottle around, listening to the water slosh, the plastic squeak against the rubber.

"I'm not an easy guy to know," Angel admitted quietly, "and I'm an even less easier person to love. You know I had a family, right? You know what happened to them, who happened to them?"

Gunn nodded.

"So you can imagine, once I got my soul back, that I didn't think love was going to be on the cards for me. I didn't want it to be. But it was. I don't know why it happened, if it was all apart of The Powers' plan so I'd end up here, but...it happened. The vampire with a soul fell in love, with the Slayer no less."

"Miss Buffy the Blonde is the Slayer?"

It was Angel's turn to nod.

"Damn, that is some Romeo and Juliet crap you got goin' on," Gunn mused.

"You're telling me. I tried to stay away from her, didn't think I deserved her -of that I'm sure you can imagine- yet nothing ever worked. There was no way I couldn't be in her life, couldn't be around her. And for a time, things were normal-ish, and we were happy. I was happy, so much so that I'd wake up sometimes and wonder if it was even real, if she was something I'd just made up. But I could never have thought up a person as brave, and selfless, as funny and warm and bright and amazing and talented as her. You think that was hard?" Angel inquired, gesturing to their abandoned sticks. "Well, Buffy would certainly give me a run for my money," he acknowledged with a prideful smile.

"And now she's here."

"Now she's here," the vampire echoed. "And a part of me, albeit selfishly, is happy about it. Happiness, with me and her, it doesn't last long. It's always followed by pain, and heartache, and sacrifice. I don't want her to go through that again. I don't even know if I could go through that again. Because either way, Gunn, one of us is going to have to walk away. One heart always has to break the other, and break themselves in the process."

Gunn sat forward slightly, arms braced on his knees. "You know, Alonna and I" -despite having not said his sister's name since she died, Gunn knew Angel still remembered her- "we used to make up stories about our parents, like most orphans trying to comfort themselves, rationalize being abandoned so they can sleep at night and all. Sometimes, we'd say they were spies, and they were on a top secret dangerous mission, or they were adventurers who had been captured by pirates and they were trying to get home but couldn't. They were all like that. Then we grew up, and we didn't need those stories anymore; we had each other, and we were real, and we weren't going anywhere. But we still imagined, still hoped, that wherever they were, they were together, and that they still loved each other, and that they were happy. If nothing else, we hoped for that.

"Life's all about pain: mastering it, avoiding it, inflicting it in the case of some. Doing what we do, we have to be mindful of all three of those things. If I was in your shoes, though, I don't think I'd be able to deal with that kind of pain, leaving and coming back and leaving again. Staking my sister...I thought that was the most pain I'd ever feel in my life. Now, though...now I know there are worst things. That was only a second. Yet in my head, I see it all the time, I feel the pain, over and over and over. But I know that ain't real. For you, though...the pain of leaving doesn't stop, does it?"

Angel shook his head, brown eyes vulnerable in a way Gunn had never seen before. He wondered if anyone else had, apart from Buffy, if this open, honest, unexpected side had made her fall in love with him, despite it breaking all the rules in the book.

Gunn knew girls liked that sort of thing.

"No, the pain doesn't ever stop. It's like a tide, a wave. Some days, it's right up on the sand, swallowing everything up, choking and relentless. Other times, it's ripples, ripples spreading out, breaking the surface but manageable. The work helps. Doing good helps. It reminds me, on those worst days, that there was a reason I left, and it wasn't a lack of love, only a lack of self. I knew I was the man she loved, that I was the vampire given back his soul, but I didn't know what I was outside of that, and I wanted there to be."

Gunn gave him a pat on the shoulder and a gentle smile. "I think that's real brave. She doesn't remember any of that, though. In one way, you've got a blank slate, a fresh start."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Angel murmured, considering.

"Of course you hadn't, ya dope. It doesn't change anything though, does it?"

"No, it doesn't. I could fall in love with her a thousand different times in a thousand different ways, but there's only one Buffy."

Gunn dusted himself off, offering a hand to Angel. "Well, then, let's see what we can do to get her back."

It was well past midnight, and Samantha couldn't sleep. Moonlight filtered through the half-closed curtains, limning everything in a pearly white glow that she would have thought pretty, if her mind wasn't so occupied with other, more terrible thoughts.

Tossing a sweatshirt over her thin tee, she began listlessly tidying up her dresser drawers from where she'd dumped her stuff in blindly the day before. Wesley had stayed well into the morning, and it was either a miracle that he hadn't noticed the sock dangling from the bottom drawer and the jeans from the top or he'd been too much of a gentleman to comment on them. Probably the latter, since despite his glasses he seemed to have a keen intelligence and a sense of awareness she had rarely encountered.

He wasn't anything like Joey. Joseph. Even thinking his name was painful, like swallowing ice water, freezing her. Sam had thought she'd known him, that he'd lover her with his whole heart, and she him in turn. But he hadn't, or at least not enough, for she refused to believe that Joey could be that convincing for so long without developing some sort of feelings for her. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was her mother, lying on a slab in some morgue while strangers cut her up and examined her to see who had killed her. It had been them, together, for so long. Now it was just her, her and her memories that seemed to follow her wherever she went, biting at her heels, unable to let her rest.

The room became too stifling, too quiet. Padding across the carpet, she gingerly opened the door, relieved when it didn't squeak. Sam hadn't heard any of them go home, and given the lateness of the hour it wasn't unreasonable to think at least one of them was asleep.

She'd made her way to the balcony when she heard voices. Angel's and Cordelia's and Gunn's and... Wesley's. They were all awake then. When she'd come down earlier for a snack, they'd been holed up in the lobby, pouring over books, writing notes and asking each other questions. She'd offered to help, but Angel had only given her a smile and said, "You're a guest here, Sam, that means you get to rest and take some time for yourself. These guys are only doing it cause they're getting hoping to paid overtime for it."

"Are we though?" Cordelia had chirped brightly.

Angel hadn't said a word. But Sam had still helped by putting books away once they'd read them, lest they get confused and read the same book twice. She didn't know if it was all for another case, but something told her it was more personal. For a moment, she just watched the four of them, all still up, all still at it. She knew Angel was a vampire -he'd been upfront about that, and as long as he didn't try to bite her, she didn't see the harm- and she therefore assumed he slept in the day. But the rest...they were still human, and fragile, and had human needs. The level of dedication was amazing to watch. They worked so well, totally in sync, clockwork pieces all fighting together to create one perfect system. More than that, though...they were a family. She could see it in the way Wesley got up to make coffee, or the way Gunn moved the light closer when Cordelia struggled to see.

She'd moved around a bit, when she'd been little, her mother taking whatever jobs she could to survive. She'd been barely twenty one when Sam was born, and yet she'd never made Sam feel like a burden, or that she regretted having her. Sam had made friends in her time, people she'd tried to connect with, and she had, but they always seemed to fall apart after a while, dying like plants without water, or too much of it. And boyfriend's, she'd had those, but she'd thought Joey was the real deal, that he was her it. Sam was surprised she'd found him at only twenty three, which in hindsight maybe she should have picked up on, naivety she'd assumed she'd left behind in her teenage years.

Then he'd tried to kill her, one night when she'd gotten home to their apartment -yes, she'd even moved in with the guy, or demon. She had never suspected a thing. He was like one of those sleeper agents, ones who get activated seemingly at random, having built a life and then reveal their allegiance was always to something, someone else.

Looking at them, though, that was the real deal, that was real love, even if it wasn't about romance and candelight, and instead had likely been built on late nights with dusty books like these and perilous dangers she couldn't fathom.

Out of nowhere, Wesley lifted his head. Noting her by the balcony, he did a little wave and mouthed, 'Is everything alright?' She nodded, gave him a wave and a thumbs up, just in case he hadn't seen her nod in the dark. Satisfied, he went back to his book, and even from here she could tell how tired he was. He'd been so sweet to her, had made her feel so welcome and at ease. They all had. So it was only natural for her to retreat back to her room, through on a pair of sweatpants and some comfy slippers and join them, working long into the night.

And they all respected the hell out of her for it.

Author's Note: Hi again! To everyone that's stuck with this story, all I can say is thank you, and that it means the world to me. Are you enjoying it so far? Have you got any theories? If you have, I'd love to hear them.

Until we meet again.

All my love, Temperance Cain