All night. They'd searched all night long, Samantha even chipping in to help -which Cordelia thought had been super sweet, and she was half wondering if the girl was crazy, given that she'd decided she'd rather go through dusty old books on memory spells and magic than sleep- but even with an extra pair of hands/eyes, they hadn't found anything helpful. Glory, or Glorificus or whatever, was either really good at hiding her tracks, or whatever magic she'd used on Buffy, it was unique to her, and her alone, and new, which means it wouldn't be written down in any books.

Wesley emerged from behind a door, looking very much worse for wear. Even his cufflinks looked tired. Yet there was a spring in his step -albeit slight, like a worn bed spring rather than a brand new one- which could only mean one thing...

"Ooh, Wesley likes a girl!" she sing-songed, clapping her hands in an imitation of childish glee.

"Cordelia, I do not," he protested but he was going a very bright shade of red.

"You do! You want to stick your tongue in her mouth-"

Wesley objected, "Don't be vulgar."

"And hold her hand and take long walks on the Santa Monica Pier and look into her blue eyes and clean your glasses together," she finished, twirling in her chair.

"Are you quite done?" Wesley huffed.

"No." Cordelia held up a delicate finger. "Wesley likes a girl!" she repeated in the same relentless tone. "There, all done now."

"Thank God for that," Angel muttered, arms full of books, prowling into his office, getting more books, then making a beeline for the coffee. "I'll probably swing by the LAPD later, see if the coroner's written up their report yet. Although it won't tell us anything supernatural, it may help narrow things down," Angel told the group.

"These past few days, you've been at that precinct so much I'm surprised they haven't given you and the Plymouth your own parking space, maybe with a statue of you guarding it, just so everyone knows that it's yours," Cordelia grumbled, tapping on the desk as she waited for the computer to boot up.

"Actually, Buffy offered me her's, when she's not using it that is," he confessed, far too smugly for Cordelia's liking. Then again, she wouldn't have even taken 0.1%.

"First it's parking spaces, then she's offering to to sort your closet, the next thing, she's got her tongue in your mouth," Cordelia warned, feeling very much like the Seven Dwarves warning Snow White about letting the Evil Queen in the door -maybe more like Dopey, since he'd been her favourite as a kid. But in her case, the pretty princess was a two hundred and forty five year old vampire, and the Evil Queen was a former cheerleader and stabber of scary things, and she knew like Snow White he would not heed her advice. God, why couldn't she have been the Magic Mirror, or one of the cute bunnies, just hopping around and picking flowers? Why indeed.

"You seem weirdly obsessed with people's tongues this morning," noted Wesley with a gleam in her eyes.

"Maybe it's because she can't learn to hold her own," quipped Angel.

"Ooh, you got burned," Gunn whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, also going for some coffee.

Samantha trudged down the stairs, dressed in a pair of fuzzy purple pajamas, and asked on a yawn, "What's going on?"

"Nothing," they all said in unison.

"I didn't expect to see you up so early," remarked Angel lightly, subjecting Sam to the full weight of his piercing gaze over the rim of his mug. He really needed to tone that down in front of company.

"I didn't think you'd be up so early, either," Sam replied, but there was no accusation or fear in her voice, not like other people might have. Cordelia was really starting to like her, which was unusual for her because it took her a while to warm up to people. Sam seemed different, though, or maybe it was because Cordy couldn't imagine anyone evil wearing socks with bunnies on.

"I'm not, usually," Angel admitted, "but lucky for me vampires don't need sleep as much as humans do, otherwise we'd never get any work done around here," he said teasingly.

"Ha frickin' ha," Cordelia mumbled, "sorry some of us don't like looking as if we're zombie movie extras."

Sam made to get her own cup of coffee -God, that thing was getting more action than Casanova this morning- and Wesley helped, dumping in an obscene amount of sugar, even by Cordelia's sugary standards.

"Thanks," she murmured, making Wesley yet again turn that hideous shade of red.

He really had it bad for her.

The whole exchange reminded her, inexplicably, of Xander, of how the few times she'd allowed herself to be seen with 'Sunnydale's Biggest Dork' in public at the Bronze, he'd always been so sweet and considerate, getting coffee for her. And it hadn't been like how she'd ordered the other guys around, or that one time with Jonathan: she never had to ask Xander, or tell him how she liked her coffee, he had just known, because he had taken the time to notice, because he'd seen her, and not just her chest or the size of her Daddy's bank account.

She missed it, having someone in her life like that, someone who noticed. If Cordelia wasn't going to be happy like that, she'd make damn sure at least one of them was. Besides, it would be nice to have another woman around to break up the monotonous testosterone -and the lack of clothing originality.

Abandoning her computer, Cordelia moved away from the desk, grabbing Wesley by the arm and dragging him in the direction of Angel's office with a shimmering sense of purpose.

"Sorry, Sam, gonna have to pull away the English Stud Muffin for a minute, but I promise to bring him back in one piece!" she threw over her shoulder, missing Angel's look of amusement, Gunn's bafflement and Sam's frown of curiosity.

Shutting the door, Cordelia situated herself in Angel's chair -as she'd often done when he was out, for it was a fine specimen of leather appolstery- steepled her fingers under her chin and gave her best intense 'Brooding Batman Stare.'

Wesley slumped in the chair opposite, fastidiously cleaning his glasses on the hem of his powder blue shirt.

"So, Mr Wyndham-Price, anything on your mind?" Cordelia asked sweetly.

"I believe that's the first time you've said my last name without any derision or mockery behind it," Wesley observed.

"Don't get used to it," she said, but she dropped her facadé. "Why don't you just ask Sam out? It's so obvious you like her, you were practically drooling in her coffee just now, and I should know: I've done some cappuccino drooling, with Angel in fact, but that was like a million years ago. But, anyways, she's not evil or anything, and she seems to be handling the whole supernatural heebie-jeebies thing really well, which is obviously a major plus! What's stopping you, Wes?" Cordelia exclaimed, voice rising as she poured out her questions to him.

"Because I don't deserve her!" Wesley blurted, shame and regret coming off him in waves. "I grew up believing in the Watcher's Council with everything I had, never gave my place in it and the methods they'd instilled in me a single opposing thought. Then I was assigned to Sunnydale, and my ignorance put people in danger, you included. When Balthazar kidnapped myself and Mr Giles, I hid while everyone one else fought him off! I was a coward, Cordelia, I'm enough of a man to admit that, at the very least. I was spoon-fed so many lies and yet I never once rebuffed the hand that fed me, and there's no one to blame for that but myself."

"That was years ago: that's not you anymore," she insisted, hating to see him filled with such self-loathing and pain.

"Really?" he questioned. "Can you say that with a hundred percent certainty? Because I sure as hell can't. Yes, I ride a motorcycle now and own a few leather jackets, but that doesn't erase my past, nor should it, no matter the good I do here. Sometimes I don't think I've changed. Sometimes I don't think I deserve to," Wesley confessed, lowering his head, unable to even meet her eyes.

Cordelia clasped her hand over his. "Well, I think you have. I also think you're being too hard on yourself, as usual. We've all got a past, Wes, all done things we're not proud of. And in one way, that's good, because those things serve as a reminder for us, every day, to be better, to push harder, to go out into the world and show everyone who we really are, who we are now. Other people, they probably wouldn't understand that drive, but I think Sam would, and I think she'd like you all the more for it. Lord knows, this place is 'Doom and Gloom' central, but that doesn't mean our lives should always be like that, too."

Wesley disentangled from her grasp. "Cordelia, her mother was just murdered..." Wesley began to protest but she cut him off with a decisive wave of her hand.

"Okay, fine, maybe don't ask her out tomorrow, then. But when the case is over and everything's put to rest, though, I think you should consider it. She's alone, and she's going to need someone there for her, and I think you're the guy for the job."

"You do?"

"I do," she assured him confidently. Then she smiled. "And, if my memory serves correctly, you're not a bad kisser; I think you just need the right person to practice with."

Officer Buffy Summers was not a fan of paperwork, of this everyone at the precinct was most aware. Sure, she did it like everyone else had to, but it's not like she took any pleasure from it or anything, and she'd always put it off until filing it in was absolutely necessary. So, they would have all been immensely surprised to discover that she'd finished all of hers that particularly lunchtime, striding out of the officer's tiny bullpen and into the parking lot before anyone had even had a chance to open their tuna fish sandwich. But there was a reason for her uncharacteristic behaviour: she was on a mission, albeit a stupid and likely dangerous one, for dropping in on a possible murderers place without backup wasn't likely to be high up on the list of things that were sane and rational, was it?

But Buffy Summers was never one for admitting that she was wrong, or backing down once she'd made up her mind on something. She pushed away her nerves, glad she herself hadn't had lunch yet, Buffy took a breath and mentally reassured herself of where she was heading, making her way into the lunchtime traffic.

Pulling up to the apartment complex in her car -a tiny little Mini she'd affectionately dubbed the 'Ladybug' due to it's unique red colour- Buffy checked that her gun was concealed in it's holster, her phone was fully charged, and that she didn't look too much like a cop in her civvies (civilian clothes).

Joseph Wilcox lived on the seventh floor, she'd learned from Angel's file, so more stairs for Buffy. She reached his place barely out of breath, thanks to her rigorous exercise regimes at the Academy and going up and down the many floors of the precinct two hundred and seven million times a day.

Buffy took in the door, the grey, peeling paint beside it, the mold blooming in fractal patterns on the ceiling. there might be a possible killer hiding behind the door, ready to jump on her. Squaring her shoulders, Buffy opened the door -putting her sleeve around the handle- surprised to find it unlocked, and strode in like she owned the place, hoping that her show of false bravado would make her feel a little better. It didn't, but at least if there had been anyone lurking, it would have given them a damn good pause.

At first glance, there wasn't much to it, just your average, run of the mill apartment, barely enough room for a gerbil let alone people. It seemed someone had tried to put up wallpaper, and indeed the charming floral patterns by the kitchen and the light blues in the bathroom did brighten the place, yet an oppressive feeling still permeated the air, an echo of things Buffy couldn't imagine, and probably didn't want to. The couch opposite the micro-sized TV was a little worn, but did look rather comfy, magazine fanned out on the coffee table.

Yet there were no pictures, no art on the walls, nothing really personal or homey. It was like a doll's house someone had furnished to look like a home, but in actual fact looked and felt more like a crypt. She couldn't believe that anyone would choose to live here, couldn't believe that Sam had lived here for nearly a year -or so the tenancy agreement had stated in Angel's file. It seemed however, that Mr Wilcox had was still under the crazy illusion they were still together, or believed she was coming back, for Buffy looked in every room and found women's clothes in the closets, all with the tags still on. Makeup and toothpaste in the bathroom cabinet, jewelry laid out on the dresser with a disturbingly delicate hand.

"Can you say 'creepy' much?" Buffy murmured into the empty air. Making sure her latex gloves were firmly in place -she'd put them on the minute she'd walked in- Buffy went back into the living room, going through everything with methodical precision. She was well aware that Angel had likely already searched the place with a fine-tooth comb, but she wanted to see for herself, wanted to get a feel of this guy. This was his space, his home, and you could learn everything you needed to know about a person from what brand of deodorant they used and what cereal they preferred.

Buffy herself had always been a Lucky Charms gal.

Pulling out drawers, moving cushions and shaking out pillow cases, and yet she couldn't find a single thing. While she hadn't expected to find a secret switch on a bookshelf that led her to some evil lair (how would you even begin to hire a contractor for something like that?) or a folded parchment that read 'Evil Plan' in cursive script, but she'd at least expected to find something she could use, something she could take back to Angel. Something she could show Samantha, maybe.

There was nothing.

After three hours, Buffy collapsed on the couch, panting, swiping her hair off her sticky forehead with her wrist, careful not to shake any strands loose. Just for the hell of it, she stamped her foot along the floorboards lacking that wonderful beige carpet, the kind they used on cleaning commercials to better show up wine stains, and then their subsequent cleaning. There wasn't even a loose floorboard, they were all solid as far as she could tell. Defeat charged through her, heavy and fast. Great. She'd spent all that time, only for it to be a waste. And she still had two hours left on her shift, unless she switched. At this rate, she was probably gonna have to, especially if Angel decided to drop by. The thought made her smile. Getting up with a groan, she ran a quick eye over the place, committing the lay-out to memory, but also making sure she'd left no lingering trace of her presence. Satisfied, Buffy left the apartment, yet she couldn't shake the feel of the place.

When she returned to the precinct, annoyed at herself for not having found anything useful, she was in such a frustrated haze she almost didn't hear one of the other officers manning the front desk call her name. Changing direction -she's been heading for the showers- Buffy went up to the desk to see what was going on.

"Hey, Chris," she greeted the officer, "what's up?"

"Somebody left this for you, about an hour ago. Say, Buf, you got a secret admirer or somethin'?" the sandy haired officer asked, and not out of jealousy, but genuine curiosity, and maybe a little worry. They'd known each other at the Academy, and at a place like that you learned to look out for one another.

They were gorgeous. Beautiful, blooming sunflowers, mixed in with daisies and cornflowers and white roses. There was a note hidden among the foliage. For a minute, something inside her hoped Angel had sent them, but she knew that he hadn't, knew this was not a gesture she should be swooning over: she had the same feeling of dread looking at those flowers that she'd had at Wilcox's place. With a shaking hand, Buffy drew out the card, somehow knowing who had written it.

'Summer flowers for a Summer girl. I hope to feel that fire once again. -Lindsey'

"Buffy? Buffy, are you okay?"

Her head snapped up. "Fine." She plastered on a smile, thinking of that wallpaper, trying to hide the dark and the pain beneath. "Say, you don't mind getting Jackie to cover my shift? I've got a dentist appointment that I totally forgot about until just now," she lied smoothly, hating herself for it.

"Of course," Chris assured her. "Although that's a strange thing to remember after receiving some pretty flowers. I'm surprised you're not at them more, what with all the sugar you eat," he quipped at her.

"You're a real charmer, you know that, Chris?" she teased, picking up the flowers and making her way through the lesser-inhabited corridors until she ended up at the locker room.

That was how Angel found her forty five minutes later, knees curled up to her chin on the hard floor, still staring at the lovely bouquet as if a menacing hand was about to spring out of the floral arrangement and choke the life out if her.

"Buffy?"

It was the first time he'd said her name. Even through her fear, even through her tears, she still realized that fact.

"Buffy, what happened?" he asked, crouching down in front of her, chocolate eyes overflowing with concern for her, likely wigged out at seeing her in such a state. Unable to form the words, she merely jerked her head in the direction of the flowers, still in their box from the florist. Angel's gaze looked over them, then he read the note. A dangerous glint took shape in his eyes, anger the likes of which she'd never seen and never wanted to again, especially from him, especially when it was because of her.

"Don't do something stupid," Buffy pleaded, her voice coming out in a rasp. "They're just flowers."

"You and I both know they're not. They're a threat, a warning. He knows your name, Buffy. He knows who you are now. You've caught his attention, and trust me when I say it's something you don't want. Whatever's going on, Wolfram and Hart have just made their first move. You're staying with me."

No room for argument with that tone.

"I'm not." Like someone's tone would ever stop her from doing what she wanted.

"You just warned me about doing something stupid, so I'm gonna do the same. Buffy, this is getting dangerous. Now, I know you won't back away from this case, but at least stay at the hotel, even if it's for tonight. Are you really gonna tell me that you want to go home right now, alone, where you're probably going to be standing guard at the door, gun drawn all night, because of how scared you are? At least if you're with me, I can do the gun-pointing," he said, trying to be light-hearted, to make her feel better.

And God help her, she caved. A deck of cards blown over, there was no fight in her as she nodded. Slowly, gently, Angel lent across the space between them, caressing her cheeks with the back of his hand. They came away wet. She hadn't even realized she'd been crying.

"No more tears," he told her. "Certainly not over him. Don't let him get to you."

"Can you help me up? My legs have gone kinda numb," Buffy admitted. With a grin, Angel pulled her into his arms, steadying her as the blood returned to her stiff legs. She might have held on longer than was strictly necessary. He might have, as well, but she wasn't sure.

She wasn't sure of much these days.

"Does this sleepover involve chocolate?" she asked him sweetly.

Angel hooked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, damp from where it had stuck to her cheek. "Don't push your luck," he warned, however his words were entirely undone by his dazzling smile, more beautiful to her than any bunch of flowers.

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Here is chapter seven for you! This was really great to write, I love exploring Cordy and Wesley's relationship, and they're both so great to write for. So, sleepover with Angel...that should be fun, right? What transpires may surprise you...but you'll just have to wait and see!

Please, tell this dear writer your thoughts and drop me a review!

Until we meet again.

All my love, Temperance Cain