Warning: Mentions of blood, drug use and death in this chapter.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You know, if you go over the speed limit a little, I'm not gonna make you pull over and give you a ticket. Are all Brits *this slow at driving, or is it just you?" Buffy teased, injecting as much false, bright cheeriness into her voice as she had the power to muster. It wasn't much.

If Wesley noticed, though, he kept silent on it. Abruptly, he gave her a quizzical, assessing look at where she was slumped in the passenger seat of Angel's Plymouth. Angel. While she'd been bantering with him, having a sleepover and eating popcorn with Cordelia and Sam...someone had lost their life. Someone who didn't deserve to. Someone who had family that would mourn them, that would grieve because she'd had a bad day and wanted to be comforted amongst people. She'd been stupid, and selfish, and this was all her fault...

"Angel sets impossible standards for himself," Wesley confided in her. "He thinks that he can be everywhere at once, that he can always swoop in at just the right moment every time when people need him. But he can't. Not even someone as...unique and talented as him can do that. Don't set yourself to similar standards, Miss Summers, I strictly advise against it."

Buffy fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve, unable to look him in the eye. "How long have you known Angel?" she asked instead, wanting to talk about anything else but her: she wasn't a big sharer at the best of times.

"I've been working for him for nearly two years, but I've known him for a little longer than that."

"Did you like him when you met?"

Wesley chuckled, reminiscing over some memory that was apparently amusing. "Lord no. I hated him. See, I was the...boss to a young girl and she was completely smitten with him although it was completely against company policy to date...someone such as Angel."

Buffy perked up, intrigued. "Why's that?"

"She worked in a library and he never paid his overdue book fines," Wesley explained stiffly.

She nodded as if this made perfect sense. "I can picture you in a library, stuffy and musty and all."

"Thank you?"

"You're welcome." The two soon grew quiet once again, the silence hanging between them like a sword about to drop.

"Am I really that easy to read?" she inquired to Wesley, surprising even herself with the bluntness of her own question.

Wesley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in thought, waiting for the light to change. "Yes, and no," he began to answer. "In the past, I haven't always been the best judge of character, but I've learnt a lot, working with Angel. That girl I told you about? I wasn't as good a boss as I could have been, and I was fired. In truth, it's the best thing that could have possibly happened to me at the time, except maybe coming across a signed, first edition Charles Dickens. So, I know a fighting spirit when I see one. Angel has it, and I think you do, too. But that kind of spirit can weigh heavily on a person, can make you feel like you're all alone, the burden of all the world on your shoulders. But no problem can be fixed alone, or if it can, it's still better fixed with at least two," added Wesley with a smile.

He continued on. "The work we do, our team and you, it's important work, vital, life saving I'd go as far to say. But it costs us something, I think, after a time."

"What's that?"

"Our innocence," Wesley replied solemnly. "We can never look at the world the same way again. If we have the power to help someone, we think we're obligated to help everyone. Yet people like you, like Angel, always seem to forget that if you try to save every life, you don't end up having one of your own."

Buffy gave him an appreciative smile. "Are all Brits this wise, or is it just you?"

"I don't know; I think we're a pretty wise bunch."

"Good to know. But you're forgetting one thing," Buffy said to him.

He arched a brow. "Oh? Enlighten me."

"Life isn't worth living, power not worth having, if you don't spend it or use it trying everything that you can to make this world better. Some people just aren't meant for the nine to five. I may live like that and be fine with it, but I think it's sad that Angel feels that way. He's lucky to have you all."

Wesley seemed to look at her with new eyes. "He is very lucky," he agreed. "If it wasn't for us, he'd go like the Tin Man and rust from sitting and doing all his brooding."

Even though they were on their way to a crime scene, even though she could still feel the guilt pressing down on her, waiting to overshadow every thought and feeling, Buffy just had to laugh; the mental imagery was too priceless.

A thought struck her. "Would that make you Dorothy, and Cordelia Toto? If so, I could totally see you working those silver slippers."

The Brit rolled his eyes to high heaven, and Buffy considered it a win.

There was still a few hours before sunrise, and although it was incredibly risky and likely stupid, Angel packed his coat with weapons as he waited for Cordelia to come back with Buffy's car from where she'd left it at the precinct. Lindsey's little stunt still rang fresh in his mind, and he wasn't going to forget it any time soon. A part of him regretted his past actions concerning the lawyer, just a bit, if Buffy was now to pay the price for them. But it wouldn't matter, so long as he could keep her away from Lindsey until all of this was sorted out. He was still sorry, though. He was sorry about a lot of things this year, how he'd treated his friends most of all.

If Buffy knew -she hadn't known before Glory's magic anyway- Angel knew she'd be disappointed in him. She'd try to understand, try to be sympathetic, but with how close she was to her own friends, he knew she'd call him an idiot, among other such things. And she'd be right. Looking back, there was no excuse, no sort of explanation that could ever make what he'd done right. He'd had something rare, something precious, a work of art...and he'd gone and torn it to shreds, had basically thrown a Molotov cocktail at it and watched it burn, just like he'd watch Darla and Dru burn. While he hoped that damage could be repaired, he knew they'd never trust him like they had before, chat and teasing and laughter wouldn't flow and thrive like it had before.

But he still had to try; Angel owed them that much.

Wayward Antiques was exactly as Angel had predicted, the kind of Hollywood boutique place that you could only afford if you knew what a thousand dollar bill looked like, or had a black American Express card. He had no idea how Miranda had ended up working here. A college art history degree, perhaps? Angel himself had thought about taking one, once upon a time, but had eventually decided against it because: a) vampire, b) he knew more about art than any living person, anyway. What would he have done with the qualification accept hang it on some wall?

Angel checked his watch. He had about two hours before sunrise, so the shop was obviously closed. He could either snoop around now or come back when there would be someone to talk to.

With a twist, Angel broke the lock. Why not do both?

Sweeping a cursory glance over the building for any kind of security cameras or motion detectors -and seeing none- Angel made easy work of opening the back door, which led into some sort of supply closet, stacked with empty cases and packing crates. Business must be doing well, he surmised. What he was really looking for was the manager's office, which he found tucked into the back of the space. At first glance, it seemed ordinary enough, ledgers and catalogues piled on the desk, a few surprisingly half-decent paintings hanging on the wall, and rows of file cabinets. Bingo.

If this was a movie, Angel mused as he began opening drawers, I'd have a flashlight clamped in my teeth and I'd hear noises just as I was getting to the file I needed. He thought about the last person he'd seen in such a position and smiled slightly. Lucky for him, this wasn't a movie, and his fingers soon snagged on Miranda Blackwell's employment records. Angel was just glad it was still there, since not all employers were so fastidious with their record-keeping. Not needing any light, he spread the contents of the file out on the desk, taking care not to disturb anything. Although he was a vampire and his fingerprints were, one might say, 'out of date' he'd had enough dealings with the L.A.P.D and their various crime scenes over the last two years to remain cautious. And no one liked paper cuts, anyway.

Letters of recommendation from previous employers, references and medical files. Nothing surprising, nothing unusual. No notes on incidents with customers or staff of any kind. She'd even been voted Employee of the Month seven times at her previous job. On a hunch, and just to ensure that Buffy didn't gripe about him missing something, he checked the records of her paychecks, glancing at the account they'd been deposited in. Angel paused. Most people didn't have a bank account in the Caiman Islands unless...unless they were a criminal.

Digging out his phone -and frowning when he couldn't dial the number properly due to his gloved hands- he pulled a glove off with his teeth and dialled a number that was as familiar as the earful he knew he was about to receive.

"Do you feel like stretching your acting muscles?" Angel asked Cordelia, making his way out of the office and shouldering the back door open.

"The absolute mastery of performance isn't a hamstring or a deltoid, Angel: it can't be stretched, only honed. So, what am I now, car pick-up service and your undercover work monkey? Don't I do enough already?" Cordelia whined at him.

Angel rolled his eyes. "Cordelia, this is your job. What you get paid for."

Cordelia huffed. "I have three jobs, actually: 1) Actress. 2) Seer Extraordinare. 3) Making sure you don't get punched in the face. Or restraining myself from punching you, depending on what day it is and what stunt you've pulled." He could picture her listing them off on her fingers as she went. Wearily, she caved and demanded in her no-nonsense way, "What do you want me to do?"

"How do you feel about doing some snooping? Hey, if you're lucky, you might get a vase or something equally gaudy out of it," Angel tried to entice her.

"I live for gaudy, and you never did replace my glass horse figurine. Alright, hit me the address. But I expect a raise for all this extra work, you here? I miss being my own boss."

"No, you don't."

Cordelia admitted, "You're right, I really don't. I hate being in charge: so much pressure to find the right outfit. Like I said in high school, Marie Antoinette was totally misunderstood."

The crime scene was...chaos. Vans and tents and a barely-restrained crowd of pedestrians surging against the police barricades, circling like ravenous vultures, desperate for some shred of news for the gossip mill to go and churn into sleazy, queazy butter, the hum of radios and walkie talkies and phone calls wailing like cicadas in her ears as Wesley pulled up behind a police cruiser, the engine of which was still running, as if someone had gotten out in a hurry and not even bothered to switch it off. This was bad. Very bad.

"Are you sure you'll be alright? You look a bit pale."

Buffy mastered a smile. "I'm fine. Maybe I've just been spending too much time with your boss. Thanks for the ride."

Getting out of the car as quickly as possible -unable to face Wesley's sympathy, or his pity- it was with a iron force of will that she kept one foot in front of the other, flashing her badge at the officer nearest to her as she ducked under the crime scene tape, it's vibrant yellow hue seeming to burn into her eyes. Her breath ragged in her chest, she made her way over to her C.O. but it was hard to focus on what he was saying and not on the memories that seemed so restless here. God, she couldn't have been a model or a train driver or a scientist or something, couldn't she? Buffy just had to pick being a cop. Well, an Officer. An Officer who was suddenly being tasked with rootling -a good word, she'd seen it scribbled as a crossword answer on a paper in the Hyperion's lobby- around in the nearby dumpsters for a murder weapon or anything else the killer might have left behind, although he'd already left something behind, apparently: a note. And not the nice kind.

She'd been ordered not to look at it, to curb her curiosity and not get in the Detectives way, but she found herself drawn to the evidence bag anyway, just sitting there, waiting to be shipped off to the precinct for analysis. It was hard to read, what with the plastic of the bag and the weak morning light glaring harsh angles, but Buffy managed.

'I had a plan. Everything was planned, of course it was, for I am nothing if not thorough. Mommy dearest was not meant to be my first, but she made me, I couldn't let her go on. Someone always has to pay. How many is up to you. I've got a list and I'm dying to go shopping. Who else is going to end up in my basket to Grandma's house? Who else is going to die before you give up, Sammy?'

'Love,

From ME.'

"Officer?"

Buffy whirled around, hand instinctively going to her waist for the gun that was currently at home. At the sight of a fellow uniform, she relaxed.

"You're not cleared to be here," the guy told her, although she didn't think he had clearance either, so he was he to tell her what to do?

"Sorry. I was just leaving," Buffy mumbled, making her way past him and back to where Wesley had dropped her off. Sighing, she rolled up her sleeves and removed an elastic band from her wrist, tying up her hair. "My destiny awaits."

Why couldn't she had gotten a destiny that was less gross?

"You look like hell."

"Actually, I think hell is probably a lot nicer than this. At least there there's the possibility of some Lysol."

"I dropped your car off at your place," Cordelia informed her seven hours and fifteen dumpsters later, keeping the toes of her shoes well away from the rubbish strewn across the sidewalk.

Buffy wiped a hand against her sweat, and grime, and mold and other unmentionable sludge-stained forehead, hair curling out of its elastic in the humidity and catching in the collar of her shirt. "Thanks. I appreciate it." And she did. Maybe Cordelia wasn't as bad as she'd thought.

"Have you really been out here since Wes dropped you off?" Cordelia asked, nose twitching in distaste, and likely avid disgust over how gross Buffy looked.

She nodded, going through another garbage bag which was mercifully not dripping anything on her. Unlike the last elven. "They say dumpster, I say dive in. Everything within a five block radius has been thoroughly checked. By me. And me alone. Because apparently everyone else was too busy getting the 'Real Cops' coffee and turning on the air conditioning for them, cause apparently reaching their arms across a desk to push the buttons is simply too much for them."

"Amen to that. Angel called a few hours ago, had me play Intel Gatherer at the antique place."

Buffy archer a brow. "And?" she prompted.

"Apart from some really nice lamps that would look great in my apartment, a hand mirror that was supposedly used in Little Women and an aftertaste of stale lavender and mothballs, not a thing. The whole staff were a big bunch of tight-mouthed folk, even when I bought something. Angel said her paychecks looked weird, and her employment record was a little to clean for his liking, but it's not like I could go up to them and ask, 'Hey, I hear your ex-employee who got murdered may have been involved in something shady, how much for the oakwood dining set?'" Leaning against the wall, she tilted her head forward to look over Buffy's shoulder at the smelly contents. "So yeah, my day was a total bust. What about you? Find anything, beyond a need for a shower?" Cordelia inquired with a slight smirk.

The officer rolled her neck, feeling the muscles in her shoulders pop with the motion. If only if thought to bring a neck pillow, she mused sarcastically to herself.

"You're implying singular, which is totally not gonna happen. When I'm done, there won't be any water left in L.A, I guarantee you," Buffy promised. Her shoulders slumped, her booted feet coming to rest up against a broken bicycle, it's handle-bar ribbons swaying sluggishly in the non-existent breeze, like birds too tired to fly. "I didn't find anything, either. People throw out the weirdest stuff," she exclaimed, gesturing to the half a microwave by her head, the dog chew toys still in the wrapper behind her and the perfectly intact wrought-iron fireplace guard floating by her shoulder.

"Hey, that's nice. I'd totally have that at my place. If I didn't have all that slime on it, of course." Cordelia got closer, gesturing to her own head with a twirl of her finger. "You've got some gunk in your air."

"I know. Wanna guess at where all the rats in L.A live? Yeah, that's right, in dumpsters. Wanna know who they like to throw food at? If you guessed me, you'd be right."

The other woman scrunched up her nose. "Gross."

"On so many levels," Buffy agreed. "I may have kicked a few, and now they're all gonna want revenge. There's gonna be little rat 'Wanted' posters with my face on them. My dirty, grimy, pissed-off face."

"I think you'll live."

"With this Bog of Eternal Stench perfume I'm sporting? Not likely," Buffy quipped, trying to stack the bags back into some sort of order. She'd made enough mess for one day.

"What's that?" Cordelia asked, pointing to something just out of Buffy's line of sight. Maybe she had garbage blindness, like snow blindness only yuckier.

Scrambling, Buffy searched the area she'd indicated, gloved hands roving through the trash. "I don't see anything-" Buffy stopped herself mid-sentence. Her hand landed on something flat, and sticky, and slippery. Even with her gloves on, she'd recognize that feeling anywhere, would never forget pressing her hands to Celia's bleeding neck, all that blood splashing on her hands. Afterwards, when the police had taken her home, she'd stood at the sink for hours, scrubbing her hands raw, feeling like Lady Macbeth, 'Out, out damned spot,' and all that.

Buffy pulled out the object. "'Is this a dagger I see before me?' Cause it totally looks like one."

"Yes, yes, thank you James. Give Karen my best. You, too." Putting down the receiver, Buffy let her head fall against the invitingly cool plastic of her desk, a pen-lid jabbing into her cheek which she dutifully ignored. After handing in the bloodied knife to Evidence for analysis, she'd trudged back to her floor of the precinct to make good on her Check List.

James had handed over the information without even a blink -well, a verbal blink, since she couldn't see if he was blinking or not, of course- and she'd obtained the necessary phone records easily enough, throwing around Detective Stevens's name to speed things along. She'd already called the Hyperion and relayed the info to Gunn to give to Angel, since he was apparently 'out.' Which totally sucked. There he was, Mr Private Eye, swanning about town smelling perfectly clean while here she was, sweating in a understaffed and underpaid precinct perfumed in the city's garbage and getting dirty looks for it, even though she done all of them a favour by doing the dirty work herself, and she'd even found a murder weapon! Had they found anything? No! The least they could do was not gag every time she got up to use the copier. She'd never live this down.

Not that it mattered, in the grand scheme of things. It didn't matter if she smelt like roses or what these people thought of her or even what Angel and his team thought of her: all that mattered was the job. That was all she was here to do, the only reason she believed she had survived that night, to do good. All that personal crap was just that, crap. Who cared if she had people in her life who she might like to be friends with, if there was another body in the morgue that needed her to bring them to justice, to tell their story? They'd just end up getting hurt, anyway, or they'd hurt her, would leave her like Celia had, or leave of their own free will. Buffy knew she dragged everyone down with her, she knew it. She often wondered if that was why her mother had left on her grand escapade, because being around her daughter had become too much, when she didn't go to the therapy sessions or the clubs or the dates Joyce often set up for her. She didn't want people, though. They weren't permanent. Nothing in life was permanent. Nothing except the job and her desire to do it.

At the end of the day, it was all she had, and all she ever would have. Fate had chosen her for this, and there was no saying no now.

Saying no...

Like a lightbulb going off in her head, Buffy had a plan. Not a great one, but a plan nonetheless. One that, unfortunately, required a trip to the mall.

The sun had long since set, the only light in Angel's office cast by the green banker's lamps on his desk. A plethora of paper crowded around him on all sides, making even his preternatural vampire eyesight begin to blur. Buffy had phoned him a while back informing him of the knife shed found, as well as the letter left by the killer and the details of the latest victim, Cassidy Reynolds, 27, from Wilmington, Virginia. Whether she'd been in the city visiting Sam or the killer had driven there and then brought her body back for the police to find was yet to be determined, given the fact that the initial coroner's report seemed to suggest she hadn't suffered from any blunt force trauma that would have been left at the scene but instead been drugged with some sort of paralytic coagulant, so that when he slit her throat, there wouldn't have been much blood anyway.

Her voice had been so distant on the phone, as if she'd been talking at the end of that tunnel. Angel knew that tunnel: it was called guilt. It made him ache, to hear her like that. As the Slayer, he'd never seen her show particular remorse over slaying vampires or killing demons; they were evil and had to be stopped before they hurt innocent people, simple as. Except for when Faith had accidentally killed Finch, one of Mayor Wilkins's top guys, and she hadn't gone to the police, hadn't ratted Faith out until the other Slayer beat her to it and implied Buffy had been the one to stake him. When she'd come to him, she'd been so scared, so sorry, coming apart in front of him in a way he'd never seen. But this, with this killer now...Angel didn't know how to help her. He didn't even really know her, but at the very least he suspected something had happened in her past that she felt responsible for, something bad, something that likely hadn't happened and was only a fake memory implanted by Glory because of the magic she'd used on her, which he was still no closer to breaking.

Worrying a hand through his hair, Angel plucked up his empty coffee mug, figuring he could do with a re-fill. He'd barely made it two steps when the lobby door swung open, emitting with it the sounds of the city's nightlife and one determined looking Officer.

The vampire smiled tightly. "Hi."

She didn't bother with pleasantries, she just cut right to the heart and said what she'd come there to say: "I'm going on a date with Lindsey."

Angel dropped the mug.

Author's Note: Hi, everyone! 'Tis I, back with an update at last! I've had a hard time with this one, trying to make it click and feel just right, but I'm pretty happy with how it's turned out. By the way, I wanted to address a guest review that was left on chapter two of this story, a joke I made about Angel looking at a The Princess Bride poster 'like a Trekkie looking at the newest Star Wars movie.' I know a Trekkie is a Star Trek fan; I grew up watching the exploits of various Federation Captains and their crew, I only meant he looked at it with disinterest, maybe an eye-roll, 'not another one of those' kinda thing. All in all, I just thought it was funny and I like making pop culture references. Like with this chapter, the 'Bog of Eternal Stench' is a big mentioned in the 80s classic Labyrinth, one off my all-time favourite movies. So, I hope that clears that up. I know it might sound trivial in retrospect, and I apologize if the joke wasn't clear, but I don't really like people insinuating I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to fandoms.

Anyhooo, moving on, please leave a review if you so wish. Chapter 12 is already in the works and starts with a perspective from a certain Scooby who hasn't had much time in the spotlight so far. Guesses are welcome!

Until we meet again!

All my love, Temperance Cain