"Road to Nowhere"

Author: Alley(NYC)
Email: alleynyc@hotmail.com
Summary: When things heat up between two rival crime families, the lives of Angel Tully, a mobster, and Buffy Summers, a burgeoning artist, crash into each other.  Here's what happens.
Dedication and Thanks: This story is dedicated to both indiefic and Calla… indie for getting me excited about writing about my beloved neighborhood, Hell's Kitchen, and Calla, my dear friend and wonderful hard-working beta, for insisting that I write it.
Disclaimer: This is a not-for-profit work of fanfiction.  Any characters recognizable from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series belong to Joss Whedon and his associates.  No infringement is intended through the use of any of the Buffy or Angel characters. Mickey Spillane, Jimmy Coonan and Kenny Shannon are actual people, the latter two currently incarcerated for their activities related to the Irish mob in Hell's Kitchen.  That said, anything in this story about them is fabricated.  (If you are interested in learning more about the Irish mob in New York City, Hell's Kitchen specifically, check out "The Westies" by TJ English.  Excellent book.)   Any additional characters, for what they're worth, belong to me.
Notes: The elevator artwork was an installation (in the late 1990s) at The Kitchen, a performance space here in New York City.  Despite much research and numerous telephone calls to the Kitchen, no one can tell me whose work it was.  Apologies to the artist; no disrespect or infringement intended.

How far would you go for love?

He'd seen his first dead body when he was 12… 13?  Something like that.  He'd seen the body and he'd seen it done.  His father, Bill Tully, was still an underling of the McKee crime family then, trying to make a name for himself, and he'd decided that his boy, his *Angel*, wasn't going to be as soft as his mother might have wanted him to be.  His boy, Angel, was going to be a man if he had to beat it into him. 

Angel was hid behind crates in an old warehouse on Pier 64 off the West Side Highway.  He'd been told to be silent, make no noise, and to watch and learn.  He wasn't sure at the time why he was finally allowed to come along but he had learned long before, you *never* asked questions, you just nodded your head and stayed quiet.

But Angel was thrilled.  His father, his strong father, had trusted him enough to bring him along to his business meeting.  Yeah, he had to watch his kid brother, Will, and make sure they didn't make any noise and disturb things, but still.  How cool was this?

He had been worried about Will getting them noticed.  Will had a lot of energy, just couldn't sit still, always jumping around, playing cops and robbers and Kojak, always enacting chase scenes and shootouts.  But as they hid, Will stood motionless… watched the different men come in for the meet, watched their Uncle Sal pat down each participant like on an old repeat of Barretta and then watched the men assemble at a center table.  There were four men seated there and each had another standing like a guard behind him... behind his dad was his dad's cousin Mackey.  They were too far away to hear what the men were talking about but it looked serious - mean even.  At one point, one man stood up and everyone else stood quickly reaching for their backs.  It was weird. 

Eventually they all sat down again but then one guy started yelling at another and it got very heated. Angel was getting nervous, but his little brother, Will, seemed okay so he figured he was probably just overreacting.  But then the one guy pulled out a gun and Mackey tackled his dad to the ground and at the end, four men lay dead and his dad stood, holding a gun over one of them, just firing and firing and firing.

The gunshots were loud in the abandoned warehouse - the echo deafening.  Tears filled Angel's eyes against every desire he had, and he counted backwards from 100 by threes to try and convince himself not to throw up.  But it didn't work.

When his Uncle Mackey took a saw out of his duffel and began to chop a body into pieces... covering both the floor and himself in blood...  slicing tattoos off a pock-marked, brown-haired man he would subsequently discover was the dad of Will's classmate Sean, he quietly threw up everything he had eaten that day.

Will just stood and stared, like watching an interesting bug crawl by.

"What time are we meeting there?" Buffy asked, carefully cradling her cell phone between her ear and shoulder while clearing up the tempera disaster that was her last art class.  She loved the kids, but at age 7 and 8, it felt like clean up was more the job than teaching.  "Willow?"

"Oh, sorry.  Uh, I think they go on at 10, so that means, um, 11, so 10:30ish?  Shoot!"

Buffy could hear frantic backspacing and some shuffling of papers.  Willow could only semi-multi task.  Unfortunately, she tried to multi task a lot.

"Everything okay?  Whatcha working on for my favorite magazine?"

As predicted, all typing sounds ceased.  Buffy finished putting away the paints, closing the supply closet door behind her and, grinning, awaited her semi-weekly lecture on the anti-feminism that was Mademoiselle.

"You wouldn't believe this!" Willow whispered, always afraid of office spies.  "I don't know how our editors - *women*, no less - can, in good conscience, put out this crap.  And, for Pete's sake, don't say it's your favorite magazine!"

"But, Willow.  There's great value to it.  The article on blow jobs you wrote last month... it was both informational and inspiring.  Cordelia worships you for that, you know," Buffy said, suppressing a laugh.  

"You can't possibly -- you're picking on me, aren't you?"  Willow sighed and started typing again.  "But Buffy, you wouldn't believe this!  This month I'm writing ‘10 Things Women Do To Sabotage A Relationship!'  How *we* sabotage our relationships.  The first thing –"

"Before you get excited, rant loudly and lose your job, thereby having no way to support yourself, your lovely Oz and Grandma, what do you say you come over tonight after work, I make dinner and you can tell me all about it, in detail.  We can go to the Dingoes from here.  You want pasta or... pasta for dinner?  Or for a change I could make pasta?"

"Pasta's nifty.  6:30 okay?"

"Make it 7.  It'll give me time to gather and hide the truckload of Mademoiselles and Cosmos I have lying around."

By the time Angel was 15, he'd made a reputation for himself around the neighborhood.  Doyle, his best friend from grade school, had started a rumor in middle school – that Angel stood for "Angel of Death."  It helped a bit.  Until he reached 14, Angel'd been kind of small for his age.  And in their neighborhood, it was all about respect.  His dad said it had always been that way.  ‘Course, back in the day, the neighborhood had been all Irish, all about the gangs and the families.  Back then, the families really ran Hell's Kitchen.

In the late-seventies, when Jimmy Coonan had clipped Mickey Spillane and a bunch of his crew and taken over Hell's Kitchen... that was when Angel's dad was coming up.  He wasn't a full fledged member until after Jimmy'd gone up the river, until after the cocky son-of-a-bitch mayor declared the end of the Westies, what the rest of New York called the Irish gangs.  What a fucking idiot. The gangs were still going strong, they were just quieter now, less organized but just as brutal.  They would still do jobs for the Gambinos and Genoveses but, bottom line, they were both more and less legitimate than they had been.  It was a less violent time, Irish to Irish – or, less violent to the death, so to speak.  The cops turned a cheek so long as the only ones getting it were members of a family, so long as it didn't get out of hand and people started asking about it.  Luckily, New York was in a recession and the new mayor had bigger things to worry about.

Angel didn't like what he did, but it was the only life he knew.  Sure, he remembered back when his mom was still around, back when they lived in New Jersey in a big house with a pool, back when it was just his mom, his dad and him... before Spike.  Back then, his dad was happy and all's Angel knew was that he worked for his uncle in the city… ran a bunch of shoe repairs.

But then his life changed and his dad became a prick and would nightly get plastered and beat the crap out of him and Spike.   And then at 17, his dad's boss -- his Uncle Michael McKee -- had helped him out of a big jam and Angel had gone to work for the family…  started making a living beating the crap out of two-bit punks – his lessons at Bill's hands well learned – punks who were stupid enough to take out loans to gamble when they never ever won.  Assholes.

And when he made his first hit, he knew his future was sealed.

His heart was hard, he knew it.  But it was the only way to survive.  This was what life was and would be.  At least he had plenty of money and whores to keep him occupied.  Filled a certain void.  That Darla... she could really give head.

At 28, Angel didn't have to beat people up so much anymore – he was good with numbers and even though he'd never gone to college like Doyle, he spent much of his time in the back office at his father's Luxe strip club, keeping track of debts, the businesses, and who was doing what. 

Bill was old, he was losing it.  He was a scary motherfucker and he had enough together that no one was crossing him any time soon, but he'd just as soon play a round of golf than keep tabs on the day-to-day business of the family.  So, Angel was pretty much running things on the Tully end... the business side of it at least.  But Bill and, ultimately, his Uncle Michael, still made the calls... said if and when someone got whacked.  Angel was thankful for that.  He found that he'd never gotten used to the way the McKees did their business.  If he never saw another guy hack up another body, it would be too soon.

Will, on the other hand, loved to beat the crap out of people.  He'd always been ruthless, always taken pleasure in the pounding side of things.  But when Mickey Finn had gotten his girl Dru hooked on smack the year he was in juvie -- then he'd completely embraced the Tully viciousness.  Couple weeks after he'd gotten out, he'd been on a job – sent to whack Jimmy Spinella at the old, abandoned West Side yards.   That night, he was dragging a sobbing Jimmy down the tracks and he tripped over one too many of those old loose railroad spikes and when it came time to do it, instead of killing the guy outright... instead he'd pictured that fuck Finn and grabbing one of the spikes, he'd poked Jimmy's eyes out, stabbing him multiple times in the groin, the feet, the mouth, laughing at his screams... finally shoving the spike through the guy's ear and hammering it in with his boot... only finishing 'cause he got bored.

Will was 17.

Even the old-timers were awed by his cold embrace of brutality.  It was Michael McKee who nicknamed Will "Spike" and talked Bill into using Spike as Bill's enforcer.  Michael wanted Angel for bigger things, he said.  And what Uncle Michael said, went. 

Spike was the perfect muscle.  The story about Jimmy Spinella spread like wild fire through the streets and, within a week, when Bill and Spike came to collect, guys who'd been late, guys with a lot of excuses, found the money to pay.  There was never a problem with Bill's shylock business again.  Ran like clockwork.  All because of Spike.

But when push came to shove, Angel knew that Bill would call on him before Spike.  Spike may have been more vicious, but he was volatile... a loose cannon.  The very qualities that made Spike a great enforcer were the very qualities that would likely get him killed. 

And besides, Bill hated Spike... he tried to not let it be known, but when it was just the close family in the room, it was more than obvious.  Bill blamed Spike for everything that had ever gone wrong in his life.  Truly, Spike had learned how to be vindictive from Bill but oh, could Bill be vindictive to Spike.

Buffy didn't know how she would have survived without Willow.  When her parents had died and she had been forced to leave Los Angeles and move to live with her Aunt Jenny in New York, she had been almost catatonic with shock.  Totally devastated by her parents' loss, and then living in a huge city, in a seedy neighborhood, going to a seriously scary school... well, she had been terrified.  But Willow walked right up to her on the first day and started talking about feminism and how important it was to be a woman.  And didn't Buffy agree?

They were eight.

For years they had gotten each other through both the good times and the bad.  Buffy's breakup with Tyler (he cheated), Willow's unrequited love for their friend Xander (he also cheated, but they were never going out, but that wasn't the point!), and then the discovery that Willow's feminist mom who had deposited Willow with her grandmother when she was five while she went out and worked for the "cause," had actually been a heroin addict and prostitute and had died several years before her grandmother had finally admitted it.  They survived the subways and the gang violence and then as they got breasts (or at least when Buffy did), the big, scary guys sitting out on stoops making lewd gestures and comments.

And they survived Jenny's illness and death, as Buffy saw what little remained of her family follow the rest of it into the ground.  Willow had been there for her, moved in with her, slept with and held her as she cried and finally, helped her get back to school and back to life.

Even now that Willow lived in Astoria with her boyfriend, Oz, they were close.  "Sisters to the end!" Willow always said, reminding Buffy that she still had a family, if an unconventional one. 

At 19, when Willow decided to "explore her lesbian side," Buffy supported her -- even when her grandmother initially kicked her out for it.  Buffy and Jenny had taken her in... it was a given.  That's what families did. 

Willow experimented, Buffy kept her grounded.  Buffy lost, Willow picked up the pieces.  It meant the world to Buffy that after all Willow had done for her, she had been the one to introduce her to Oz, a friend of Buffy's from art school.

When Angel and Doyle were 13, Doyle's dad died.  Car bomb.  The police report read there was a problem in the radiator and it caught fire.  But everyone knew that Doyle's father was trying to get out... trying to ditch the McKees. 

He paid the price.

A couple of months later, John McKee and Bill Tully were called to testify against Kenny Shannon, the current number two man.  But they didn't talk, they were stand-up guys.  As a result, each was sentenced to 60 days out at Rikers.   When they went in, it was summer and without anywhere else to go, Spike was sent to spend the summer with his mother in England and Angel went with Doyle, his sister Anna and Doyle's mom up to their cabin in the Catskills.  The boys fished and swam and played outside the house.  Inside the house, Doyle's mother would merely sit, staring out at the water, saying nothing.

In the evening, 11-year old Anna would make spaghetti or tuna sandwiches or cereal for dinner.  Normally, the boys would have teased her about that, but one look at the vacant expression of Doyle's mom, staring out the window, stopped them.

Cold.

They'd done the same drill when Angel was 17.  Not that he needed the supervision, but Bill was in jail for a misdemeanor and it was fun up at the cabin.  Spike had gone to England again, begrudgingly.  His mother only seemed to want him for one thing: information about Bill Tully.  Always asking about the family finances... obviously looking to score some more bread.  It was clear, Spike said, that she was over it.  Over him.  But he went.  Didn't do to argue with Bill.

But that summer, the summer Angel was 17, that summer changed everything.  In one night, he went from running errands for the McKees for pocket money to being fully involved.  The night Penn hurt Dru.

After four weeks at the cabin, they had gotten bored.  So they came back to the city and did what they always did:  Doyle, Angel and his latest girl, Dru Kazinsky, scored some H, some blow, and hung out at Hell's Kitchen Park, killing time, melting in the heat, and for Angel and Dru, screwing in the corner, Dru's screams muffled by the passing traffic going up Tenth Avenue.

They were all pretty fucked up that night, and Angel was wiping Dru's breasts off with his wife-beater.  He loved to fuck her breasts... loved to come all over her neck, loved it 'cause she loved it... he loved doing it in public, in the park.  Loved the danger of it.  She had great breasts.… He loved that she wanted him, wanted sex.  Sure, she was kind of a whack job, but he tried not to talk to her too much.  Just kept her quiet by screwing her.  Relentlessly.

Anyway, he was cleaning up Dru.  Doyle'd shot some smack and was half gone, lying on a bench, hand buried in Cindy Lopez's hair as she gave him a blow job.  All when Petey Durbin, Tim Baranski, Andy Carney and Penn Halloran came in. They'd done some blow and were flying... Penn showing off his latest knife, a wicked long switchblade he'd gotten when his uncle'd gone to Mexico.  Angel'd basically ignored them until he heard Cindy's strangled yelp and, turning at the sound, saw that Petey and Tim had Cindy and Doyle by their throats, guns pressed to their temples.  Before Angel knew what'd happened, he was on the ground bleeding as Andy pistol-whipped him with a Glock 22.  Andy only stopped his relentless pummeling to yank a half-unconscious Angel up by the hair, gun pressed to the base of his skull ... forced him to watch Penn demonstrate how sharp his new blade was, making cuts in Dru's arms and stomach as he forced her over the bench, yanked off her panties and fucked her virgin ass as she sobbed and screamed for Angel to help her, please save her.  Please.

When Penn came, grunting like a pig, he threw Dru on the ground and kicked her for good measure....  Andy released Angel with one last hard blow to his skull.

"A gift from the Finns, motherfuckers," Penn said, laughing, as he started to walk away.

Those were Penn's last words.  When Andy tripped on a beer bottle as he was leaving, Angel took advantage and knocked him down, grabbed his gun, and shot Penn four times in the stomach.  He shot Andy twice.  When he looked around for the others, they'd run off.  Smart.

But after it was over, after the moment of satisfaction had passed... it hit him.  He'd been in a ton of fights but oh, shit, this was bad.  This was...

He was 17.  They'd try him as an adult.  And even though Dru was there, Dru'd say what happened.... He'd been in enough trouble to know they'd prosecute with everything they had.  He'd probably get the chair.

He was instantly sober.  But he couldn't move.  Head pounding from the beating, he heard Doyle behind him on the pay phone, vaguely heard him say he'd taken care of it.  He was still standing motionless when about five minutes later, his Uncle John showed up with Mackey and Sal.  They took the gun from his hand, and said they'd handle it.  All of it.  Angel knew what that meant... if the cops found no bodies, there could be no investigation.  Penn and Andy were going to disappear. 

Angel gradually focused and looked around for Dru who was curled up on the ground, rocking herself back and forth.  Grabbing his dirty wife-beater, he moved to stop her bleeding.  From what he could see, the cuts were superficial, but Dru... Dru was babbling about how the stars were talking to her, how she could see all the planets and the universe.  She smiled blissfully up at him and he was terrified.  She was so... gone.  Unable to see where her shirt was, he wrapped his over-shirt around her, and helping her stand, led her bleary form out of the park and back to his apartment, checking constantly for any police cars or cops walking a beat.

She didn't snap out of it until he tried to bathe her in the tub.  She started to scream and wouldn't stop.  He eventually had to go get his Aunt Edna to come help her.  He sat in the living room, listening to her sob and talk about how the angels had deserted her.  A part of him thought it was the blow but another part thought she was just lost.  She'd always been a bit delicate for the streets but she'd done alright.  Until now.

The next day, his Uncle Michael called Angel down to his office.  Told Angel he'd done good.  Protecting Dru.  Handling a situation.  Standing up to Penn, a nephew of Joe Finn, head of a rival family.  But then he said because of the cover up, he needed restitution.  The restitution?  Angel now belonged to the McKees. 

He was on the path to being made.

Both summers Angel had stayed with Doyle, they'd talked about girls, sex, fears, hopes.  They'd been close.  But they'd never talked about Doyle's dad... about what had happened.  Never talked about Angel's mom, neither.  There was nothing to say… without getting into an accusation match.  After Penn, Doyle knew that Angel was choosing the life but Doyle was choosing a different path. As soon as he graduated high school, Doyle went off to Michigan State and Angel thought he'd never see him again, college graduate and all.  But instead, college had ended and Doyle wound up offering himself in service to Michael McKee.  Sometimes you never could leave the life.

The Dingoes were their favorite band.  The best band in the world, even if they sort of sucked.  But that wasn't the point!  They were artsy and they were about something.  What exactly, no one really knew, but they were.  Buffy, Willow and Cordelia were sure of it.

There was no point trying to talk at a show, the music being deafening (Cordy stood by "the band is about deafness - that's *clearly* what they're about").  Because of this, the pre-gig dinner had pretty much become a habit. 

"Ooooo, Willow.  You shouldn't have," Buffy exclaimed, licking her lips at the sight of the Starbucks bag, standing aside so Willow could enter her apartment.  "Yummy!"

"Eh, no big.  Got to feed those addictions." Willow glanced around the room as she locked the door behind her.  "Where's Cordy?"

"Working," Buffy said, rolling her eyes.  They'd met Cordelia through Devon, the lead singer of the Dingoes... and while they liked her a lot, she was very evasive about her work life, never saying how she made money, yet always seeming to have it.  Devon said she was a model; Willow was convinced she was a hooker.

Timer beeping, Buffy turned back to drain and serve the spaghetti as Willow began recounting her day at work, making Buffy laugh at her antics.  It was a crazy life she led. 

"So you'll never believe who I ran into on the street the other day," Buffy said, dumping cold Ragu straight out of the jar onto the warm pasta.

"Riley Finn," Willow stated.

"How'd you know?"  Buffy huffed.  "Did Oz tell you everything?  About the show and all that?"

"No.  He specifically told me nothing and now you have to tell me because he has become even less talkative than usual.  All I know is there's a show and you're both involved and Riley's organizing it."

"That's pretty much all there is to know," Buffy pouted, sitting down and digging into her pile o' pasta. 

Willow stared at her, blinking.  "Okay, then, when is it?  What's the format?  Where is it?  Is it just the three of you?  What level gallery is it?  Is there the possibility of press? Will –"

"Okay, okay, you win, Madam Journalista," Buffy said, sheepishly, "I still have stuff to tell."

Abandoning her dinner and playing with her glass of skank-ass wine (trademark Cordelia), she told Willow about how Riley -- not the best artist in the world but definitely a great networker -- had arranged a mixed media show and got it associated with the "Brooklyn Underground Art Festival."  It was at a B-level gallery called Oho in Williamsburg, there was enough space for at least six of her big pieces, maybe more, yes, there was the possibility of press, it would be in late August so they had a little under six weeks to get it together and it would involve Oz, Riley, Michael Derry, Marcy Ross and Buffy, all in different formats.

"So one of the things Riley's doing is an installation in the elevator between the two floors... I think he said it's a camera on the mechanics of the elevator and then the monitor is *in* the elevator so you can watch yourself go up and down… something like that.  Typical kitschy Riley fare.  Oz is showing some of his computer-generated pieces, Michael's doing some probably extremely disturbing cartoon illustration stuff... you remember him, right?  He was the one who did that creepy three-headed drawing in the final SVA show where the rich red color turned out to be his boyfriend's blood?  He's so nice in person but...creepy."

Willow noticeably shuddered and poured herself more wine.  "Who's Marcy?  Do I know her?" 

"Mmm-hmm," Buffy said, taking the bottle and topping off her own glass.  "She's that really quiet photographer chick who always does photos of herself where she's disappearing."

"Ah, the Invisible Girl." 

"Just, ‘Invisible Girl.'  There's no ‘the.'  She's very anal about that," Buffy said around a mouthful of pasta.  "Will, you don't think the only reason he asked me is because, you know, the guilt?"

"Buffy, he says he doesn't remember.  I'm inclined to believe him.  First of all, he's a terrible liar.  He told Oz he wasn't interested in you and Oz said he couldn't stop fidgeting and sweating the whole time.  Second, if he *did* remember, don't you think he'd be thrilled about it?  Instead, I got to spend three nights of depressed Riley sleeping on my couch because he was ‘too despondent' to go home.  Trust me, if he remembered the sex, he... well, he probably still would have spent three nights on my couch, but then it would have been because you had blown him off - not in a good way -"

"Not without those tips from your article -"

"-- *because* you had blown him off because he's really so, so boring." Willow had her guilty face on, but didn't seem to be trying very hard.  "I'm sorry, but he is."

"You'll get no argument from me, as catty as I may sound.  He's a really nice guy but *so* not *the* guy," Buffy said, standing and carrying their empty plates the three steps to the sink.  "At least I'm not a virgin anymore."

"You'll find your Oz, Buffy.  There's an Oz for you out there somewhere," Willow said, reaching the sink with the rest of the dishes.

Buffy just smiled and grabbed her in a hug.  "I love you, Will."

He liked Darla a lot, he would never hurt her, but he could see it in her eyes when they were fucking.  She'd be picturing all the things he'd done... knew he could reach out and snap her neck and the expression on his face would never change.  That he hurt people all the time... it was all in a day's work for him.  She looked scared.

When Doyle had come back from Michigan, one of his college friends had come to town for a gig at CBGB's.  Angel'd tagged along... they'd just moved in together and he was trying to be neighborly.  And he was glad he did because he made a discovery there about college girls.  They played it cool, they didn't give the air of being hot for sex, but ultimately?  A lot of them were there to get fucked.  Pretty much for the price of a designer beer.

It was good to screw these chicks who only thought of him as a local bad boy... they looked at him with hunger, with aggression.  But never with fear.  He was just a guy to them, some random guy who would satisfy their need in the moment.  He could tell they'd never seen the things he'd seen, wouldn't even imagine his life was what it was.  They'd never seen anyone they loved die, bleeding on the pavement.  They'd never seen anyone die by their hand.  As much as they loved to screw him, as much as they let him do things to them that he thought even Darla might balk at, for them it was just a good time.  They'd get laid and go home, never knowing how close they'd been to death. 

As he got older, he went less and less.  It got harder to be there, harder to reconcile their trust with what he had become.  But every once in a while, usually after a particularly vile job, he still needed to be with them, see himself reflected in their eyes.  Needed to pretend for a few hours.

Sometimes, it was the only thing that kept him sane. 

Four weeks of waitressing, teaching, babysitting and -- the biggest evil of all -- making nice to Riley, was making Buffy *crazy*.  And she hadn't seen Willow in weeks... she hadn't even seen *Cordelia*, who, yeah, was a friend, but who actually upped the Crazy Buffy level -- and Buffy was starting to lose it.  When Oz got a last minute gig at CB's, Buffy actually jumped up and down like the preppy cheerleader she never was.   

The cheering seemed to freak Oz out.  Probably some growing up in Wisconsin flashback.

Two hours later, the club was already packed, she couldn't find Willow and couldn't seem to get even *close* to the bar.  And having not gone out in weeks, she had actual fundage... well, $15, but due to the crowds, she couldn't even get her longed-for Vodka Collins. 

"Can I help you?" 

Buffy looked up and found herself staring at a lickable dark hottie sitting at the bar.  Faded jeans, wife-beater (ooo, muscles), black button-up shirt hanging open to show the goods…. Serious delish.

"You work here?"  Buffy shouted back.  "Cause, wow, my job sucks.  I don't get to drink... whatever it is that you're drinking -- at my job..." 

And she was babbling.

He smiled a gorgeous smile.  And now she was in danger of drooling.

"What's your job?" he shouted.

"I'm a teacher... among other things.  You?"

"I manage a bar."

She grinned.  "You manage a bar and you come to a bar to unwind?"

"I see your point," he said, laughing.  "But this isn't *my* bar.  I just get to come here.  And enjoy," he finished suggestively, leaning in and sweeping a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

Her stomach dropped out and she found herself grinning ridiculously as she stared up at him.  His smile was infectious.  She wondered if he had any idea.

She was still smiling when the bartender arrived and stood waiting patiently for instructions, for what looked to be about two seconds.  She quickly shouted out her order.

Her intermediary, stood up, slammed his drink, handed the bartender a twenty and began to walk away.  "I hope you enjoy your evening," he said, smiling.

She watched him go.  Damn, he was cute.  Turning back to the bar, she was handed a blissful Vodka Collins and told to keep her money.  Mr. Gorgeous had already taken care of it.

If it were anyone else, he would have ignored.  He had just started to enjoy himself, finally forgetting the day and relaxing.  Couple of scotches, gorgeous girl flirting with him, but then just when their conversation began, there was Doyle waving frantically at him from the doorway.

Now standing with Doyle and Spike in his father's office, he realized the old bastard had sent Doyle to get Angel because (a) Doyle was most likely to know where he was and (b) Doyle was the one person Angel wouldn't blow off.  Say what you want about the old man, he was a smart fucker.

"So, Da.  What is it?"

Bill Tully sat back in his chair and glared at the three men standing before him for several moments before speaking.  "I hear tell that Joe Finn is moving into our territory," he bit out.

Joe Finn's name was revered in the Tully household.  True, he ran a rival gang and thus stole some of the Italian Mafia's valuable business away from the McKees, but more importantly, he was the reason the Tully home had been a miserable place to live for 20 years. 

When Bill had met Katherine, it was as if the world had stopped turning.  At the time, he'd been living in the States for going on three months, working at his Uncle Sean's shoe repair, and she'd flown in having broken the heel off one of her shoes.  She seemed all flustered, muttering about a job interview and she was near tears, about to be late.

She was the loveliest creature he'd ever laid eyes on.  Blonde hair, huge brown eyes.  He forced himself to concentrate on the repair job but ... oh, she was such a beauty. 

The heel was totally gone.... It was beyond a five-minute job, so he asked for her size and quickly found some other woman's already-repaired shoes and gave them to her, deciding he'd deal with Mrs. Baskin if she came in before the blonde returned.  It was worth the risk to see the smile on Katherine's face as she scratched her name and phone number on a piece of paper, swearing she'd be right back as she ran out the door, yelling "Thanks!" the whole way. 

True to her word, an hour later she reappeared and they exchanged fixed shoes for loaners, Katherine thanking him again, profusely. 

"It's my pleasure, miss," he remembered saying, smiling as he told her.  He couldn't stop smiling at her... there was just something about her eyes.  "But ye look so sad.  Don't tell me they didn't give you your job?  That couldn't be possible."  Lovely thing like you, he thought.

"Not really *impossible*," she laughed.  "My father had found out about it and put a stop to it.  Serves me right for trying to get a job with one of his friends."  Bill's confusion must have shown on his face, because she continued, "Oh, I'm not allowed to work.  The women in my family don't work... doesn't matter that it's the '70s and that women's lib is here.  No, the Cowan women were made to grow up, live off Daddy and marry well.  But I did so want the job.  I want to work and contribute something to the world, you know?  Well, of course you do.  You provide a valuable service everyday.  And," she continued, looking down at her shoe, "you do beautiful work.  Now, how much do I owe you?"

"Aw, it's on the house.  My pleasure, miss."

"No, really, let me give you something."

He thought for a moment and decided to be straightforward.  "Dinner," he flirted.  "Ye owe me dinner.  Do you think your father would let you do that?"

She turned bright red.  "Uh, no, he wouldn't.  Ever."

As she turned and began to leave, she smiled back at him, devilishly.  "How's Friday?  Does Friday work for you?"

It was his own fault things got so screwed up.  Katherine was pregnant, disowned and now married to him.  If it seemed like he married her to do the right thing, he didn't.  He realized when she told him about the baby, that he'd loved her from the first day they'd met.  He was incredibly happy but very worried. Katherine was from a rich family and was used to the finer things.  On his salary, she could barely afford a new hat, if she wanted one.  And she deserved that and so much more.

He had confided in his Uncle Sean about the situation who, after several long moments, told him that to make *real* money, he should get involved in the *real* business -- that of his brother, Michael McKee.

So he'd joined Michael and was glad for it.  It was grisly work, that was for sure, but really only a bloodier version of his youth:  turf wars, battles over respect... yeah, it was all the same.

But when he saw his lovely Katherine building a beautiful nursery... ah, it broke his heart.

His father, Angelus Tully, came to visit shortly thereafter... wanted to see the lovely lass who stole his boy's heart.  He cringed when his Da told her all the stories of his youth... carrying on with a gang which led to two years in Industrial School... his friends and their battles.  But Katherine just chided Bill, and then requested more stories of his beloved Ireland.

Katherine adored Angelus and spent every moment with him, taking him around New York and showing him the sights.  They went to the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building... she had even managed to get tickets to see Pippin with very good seats.  They were having a grand time, more fun than Bill had expected.

Before they knew it, it was the night before Angelus' departure.  Knowing it would be awhile before they saw him again, Katherine arranged a farewell dinner for him down at Ned Kelly's.  At the end of the long meal, his father had just stood to make a final toast, when he collapsed from a massive heart attack.  Despite the desperate efforts of Bill, Sean and several others, by the time the ambulance had arrived, Angelus had been dead for several minutes. 

Katherine was crushed and was treated for shock.  She'd never seen anyone die before.  She loved Angelus and now he looked so cold... his gentle soul was just... missing.

When she gave birth five months later, she insisted they name the baby Angelus after Bill's father.  He fought her on it but she was undeterred, claiming that no matter what they named the baby, the child *would* be called Angel.  When she cried for the third time, Bill relented.  He hated to see his Katie cry.  Couldn't bear it. 

She was so proud of her family... her beautiful son… her wonderful husband, Bill, who, by the time Angel was two, was (she thought) running several shoe repairs for Sean, and had managed to buy them a small house in New Jersey with a yard for Angel to play in.  She had a few women friends, but spent most of her time with Angel, doting on him, taking him to plays and museums... explaining art and music to him.  She wanted him to grow up the way she had... immersed in the arts and the arts community.  Bill reluctantly allowed Katherine to raise Angel her way – it seemed so important to her that he have that kind of education.  When the boy got older, he'd take a hand in raising him, make sure he knew how to take care of himself, make sure he ended up a man.  No son of Bill Tully would end up a faerie or a weakling.  That he wouldn't allow. 

They loved being parents and decided early on to try again.  Sadly, it would be a long time before another baby came.  Katherine seemed to get pregnant quite easily but each time, a little before she reached three months, she would miscarry.  After their third loss, Katherine dissolved into a deep depression, going to bed as soon as Angel did, getting up only when he was ready to start the day.  Bill honestly thought if it hadn't been for Angel needing his mother, she wouldn't have gotten out of bed at all.  

They began to argue.  Bill thought they should just stop, just be happy with the child they had, but Katherine refused to use any form of birth control, not wanting to diminish their chances.  He relented but her next pregnancy ended the same way.  And he started dreading their marital bed and her tears.

With Katherine and Angel in New Jersey and most of his dealings in New York, it became easy to just avoid the situation entirely.  He began to spend nights in town, nights with lots of alcohol with the boys and cheap women... dancers, prostitutes, whoever was at the bar that night... getting more and more involved in the "family business."  Things were picking up with the Finns, a small family that was particularly vicious.  The McKees had information that they had killed off his cousin Ian and this had set his Uncle Michael off.  It had the potential to get ugly. 

Little did Bill know that one night spent with a dancer would end up being the nail in the coffin for his and Katherine's relationship.  One stupid night.

Angel would remember that day for the rest of his life.  The day his little asshole of a brother had shown up.  William. 

Motherfucker.

He had been doing an art project with his Mom in the kitchen while she made dinner.  She was wearing her blue sundress and making meatloaf and mashed potatoes... his favorite.  It was his little sister Kathy's second birthday and the rule was that on your birthday you got your favorite foods made.  And while Kathy liked both of those dinner offerings, Angel had acted as her "interpreter."  Katherine had just smiled and renamed him "Devil" for the day. 

When the knock came at the door, Angel jumped up to answer it, dragging Kathy along behind him.  His father had told him at breakfast that as a special birthday treat, he'd hired a clown to sing Happy Birthday for her.  Kathy was obsessed with clowns.  Angel couldn't figure it out, but ever since they had gone to see the Big Apple Circus the month before, if a clown came on TV, she would just go silent and stare in wonder.

But it wasn't a clown.  Instead it was some lady wearing a lot of makeup and perfume that made him sneeze. 

"Mom!"

"Yes, sweetie, what is it?" she called out, drying her hands on a cloth as she walked to the door.  "Can I help you?"

"Katherine Tully?" the woman asked softly in a clipped, British accent.

"Yes, can I help you?"  Katherine repeated.

"I need to speak to you, *Mrs.* Tully.  In private, please.  It's about a personal matter.  I'm a friend of your husband, Bill."

"Oh?"  His mother looked frightened and confused.  That scared him - he'd never seen that before.  She was always so... assured and confident.  "Well, please.  Come in," she said, telling Angel to watch his sister, and leading the lady into Bill's study and closing the door.

He didn't find out what they'd talked about until hours later when his father came home.  The lady had left the house, leaving behind a small boy of about 6 or 7 - William - who had been produced from the front step on her way out.   His mother had told him to play with William, that she had a headache, and that she and Kathy were going to bed.

At 9:00 p.m., she appeared again and told Angel, William and a silent Bill Tully that she had made up the spare room for William and that it was time to go to bed.  When Bill tried to talk to her, she turned and left the room as if he had never spoken, as if he had never been there at all.

The next day, life continued on as if nothing had ever happened, with two exceptions: William lived with them from then on and Katherine never spoke to her husband again.

"You think he's gonna try something," Spike stated.

Bill stood and backslapped Spike hard, slamming him into the wall.  "You stupid boy!  You're always saying things that don't need to be said.  ‘Do you think he's going to try something'," he mimicked.  Snorting and then ignoring him, he turned to Doyle.  "I trust Finn less than I ever did.  He thinks he has one up on me because I let his family earn a bit while he did his 15 years in the joint.  Thinks I'm weak when I was fair.  And now, *now* he's thinking of coming back?  I want to take. this. family. down.  I've had it with his stupid threats and deriding.  If he thinks he can just horn in on our territory, take our work – It may be time we send a message.

"Mickey's too obvious a target.  I want to hit Joe Finn where it hurts."  He began to pace, rubbing his knuckles.  "I want Spike and two other men following his *unconnected* son... the prissy one... Riley… as well as Finn's ex-wife and his daughter, Caitriona.  Keep tabs.  I need to know where they are so if we need to strike, we strike at them."

Turning to Spike, he threatened, "You think you can *not* fuck this up, boy?"

"Yes, Da.  I'll make you proud."  Spike turned and left, having been dismissed. 

"Fucking moron," Bill muttered, shaking his head.  Glaring back up at Angel and Doyle, he exhaled a deep breath.  "Now, you two, where do we stand on the shy?" 

Angel would feel worse for the way Bill treated Spike, if it weren't for Spike's existence.  He felt guilty that he hated him and he hated that he felt guilty ... it wasn't Spike's fault it was all fucked up.  But that didn't really matter.  It was Spike's arrival that had driven them all apart.

It was clear that Bill felt the same because Bill definitely treated Spike far worse than he did Angel.  Hitting him all the time, putting him down.  Angel just tried to stay neutral or stay out of it altogether.  The bottom line was: Bill was a bastard, a real mother of an asshole.  The best place to be in relation to Bill Tully was the other side of the planet.

He and Spike had been close once.  When Katherine and Kathy had first left, it was only a couple of months after Spike had come.  They'd both been motherless, homeless really, when you counted that several months after she left, Bill decided they would all live in Manhattan from then on.  He moved them to a sizeable three-bedroom in the West 50s, but it was hardly a home for the two boys.  They learned quickly that to have respect, you needed to fight.  For Angel, it was quite a change from afternoons at museums and Little League. 

But they soon learned plenty about causing damage, being beat up by their dad whenever he'd come back from drinking.   That had never happened when Katherine had still been there - sure, Angel'd gotten the belt when he misbehaved, but never did he get beat up.  But once they moved to Manhattan, they were bruised, either by their father or neighborhood boys, for years, continually, until they finally got big enough to scare off adversaries.  Or in Spike's case, he let it be known that he carried a gun.  Always.

While Victoria Watson, Spike's biological mother, may have caused the breakup of Katherine and Bill's emotional relationship, Joe Finn caused the breakup of the family.   From what Angel had gathered over the years, as everyone was silent on the issue, Katherine had taken Kathy into the city that day to do some shopping.  They had been near his father's office, for reasons still unknown, when the shots rang out.  His father's cousin, Brian, who had been shadowing and protecting Katherine for years, had knocked them to the ground as the car drove by, bullets spraying everywhere.  He had been killed.   Two young girls skipping Double Dutch on the sidewalk in the front of their apartment building lay dead beside him.   Caught in the crossfire.

Later that night, finally back home after hours spent at St. Clare's treating their minor injuries, Katherine quietly asked Bill if what the police had said was true.  If, in addition to running a string of shoe repairs, Bill was actually a mobster associated with the Westies, the local Irish mob.   If, in fact, the stores were a front for his "dealings."  When he didn't answer, she went upstairs and packed up the boys' and Kathy's things and told Bill she was leaving him.

Bill told her it would be easier for her if she left the boys behind, but Kathy, as a toddler, needed her mother so Katherine would be permitted to take her.

"Permitted?"  Katherine bit out acidly.

Bill never raised his voice, merely continued lovingly talking to her, telling her, his eyes shining with tears, that she'd need to get lost so that Finn didn't decide to use her... and their daughter... as a bargaining chip.

"What if they did?  What if they caught us?  What would you do?" she asked softly.

Bill said, brokenly, "Nothing.  I'd have to do nothing."

She sat at the kitchen table and wept.

Later she came into a half-asleep Angel's room and kissed his forehead and stroked his cheek.  "I love you," she said.  "I'll *always* love you, my sweet Angel.  Remember that."   

When the boys woke up the next day, she and Kathy were gone.  Angel never saw or heard from them again. 

Spike loved basketball.  It was a good way to blow off steam on days when things were kind of stagnant.  He, Angel, Doyle and Jimmy Mac would go down to the 47th Street court and get a pick up game going with a bunch of the neighborhood guys.  It could get violent... there was body-checking in their version of b-ball, but that was just part of the game.  They'd play hard, end up good and tired, ready for a shower and some beers. 

Calmer.  At least for a time.

When Angel was 21, on a hot August day, they were playing with a group of the regular guys.  As they finished up their game, Spike went off to get a couple of sixes at the corner deli as the others toweled off with their long-discarded T-shirts.  While waiting for Spike to return, Angel and a local drug dealer named Gunn stepped over to the corner to talk.  Gunn had asked to speak to Angel before the game and Angel was more than happy to hear him out... they'd been neighbors for a long time.  Plus, Gunn was their connection with the Italians' drug business.  The McKees might have a no drug rule having watched O'Terry fuck up his whole family by letting that action in, but that didn't mean they didn't hire out.

"What's going on?  You got information for me?" Angel's entire body was tense.  Gunn wouldn't approach for something trivial.  He was loyal, he'd been tested... his crew didn't really play for any side but they knew better than to double cross anyone.  Their information was clean if not particularly confirmed.  And these days, they'd take any words they could get.

"Hey, man.  It's cool.  But I'm supposed to give you a message."

Angel stood there waiting.  Tried to see into Gunn's eyes, tried to get a bead -- Gunn gave nothing away.  But then he never did.

"There's this British cat, didn't get his name.  All's I know he's a faggot, lives down on Christopher.  Anyways, he comes up to me yesterday and says he'll pay me a C-note to give you an envelope.  I check out the envelope and it seems okay.  No poison or nothing, I figure, or I'd be dead now, right?  Anyways, I do it.  I take the envelope and get my dollar and I'm out.  So here you go."

Angel ripped open the envelope and Gunn retreated slowly, giving Angel the privacy he knew was expected.  Seeing something flash across Angel's face, he asked a question despite knowing it was probably better to just leave it.  "You all right, man?  S'all copacetic and shit?"

"Yeah, man.  It's cool," Angel said, fingering the fancy lettering on the envelope.  His Uncle Rupert.  His mother's step-brother, whom he had never met, had never known existed, wanted to see him, to get to know him.  To tell him how his mother was.

It was that last piece of information that drove the stake into his heart.  Just turned him to dust.

Angel was still staring at the letter, when Spike returned from his beer run.  He asked Angel about it -- Angel just lied and said it was specifics for the job they were doing that night.  He and Spike were to hit the Maseo brothers.  Take ‘em out… make it clean.  Make sure they were deader than dead by morning.  And sink them in the river. 

You didn't cross the McKees... any asshole knew that.

He borrowed Spike's lighter and set the paper on fire, turning away, leaving it behind to burn.

He couldn't get her off his mind.  God, all he'd done was buy her a drink and ask her what she did.  A completely nothing conversation.  But there was something about her.  She looked... kind.  Sweet.  And so beautiful.  Blonde like Darla but *nothing* like Darla.  Darla was a good fuck, a fucking lunatic, but entertaining to a point.    This girl... she was just, different. 

He'd come back from an afternoon of beating up on Tommy McClansky.  Again.  Tommy just couldn't pay back a fucking debt.  He didn't understand why the guy bothered to bet on the horses if he never *ever* won.  But he continued to borrow and continued to bet and it was Angel's responsibility to make the point, make an example out of those that didn't pay.

His first instinct was to send Spike but sending Spike would've gotten Tommy killed.  Angel'd known Tommy since they were in eighth grade and they'd palled around together a lot in high school.  He genuinely liked the guy which meant that Angel had to do his own "enforcing" when it came to Tommy McClansky.  Angel got to go beat up someone he cared about.  It was expected and he hated it.  He just hated it.

Maybe Spike was right.  Maybe he was going soft.  Ah, fuck.

He really needed to get laid.  He really needed someone sweet.  Sweet like he thought this girl was.  Fuck, he never even got her name.  And although he had told no one, he'd gone back to CBGB's the next day and got the names of the bands that played the night before from the guy who ran the door.  In the past three weeks, he'd gone to more shit rock performances of these bands than he'd ever wanted to in his life, but he never saw her at any of them.  Who knows, maybe she was just there for a drink and didn't even go for the music.  Maybe she wasn't even from the city.  Maybe she was married with two kids living in Wyoming.

Fuck, he was totally fucking losing it. 

He was sitting at the bar at CB's in another attempt to run into her when he looked up and saw Doyle waving to him frantically from the door.  It was like a repeat of that night except no tiny blonde.

Another missive from Bill, most likely.  And if Angel didn't show, Doyle'd take the heat.  He'd never screw Doyle.  Never gonna happen.

Angel slammed his drink, threw a $20 at the bartender and left to meet him.

Dru had always been kind to Will.  At first it was because he was Angel's little brother, but then her life had... changed... and Will was there for her.  And she fell in love. 

She'd gotten out of the mental hospital when he was 15.  The other kids in the neighborhood all knew where she'd been and never let her forget it… teased her relentlessly, called her "Psycho" and other nasty names.  Angel tried to take care of her, tried to make amends for the night Penn attacked her, but she seemed terrified of him.  In fact, the only person she seemed comfortable around was Will... "her protector." 

And he worshiped her.  Called her his dark goddess.  She was beautiful and she taught him about making love, about passion.  He'd written her poetry, awful stuff he realized in retrospect, yet she adored it.  She adored him. 

But she had many dark nights of the soul.  She'd spend days sobbing, speaking incoherently.  It terrified him.  The only thing that seemed to calm her was getting stoned... and they'd do it often.  When she wanted pot, he got it for her.  Coke, 'ludes, dust, he'd take care of it.  He'd do anything.

He was walking away from a buy, a big one, when he got busted.  It wasn't the drugs that did him in, it was the unregistered concealed weapon.  He got 18 months in juvie.

She'd written faithfully for six months, calm, sweet letters.  She seemed okay.  But then the letters stopped.  Will was beside himself... begging Angel to find out where she was.  Was she okay?  Was she dating someone else?

So Angel asked around.  And he only wished it was what Will thought.  Seems Dru's mother, Irina, was dating Mickey Finn.  He was about ten years older than Dru and, despite his charming, good looks, everyone was well aware of what a sick bastard he could be.  He was his father's right hand, in charge of the Finn's prostitution, and he liked to recruit himself.   And then rule with an iron fist.

He'd done his usual on Dru... played nice, got her hooked on smack, made her beholden to him and then turned the tables on her... forcing her to be an Eleventh Avenue hooker in order to support her habit.  It was Gunn who filled him in on that last part.   Last he'd seen her, she'd offered him a blow job for just one needle of H.

Angel could've left it but Will was his little brother.  And he certainly owed Dru.  So he'd gone over to Eleventh each night to get her out of there but she was nowhere to be found.   Asked around.  No one'd seen her.

Two weeks later, she turned up, needle still in her arm, at the West Side yards.  She'd been dead for weeks.

Will was never the same.

"So it seemed to go really well, didn't it?  I mean *really* well.  And that guy, he was from some paper.  Granted, it wasn't the Times or the Voice but it was a paper, an actual paper with... papery things.  God, I hope he liked the paintings," Buffy babbled.  "Oh, and everyone else's stuff!"

Riley smiled at her.  It was a perfect night.  A happy Buffy dressed in a gorgeous ... piece of black fabric - practically not a shirt - and a miniskirt.... A full moon and stars... well, most likely planets - who could see stars in New York?  And, oh, yeah, a seemingly successful opening.  There'd been some interest in one of Oz's pieces and Marcy'd sold several photographs.  All in all, a success.  Definitely.

"And then that guy wanted my number to discuss a commission!" Buffy gushed, but then backpedaled.  "It was a commission, right?  It wasn't just to get my number?  I mean - God, that sounds so conceited of me - but you do think it was about art, right? Not about a date?"

Riley smiled again.  "You look beautiful tonight, Buffy, without a doubt.  But I'm sure it was about work."

"Oh, good.  Great!  I mean, how much would I charge for a commission?  How much do people charge for that?"

Buffy continued to talk and Riley continued to smile.  He'd convinced her to walk back to Manhattan across the Williamsburg Bridge and then go home from there. *To his home* he hoped.  God, he couldn't believe he'd had sex with her and been *so* drunk he only vaguely remembered it.  I mean, come on, she was incredible.  And a beautiful painter.  Very sensual.  He vaguely recalled her being very sensual in bed.  Nervous?  That sounded familiar but who the hell knew.  Ugh, worst kismet in his life.  Definitely.

"Oh, Riley.  Can you wait here a sec?  I'm just gonna jump into Mickey D's and use the little girl's room, ‘kay?"

"Do you want me to come with you?"  Great, Rye, completely dorky remark.

Buffy giggled.  "No, I think I can handle it.  Be right back!"

Riley leaned against the wall, watching Buffy skip across the street into McDonald's.  What a night.  Great weather.  Not humid at all.  Beautiful girl. *Happy* girl.  Who might want to have sex with him.  Things were looking good.

Buffy finished up in the bathroom wondering what she could do, besides sleep with him – 'cause, never gonna happen (alright, never gonna happen, *again*) – that would be a nice Riley thank you treat.  She had a little cash... still hadn't had a lot of going out time lately due to the show....  Well, she thought, a soda to start.  He had said he was thirsty a minute ago. 

Yup, definitely a soda.

And then she'd splurge for a cab.  Looking through her purse she saw that after the gigantic Coke she bought Riley, she still had about twelve bucks, definitely enough to get back to Manhattan.  They could walk over there if he wanted to walk some more.  Lord knew she had the energy, but Brooklyn at two o'clock in the morning?  Looking around at the 2 a.m. Williamsburg McDonald's crowd?  Probably time to head back to the big city.

He looked up as she smiled, holding up the soda through the glass window of the store, waving at him while she waited for her change.  He was raising his hand to wave back as the black car driving past him backfired loudly.  One, two, three times.  She knew that sound.  She'd grown up in a shitty neighborhood.

As the car screeched away, Buffy ran out of the restaurant spilling soda down the front of her shirt. 

Riley lay unmoving in a pool of blood, his eyes open, mouth still caught in a smile. 

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" Bill yelled.

"You told me to watch him.  Told me you were going to take him out, send a message! You said–"

Bill slammed Spike across his face.  Once.  Twice.  "I'm gonna bash your head in.  You hear me?  I'm gonna fucking break your skull."

"Dad, please –" Spike begged, his arms in front of his face, as Bill continued to pummel him. 

"You motherfucking asshole.  You trying to bring down this family?  You trying to start a fucking war, get us all killed?  Answer me. ANSWER ME!"  When Spike fell down he began to kick him, ignoring the blood pouring from his mouth, not seeing that after a moment, he had stopped trying to fight back.

"Bill, I don't think he's conscious anymore - you beat him unconscious," said a tall, brown-haired man from the corner of the room. 

Bill kicked Spike in the ribs one last time for good measure, before looking back at him.  "Pat, where's Angel?  Where's my *real* son?"

Angel entered his father's office promptly.  He knew the drill... wait until you're summoned, ignore the damage, get your orders and leave.  Don't speak. Minimal questions.

"Your miserable, bastard brother has taken the future of this family into his own hands.  Decided to cap the Finn kid, for reasons unknown to me, probably to get us all killed because he's such a genius.

"Pat here just came from the precinct house where he tells me the news is out that a car fitting your brother's description was seen at the shooting.  By whom, do you ask?  Why, the FUCKING WITNESSES.  Some girl saw the whole thing.  Everyone else is smart enough to keep shut but this girl was taken to the station house and questioned.  She's a friend of the bastard."

"Pat," started Angel.  "What does she know?"

"What does it matter what she knows?" Bill screamed.  Taking a deep breath, he continued:  "Angel, take care of it.  Your fucking brother has screwed this family up.  Not that I'm surprised.  I need someone I can trust to handle this situation.  Can I trust you?"

As soon as the girl was mentioned, he'd seen this coming but, Christ, killing some chick who just happened to be in the wrong spot... sure he'd done it.  But never with the ease that someone like Spike did.  Spike got off on this shit.  For Angel… it just fucked him up for weeks.  He knew it shouldn't be a problem, could never let on that it was, but ... Christ, it just completely sucked.

One of these days, he'd go insane.  As it was, he'd gone on a drinking binge for almost three weeks after the last one.  Only way to survive it.

"Yeah, Da.  No problem.  I just need a name," he said, his face hard, carefully devoid of emotion. 

"Buffy Summers," said Pat, consulting his policeman's notepad.  "Lives at 450 West 56th, Apartment 4D.  Lives alone.  25.  Supposed to be a real looker."

Yeah, he was definitely going to need to get seriously fucked up after this.

"Buffy, let me up.  Please?"  A redheaded girl shouted into the intercom on the front stoop.  "I know it's only been a week and I know that's not a long time and I know you like your privacy but I'm gonna come up if you don't buzz me, okay?  I mean I don't want to just burst in, but I'm worried.  Okay, so I'm getting out my key and I'll just stay a min–"

Angel watched from across the street, ostensibly nursing a coffee, as the lobby door opened and a blonde girl poked her head out.  The redhead was in the way, so he couldn't get a face, but he knew the drill.  Get a read on the mark, shadow the mark until you got an opening, cap 'em and get the hell out.  It was only 2 p.m.  It was going to be a long day.

The two girls spoke for a few minutes, the redhead stroking the other's hair.  When she leaned in to hug the blonde, Angel felt his heart stop.  It was *his* girl, the girl from the club.  Holy fuck, his girl was Buffy Summers.  He was thankful he was alone because his usual poker face, which he had spent years cultivating, was non-existent. 

Sure he'd killed.  A lot.  But mostly guys that were mobbed up.  There'd been that one woman who was the witness to a hit, but she was like 70 years old.    As guilty as he'd been about that – and he'd been plenty guilty -- she was old, she'd had a full life and Doyle told him later, she was somehow connected to the O'Terry family.  Of course, Doyle could've been lying, but still. 

But now, he's set to kill some young girl... some sweet girl who he, at the very least, thought would be sweet to nail, and damn.  What the hell was he going to do?

Answer:  He was going to kill her.  What choice did he have?

And then he was going to kill Spike.  Not even a question.  In a way, he was relieved he was gonna do her instead of someone else.  She was so sweet.  He'd kill her fast, not rape her first like one of the others would.  No, he'd make it clean and bury her somewhere.  He knew he should sink her but he couldn't do that to her.  Oh, Christ, this –

He was being looked at.  Buffy and her friend were standing three feet away from him, she still in her sleep clothes: boxer shorts and a tank top, messy ponytail and fuzzy slippers.  Slippers in August.  He wondered at that.

"I thought it was you!" she said, a sad smile crossing her face.  "How are you?  I wanted to thank you for the drink.  It was so sweet!"

Angel stared at her, dumb.  He was totally losing it.  He'd been made, he hadn't even *realized* it and now he was talking to the target.  If anyone were following him, *he* was now dead.

"Are you okay?" she asked nervously.  "I'm sorry, maybe I had you confused with someone else.  My bad?  I was at CBGB's about a month ago and this *great* looking guy bought me a drink and I thought you... I mean, okay, *totally* embarrassing myself here by sounding like I'm trying to hit on you when you're...."

"No, it's me," he stammered.  "I'm the guy.  Sorry, I was just... thinking about something.  Sorry, I'm... I'm Angel.  It's nice to finally meet you."

As the words left his mouth, he wondered what the hell he was doing.  Using his real name... introducing himself.  Most likely, now he'd have to take out the friend too.  If he didn't... Christ, was he trying to get himself killed? Talking to the mark was bad enough... and her eyes.  They were this really great shade of green.

"I'm Buffy.  And this is my friend, Willow."

"Hey!" said the redhead, holding out her hand.  "Nice to finally meet you."

Buffy shot Willow a look as Angel smirked.  "So, talking about me, are you?"

"Oh, well, I was ... just explaining… about... Thank you for the drink by the way."

"She'd love to return the favor," Willow said, as they both gaped at her in shock.  "Yeah, we're both big feminists ...you know, equal rights.  Not that we're dykey… I mean some of us are at times but, oh! not Buffy.  Buffy is not dykey.  Ever.  She's boy crazy... I mean, not like in a slutty way..."

"Will, *please* stop talking," Buffy stammered, beet red.

"Yes!  Okay!  Well, I was just leaving.  See you later, Buffy, Angel!"  Willow shouted as she turned and ran off.

"Is she always like that?" Angel asked with a half-smile, slightly embarrassed both for himself and for Buffy who had turned even redder as she saw him trying not to laugh.

"Oh, no.  You should see her on caffeine."  Buffy chuckled but then sobered.  "Speaking of, I really would like to return the favor.  There's a great coffee place on Ninth.  If you give me a minute, I mean, if you're free, I could throw on some clothes and buy you a coffee-ish drink?"

Say no, Angel. Say no, leave, follow her, cap her, get plastered and go home.  Just say no. 

Angel looked deep into those green eyes, so sad, so vulnerable.  He'd done this to her.  Not directly, but his life.  He just wanted to make it go away.

"I'd love to," he said.  And reaching up, he brushed a stray lock of hair off her face and put it behind her ear.  Her mouth opened slightly and she licked her lips.  She took his breath away.

The time went by like lightening which was okay because it was daylight on Ninth Avenue.  Far too many people around to take care of business.  And she was just as sweet as he thought she'd be.  Far too sweet for someone like him.  An artist who taught kids in an after school and summer day program who was also a waitress and babysitter for some neighborhood families.   She spoke about her family, her friends, sobering when she tearfully told him a friend of hers was killed the week before, but she didn't want to talk about it. 

Riley Finn.

She asked about his life and he gave some stock evasive answers… as much as it didn't matter.  She'd be dead by morning and as such he could have been completely candid, but he just didn't want this girl thinking badly of him.  She was so vibrant and kind.  And she insisted that he come up to her place for dinner.  Took his hand -- God, her hand was so small and warm.  He looked down at their intertwined fingers for a moment -- lost.  His, big and calloused, hers, tiny, soft, faintly stained with paint.  She gave his hand a squeeze and began to physically drag him home until he laughed and agreed to go.

Maybe there'd be an opening at her place.  But, who was he kidding.  Only an amateur would kill someone in their own apartment building.

It had all started when he'd told her about his mother taking him to museums incessantly as a little kid.  He had never taken any classes like Buffy had, his only information was from back then, but she seemed genuinely interested in his opinions of things.  The Coffee Pot, where they were sitting, had a showing of another local painter and they had walked from picture to picture discussing the merits and problems of each one. 

And then she grabbed his hand and told him she was taking him home.

She kept talking, entertaining him with funny stories about her Aunt and their life living near Tenth Avenue as they climbed up the four flights to her apartment.  Then, like a light switch had gone off, she was shy when she led him into her former bedroom-turned-art-studio to show him her work.  The room was small, maybe seven-by-ten feet, but it was filled with paintings.  On the long wall, she had a huge work that was about half-completed... he could see the sketched layout of the unfinished portion.  It was the ocean, with a small child playing on the beach, alone.  Looking lost, abandoned.  It broke his heart.

They were all like that.  Lonely, sad, but painfully beautiful.  He thought to himself that she managed to really convey who she was through her paintings.  She'd been sad before Finn... quite a while if the length of time she said it took her to complete a piece was correct.

As she boiled water to make him her specialty -- Pasta with Sauce -- she walked him through her living area, an equally small room consisting of a double bed, a nicked up junk store dresser, a small bookcase, an old TV and VCR, a boombox and small table to eat at … showing him her life through the photos and mementos that covered her walls. 

There were framed posters from "That'll Do It!," the Broadway musical that closed in previews, that had been her Aunt Jenny's one taste of the Broadway stage… photos of her, her Aunt, Willow and a dark-haired boy named Xander at Buffy's high school and college graduations… many pictures painted by the kids she taught.

She had carefully removed a final picture from the wall, handing him a photo of a family, which he realized after a moment was her parents and her when she was only about five.  On the beach in LA, she said.

"You must think I'm a psycho….  Inviting strange men up to my house, making them dinner.  I actually don't do this.  At all.  But I have a good feeling about you... you seem safe, harmless."  Laughing, she continued, "Don't make me eat my words."

He successfully kept his emotions off his face but his heart was starting to clench.  She stood in the kitchen making his dinner, informing him it was all she knew how to make but she kept it interesting by varying the shape of noodle and brand of sauce, seeming very relieved to discover he wasn't Italian.  But it was getting dark and while killing her in her apartment was absolutely bad -- his prints were all over the place at this point, and yeah, he could wipe it down – it'd be better to do it someplace public, in a few hours when it was quiet enough to go unnoticed but busy enough to slip away easily. 

For now, he sat and smiled and ignored the weight of the gun on his ankle, ignored the weight of the silencer in his pocket, ignored the chatter in his brain, instead listening to hers as they sat and drank red wine.  At one point, he reached out to stroke her small hand and had a flash, an image, of making love to this beautiful girl... the girl who as recently as that morning he thought would be good to nail.  He realized he *wanted* to make love to her.

After dinner, she smiled and grabbed a blanket out of the closet. 

"Now, come with me, I want to show you something."

She led him up to the roof and, laying out the blanket, told him to lie down.  He was kind of shocked at the whole thing... she just didn't seem like that kind of girl.  It must have shown on his face because she looked sort of embarrassed.  "Oh, that's not what I wanted to show you.  No, I wanted to show you something my Aunt Jenny and I used to do.  So, uh, lay down."

He stretched out on his back and she lay down beside him and, taking his hand, gave it a squeeze. 

"Do you mind?" she asked.  He shook his head and laced his fingers with hers, and she smiled and laid back, looking up at the sky. 

"When I was little, in LA, my Dad and I used to go out in the backyard and lie down on the ground like this and look at the stars and just talk.  It was the best... Daddy-time.  He would tell me the constellations and we'd just be together, you know?  I remember when he died, I hadn't learned the names by heart yet, and then I was here.  And when I got here, I couldn't see them anymore, and it broke my heart -- it was like I lost him all over again and I was just so... wrecked. 

"One night I told Jenny about it and she just took my hand and brought me up here and we lay on the ground and she did the same thing he had."

Angel stared up at the sky, straining to see what she saw, but the city lights were too bright for him.

"I know what you're thinking, and yeah, you still can't see anything here at night.  But it didn't matter. We'd lay here and she'd point out the different constellations we imagined we saw.  And," Buffy laughed sadly, "As much as I didn't know the constellations, she *really* didn't.  I never told her she was wrong.... I would just listen as she'd point out the Southern Cross and Cassiopeia, Sagittarius.  She'd just use names she knew and it made me want to cry.  She really wanted me to be happy and I loved that she would name constellations I couldn't see... due to light or even see-ableness... that she wanted to give me something from home since everything was just so... gone."

Angel watched her swallow several times, her eyes shining with tears.  "I miss her so much sometimes, you know?"

He rolled onto his side and reached up and wiped the tears away, his fingertips lingering a little longer than necessary, savoring the silky feel of her skin.  When she looked back at him, he knew it was the perfect time.  It was around midnight, they were totally secluded, there was plenty of traffic noise to mask any residual sound of a bullet, yet they were alone.  Her building was slightly taller than the neighboring buildings.  He needed to kill her and get gone already.  This was the moment.

She looked at him in perfect trust and his heart broke.

"Buffy, I– I have to tell you something," he stammered. 

And as she waited expectantly for his confession, he swallowed thickly and then she smiled at his nervousness, whispering "tell me later," and leaned over and kissed him.  It was gentle at first, her lips were so soft... he could just melt into her.  He *wanted* to just melt into her.  It was the first thing he had wanted in… Forever.  And as he pulled her tightly to him, he decided to just go with it, go with her, wherever she'd take him.  His last thought was that they were on a road to nowhere, and he didn't want to be anywhere else.

It was a beautiful night, warm, but not hot, with a wonderful, gentle breeze.  They took their time undressing each other, touching each other, savoring each other's company.  She kept doing this thing that was driving him crazy... her eyes were closed and she rubbed her cheek and lips on his body, almost like she was trying to memorize the feel of him with her face.  He was so knocked out by it... by her... by the pleasure she took in the sensuality of *him*.  Before his mind was totally lost, he remembered his gun, managing to move it unseen into his boots when he took them off.  A reminder of what he was there for.  But then she reached for him again and he let himself forget.

He had always been one for a quick brutal fuck, maybe some light bondage.  This was the complete opposite of that.  This was about feeling, about touch, about warmth and closeness and taste and connection.

It occurred to him at some point that this was the first time he'd ever made love… to some girl he'd known for less then 12 hours.  Some girl a cruel yet kind twist of fate had introduced him to.  If there'd been no Riley Finn, there'd be no Buffy.  And as he ran his lips over her nipples, teasing her with his skin, not indulging her with his tongue yet, just gently running his bottom lip across them, as she arched into him with a breathy moan, it occurred to him that he'd go to his grave protecting this girl, loving this girl, being loved by this girl.

And that he probably would.

Angel stared at her, asleep in the crook of his arm.  Every couple of minutes, she would sigh and snuggle into him.  He wondered if she were cold.  Extracting his body from hers, he tucked the blanket around her and dressed quickly, staring in horror at his gun when he pulled it out of his boot.  He was supposed to kill her now.  He needed to do it now.  He had his orders.  And you didn't cross the family and live to tell it. 

This was it. 

He stood motionless… paralyzed by what he had to do.  Focus, he needed to focus.  That was it.  Focus.  He needed to not think about what was happening, needed to blank out, to forget, he had to forget.  Just focus, do it and get gone.  Swallowing hard, his eyes pricked with tears as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the silencer.  As his hand made contact with the hard, cold metal, he looked down at her sleeping form, her lips swollen from kissing him, from loving him… he looked down at the gun in his hand … and a wave of nausea almost drove him to his knees. 

There was no way he could hurt this girl.  No way. 

Trembling, he put his gun back in his ankle and gently carried her back to her apartment.  Tucking her in, figuring out where to hide his gun, the reality of the situation set in.  He couldn't go back.  But neither could she.  They would both be marked now.  As soon as they left the apartment, maybe even before.  Bottom line?  He needed to get them both out of there.  Needed them to disappear.

He lay down next to her, terrified.  How could he tell her who he was, what he had done?  That he had come there to kill her and, now that he hadn't, they were both dead?  She would hate him.  She'd either take her chances and be killed by someone else -- Spike, most likely, who would no doubt rape and beat her before killing her -- or she'd go with Angel and never speak to him again.  Like his mother with his dad.   Both of those options broke his heart.  He was very clear that he was falling hard for this girl, if he hadn't already fallen for her completely.

What the fuck was he going to do?

"Whatcha thinking about?"

He jumped.  He had thought she was asleep, but again, she had snuck up on him and he didn't even notice.  He was losing his edge... or at least losing it with this girl.

"I don't know," he stammered.  "I just... Buffy, I feel...  I...  I don't do this.  I mean, sleep with people who I've just met.  I mean, I do it all the time, or I used to, but this is different.  With them, or with her, it was always about sex, about gratification, about release.  With you... in this situation, it's just... it's about something else."

She stroked his cheek gently and it made him want to cry.  God, she was going to hate him or worse, she was going to die.  He couldn't lose her.  Couldn't bear it.

"What's it about, Angel?" she asked softly.

"I don't know," he said, rolling onto his back and looking at the stars she'd painted in glow-in-the-dark paint on the ceiling.  Her life was so different from his, so beautiful and ... warm.  Filled with heartache, yes, but friends who seemed to be caring and filled...

Filled with a future... which he'd taken away.  Or he would.

Or Spike would.  Brutally.  "I don't know.  I just know that when I look at you, when I touch you, I... I feel like I'm home.  I don't want to leave."

Buffy smiled and pulled him closer for a kiss.  "I know the feeling."

Several hours later, Angel sat at her table trying to eat but unable to get much down.  He didn't want to get violent, he'd could never be violent with her... couldn't even imagine it… but he had to get her out of there.  The longer they stayed in her apartment, the less safe it was.  He'd disappeared before, but after a day or two, Bill dispatched Doyle for an update.  Keeping tabs.  Always.

What would Buffy do when she found out?  Would she leave him?

Well, she didn't have a choice, she couldn't leave, because no one was going to protect her, except for him.  She was a marked woman among the Tully family and thus the McKees, and he knew that once Bill had it in his head to kill her, he'd make sure it was done, even do it himself if needed.  Angel shuddered to think about it.  Bill'd had a hard life in Ireland.  Their reformatory schools made Spike's turn in juvie seem like a stay at a resort.  His Uncle John had told him about those places... regular beatings for no reason, priests who wanted to fuck you, floggings... hell, his father still had scars on his back and hands.  And now Bill seemed to exact restitution every time he dealt out such punishment to other, weaker people.  On the West Side, tradition was you killed someone, chopped up the body and threw it into the swamp in the Meadowlands or one of the rivers.  But Bill enjoyed chopping them up before they were dead, letting the blood loss finish the job.  Saved a step, he said. 

No, Buffy didn't have a choice.  If he had to tie her up and carry her away, he'd do it in a heartbeat.  He had to keep her safe. 

But where the hell could they go?

Hotels were an option.  But they needed to get lost.  And there was only one place he could come up with where that would be possible.  A place no one would think of.

Except Doyle. 

"I don't know what you said to her.  I still don't like you going behind my back," Buffy said later that afternoon, seeming none too angry as she pulled clothing from her dresser.  "What *did* you say?"

Angel kissed the top of her head as he walked past her and lay down on the bed.  "I merely told her I was your boyfriend and that I had a special trip planned if you could only get a week off." 

She quirked an eyebrow.  "And the *purported* ‘drawing lessons'?"

He shrugged, smiling at her.  "Needed her number."

"Wicked boy."  Buffy playfully slapped his leg, beaming, as she stuffed clothes into a large duffel, topping the pile off with a pink stuffed pig and assorted toiletries.

He pretended to use the bathroom while she stood in her studio and selected art supplies for the trip.  He had refused to tell her where they were going... teased her, saying it was a special surprise, which had the added benefit of making her bring far too much clothing.  He was glad... they weren't coming back. 

He stood in the living area, hoping she wouldn't come in as he sorted through her purse.  Cell phone:  Removed.  She wouldn't need that and he didn't want to take the risk that someone would trace it somehow.  Cash: Well, she only had about $19, which was bad.  Passport: His eyes darted around the room.  Where would she keep a passport?  He heard a loud crash in the studio and some swearing and then it sounded like she was finished. 

Couldn't do much about the passport... they'd have to take care of that on the way.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Definitely!" he said, smiling.  He followed her out of the door, grabbing the photo of her parents off the wall and slipping it under his shirt.

They went to Doyle's place... he said it was his.  It had been for two years so it wasn't a total lie.  But his current apartment wasn't safe anymore.  Not if he had her in tow.  He wouldn't put it past Spike trailing him... just to make sure. 

Angel'd gotten his own place back in the neighborhood at 24, but still, Doyle had a lot of his things around.  And the apartment was in Chelsea, about 20 blocks south of where they were likely to run into anyone.  He packed up what little clothing he had there while Buffy chatted about how happy she was to get away... she hadn't been out of the city in at least two years, not since before her Aunt had gotten really sick. 

Angel just smiled and grabbed Doyle's and Anna's passports and threw them into his bag.  Picking up Doyle's car keys, he led Buffy downstairs and hopefully to safety.

"It's so beautiful here.  What is this place?"  Buffy walked around the tiny cabin, touching each surface, turning over the knickknacks, peering into the various cupboards before she started to put their groceries away.

"It belongs to my friend Doyle.  It was his parents' place." 

Buffy squealed as he grabbed her from behind, pressing himself against her.  He loved the feel of her, could never get enough, he thought to himself as he kissed the base of her neck.  He slowly turned her and kissed her deeply, plunging into her warm, delicious mouth while fumbling for the overhead light.  He needed to feel all of her.  Now. 

"I'm glad you like it," he whispered, kissing her forehead as he pulled away. 

"I love it!  Thank you, Angel.  I really did need to get away.  Just – get away from the city.  My friend who died, I – actually, I kind of..."

"Buffy," Angel said softly, a knife of jealousy stabbing his heart, "Was he your boyfriend?"

"No!  No, *so* not my boyfriend," she insisted, taking a deep breath, tears filling her eyes.  "No, what I was going to say was, I was there when it happened.  He was ... gunned down, like something out of a ... a mafia movie, right in front of me.  I mean, Riley was an artist, like me.  He was totally clean cut.  Who would want to kill him?  Who?  They didn't even take his wallet."

Angel held her close, kissing the tears from her cheeks.  What answer could he give?  That there was no reason for anyone to want to kill Riley other than for who his father was?  And how could he say that without opening a whole can of worms, such as, who the hell was Angel and what did he know of the situation?

"I'm so sorry, lass.  But I'm glad I could get you away from it.  And I'm glad you like the cabin.  I always loved it here, come a few times but never felt like I wanted to bring anyone.  Until you."

Angel saw her beam in the dim moonlight shining in through the windows.  She kissed him deeply and Angel lodged no complaints when she began to slowly take his clothes off and they moved to the bed.

It rained for two days.  They stayed inside, watching Doyle's movie collection, making love and talking about their lives.  For Angel, the latter was painful.  He told her about Spike and his mother leaving but not exactly why she left.  He couldn't bring himself to.  As much as he hated talking about the whole situation, he hated more that by not telling her everything, he was essentially lying about his entire life.  And he knew his days of being cagey were drawing to a close.  Buffy was starting to make plans for them for when they returned to New York as she thought they were going to do at the end of the week.  Angel just nodded and stayed quiet. 

When they awoke on Wednesday morning, the weather had cleared and Buffy decided to do some painting out on the porch.  Angel sat on the little couch inside the door, nursing a beer, and began to strategize.  With Buffy out of the house, he'd been able to look around, search the cabin.  Under the little kitchen rug, the floorboards hid about $2,500 and a spare 9mm with 2 extra clips.  The piece was big for her but at least now she'd have a gun of her own.  He'd been hoping for more money, but was deeply thankful there'd been any there at all.  Without attracting her attention, he'd searched the house as best he could when they'd first arrived, finding no bugs or wiring of any kind, but had worried he might have missed something.  Upon closer inspection, he'd confirmed the house was clean.  Well, that was a plus. 

Every so often, she would turn and wave to him from her spot outside.  She looked so happy.  Watching his golden girl work, he began to think long and hard about their upcoming life.  He still couldn't figure out where they could go that would be safe.  By the end of the week, he'd either need to tell Buffy what was going on and hope she'd forgive him or ... what?  Return to New York?  Not an option.  There was only one option... convince her that her friends were also in danger and that she needed to stay away or give her enough information on the McKees and himself that the government would hide her.  Either choice made him nauseous.

"Hey!" she said, carrying brushes to the sink and beginning to rinse them out.

"Hey, you all done?" he asked, moving in for a kiss.  "Need help cleaning up or anything?"

"Nope.  Watercolors," she said, gesturing to the half-finished picture and paints she'd deposited on the table on her way in.  "Totally washable.   A lot easier to travel with... oils just aren't practical for a road trip."

Breezing past him and heading for a shower, she flirted, "*I*, however, could use some cleaning up.  Wanna help me with that?"

He smiled and followed her into the bathroom.

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