They were already running late on their first day of the tour. The bus was waiting for them outside the hotel, but so far no members of the band had actually arrived yet. Rosalie was already standing beside the bus, waiting. She was, truth be told, nervous about the whole thing. But before she could think more on the subject, noise at the door of the hotel distracted her. Ripper came bursting through the doors, clearly annoyed at being late, while he was followed closely by Xander, carrying his bass and wearing sunglasses. It had been a rough night for Harris, and now the sun hurt his head. Buffy and Tom came through the doors a few moments later. He was off to the airport now, and they stood outside the Plaza, saying their goodbyes. He pulled her close to him to kiss her goodbye.

Angel kicked the door open to allow him through. His hands were full. In one hand he carried his favourite Gibson guitar, while in the other hand he carried his bags. He'd gotten no sleep last night thanks to Xander and Spike's party and he'd also been worrying about his friend Lennon, who was clearly heading off the rails. Now, he was assaulted by the sight of Buffy and her boyfriend kissing in the street. Many different emotions flared up within him- anger, jealously, longing, love. But he kept them inside as always. Only the closest of observers would've seen the pain in his eyes as he saw the happy couple. To the rest of the world, he merely walked past them onto the bus and slumped into his usual seat at the front of the bus.

Yes, Angel was in love with Buffy. He had been from more or less the first time he met her. She was still a Band-Aid then. He had no idea exactly how old she was. He was sure she lied about it one way or the other, but he imagined her to be a couple of years younger than the twenty two she now claimed to be. The first Stillwater tour she'd accompanied was the 1971 Who tour around America and quickly, Angel realised that Buffy Summers was no mere groupie. Hell, Buffy was no mere Band-Aid. Suddenly, however, she had announced her retirement. Angel had been shocked at the thought of never seeing this bewitching girl again. He had found his answer when he discovered her playing Keith Moon's drums only days before the final stop of the tour. He persuaded her to join the band as their new drummer. Of course, Mick Shrimpton had been disappointed to be kicked out of the band, but it was hardly surprising. Angel had never gotten along well with Mick, in fact, Mick had never been popular with the rest of the band either. The new drummer they found in Buffy worked out much better. He slumped down into his seat, and no sooner was he settled than he removed his acoustic Gibson from its case and began lovingly stroking the strings.

Spike stumbled out of the hotel, his head pounding. Yes, it had been a good night. Today wasn't shaping up to be quite so grand. He hoped someone on the bus would have some kind of painkiller. Then to see Buffy and her cardboard cut-out boyfriend standing outside was like adding insult to injury. Yes, Spike was in love with Buffy too. She was beautiful and she could play drums and she loved music. What wasn't there to love? But, like Angel, he put on a front and walked past her onto the bus as if nothing was amiss. He sat a couple of row behind Angel, far away enough to avoid seeing the man who seemed almost single-handedly responsible for everything bad in Spike's life. If only there was no Angel Flynn. He paused in thought. No, if there was no Angel, Spike would still be playing coffee bars and seedy clubs to make rent. Damn Angel.

The bus finally rumbled away from the Plaza an hour after it had been scheduled to. Angel sat alone two rows from the front, Ripper sat at the very front studiously examining papers. Spike and Xander sat talking about some new gossip in Hollywood while the Band-Aids were busily discussing who was better: Lennon or McCartney. Rosalie suddenly felt rather left out, as if she were on the fringes of an in-joke she didn't get. But before she could ponder this more, jetlag took over and she drifted into sleep.

When she finally awoke, night had fallen and Cordelia was sitting beside her.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up." She said.

"How long have you been waiting?" Rosalie asked, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

"I don't know." Cordelia sighed. "I hate this. Spending hours on a bus. It can get dull. But then, sometimes it's good."

"How much longer to Philadelphia?" Rosalie asked.

"Not long I don't think." Cordelia said dismissively. Then she turned and fixed Rosalie with an icy glare.

"You're not going to screw them over, are you?"

"What?"

"You're not going to write some awful piece about them, exposing all the bad shit that will probably happen somewhere during the tour."

"No. I'm here to write about the music. Nothing more." Rosalie said. Cordelia relaxed.

"Good. Because if you were, I'd have to rip your eyes out."

"OK."

"Look, aside from the music thing, Buffy really is one of my friends. If you write anything mean about her, I will cause you physical pain."

"OK. Point taken. You have nothing to worry about."

"Good!" Cordelia got up and sat down beside the drummer.

They finally arrived in Philadelphia, and tiredly, they all trooped up to their rooms. But soon enough, a party had begun down by the pool, stimulated by drink and the need to be noisy after spending all day on a bus. Rosalie watched, smiling, as Cordelia poured cocktail ingredients into Spike's mouth and he merely closed his mouth and shook his head to shake it all up before swallowing.

"Bloody marvellous!" He said loudly. Then someone brought down a record player. Soon enough, Sticky Fingers by the Rolling Stones was put on, and Mick's dulcet tones screamed out Brown Sugar.

"Hey, Rosalie, come join us!" Cordelia shouted to her. She had jumped into the pool fully clothed and now dripped with water.

"No, I'm fine." Rosalie said.

"Come on, don't be so square." A voice said behind her. She turned and smiled. Wherever she saw him, Angel always had his guitar with him.

"No, it's OK. I'm really tired." Rosalie said.

"Oh." Angel nodded. "OK."

"Why don't you join in?" She challenged.

"And mess up my hair?" He asked. She laughed. His long, dark hair usually hung in his eyes. He paused.

"Tell me, truthfully." He said. "Do you think we were right to take Buffy on as our drummer?"

"What do you mean?" Rosalie asked, surprised at the turn the conversation had taken.

"Well, I mean... She's a girl. Do you think we were wrong?"

"No. She's an amazing drummer. You should hold onto her." Off Angel's strange expression, she continued.

"I don't think her being female is a problem. I think it's something that sets you apart from every other band trying to do exactly the same things."

"Oh. OK." Rosalie noted Angel's somewhat sad face.

"What's wrong?" She asked. He shook his head.

"Nothing. Tired I guess, like you said." She nodded, accepting his answer. But when she followed the direction of his gaze, it seemed like he was staring at Buffy.

Angel moved towards the party. The song Wild Horses had just started on Sticky Fingers, and he strummed along with it. His eyes never left Buffy for a second. For her part, she was reclining on a lounger wearing a bikini top and a pair of purple hot pants. But she wasn't watching him, she was more interested in the shenanigans of those in the pool. A couple of the assembled party sang along with the verses, but Angel only played. Then came the chorus.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away.... Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away"

He sang softly. He knew he wasn't much of a singer. He could hold his own, just. Spike was the real singer of the band, and he knew that. He watched Buffy mouth the words of the song, not confident enough to sing, or just not bothered enough. Sighing inwardly, he sat down, all the while still playing his guitar. Finally, he caught Buffy's gaze, and she smiled at him. He returned it fully. Rosalie, it must be said, noted this exchange carefully in her quiet, observant way.

The tour continued on with very little in the way of incident for Stillwater. They performed, then they partied into the night. Then, they would sleep during the day on the bus. The bus was their own special place where the real world couldn't penetrate at all. There were no fans screaming, there were no groupies irritating the Band-Aids, there were no phone calls for Rosalie from her over-protective father. The atmosphere on the bus was homely, that of a family, albeit a strange one. They talked and joked, sang along to music on the radio, or on the cassette player Cordelia always had with her. Cordelia also spent half her time taking Polaroids of the people on board, especially when they slept.

Then, they arrived in Cleveland. It was always going to be eventful. Besides Stillwater, David Bowie was also staying at Swingo's Celebrity Inn. This meant that the lobby was stuffed to the rafters with young people covered in glitter and clutching Aladdin Sane and Ziggy Stardust albums covers. When Stillwater arrived, exhausted as always, the noise in the hotel was deafening. Or it would be to anyone who wasn't a rock star or their entourage. For Stillwater, it was business as usual.

"Hi! Welcome to Swingo's! How may I help you?" A blonde girl behind the desk called over the din. Ripper spoke to her briefly, before she handed him a pile of room keys, which he dutifully handed out.

"Soundchecks in an hour. I want you here in half an hour." He told the assembled band. They nodded dutifully before trooping away to their rooms. Ripper sighed. He knew that at least half of them would be late

Yet, eventually they did arrive at the venue, only twenty minutes behind schedule. While they set up, Rosalie interviewed Buffy. So far, the drummer had been quiet, introverted. Except of course, for the partying, which she joined in with vigour and enthusiasm.

"So, Buffy," Rosalie began. "When did you first start playing the drums?"

"When I was at school. I was in a band."

"Really? What was it called?"

"The Smaller Faces." She smiled wryly. "The lead singer wanted to be Steve Marriott." Rosalie smiled, glad that Buffy was opening up a little.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Not really. It's hard being a girl in this business." Buffy grimaced. "It's so male dominated, it's hard to cope with here. I still get told to leave. They think I'm a groupie." She began to get angry.

"But you must love to play, or you wouldn't put up with it?"

"That's true. All my life I loved music. I realised that I didn't want to marry a Beatle or a Rolling Stone, I wanted to be one." She smiled. "I thought I was weird or something."

"Weird?"

"Yeah. What other girl ever wanted to be a rock star?"

"Me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But I realised I just wasn't cool enough. And I have no discernible musical talent."

"Sometimes that helps. Look at Rod Stewart." Buffy laughed.

"Which musicians do you particularly like or admire?" Rosalie asked. Buffy continued laughing.

"Well, John Lennon. Which helps. Angel won't let anyone not like Lennon." She paused to laugh again. "I like a lot of old stuff. I like The Who, which is just as well, seeing as we spend our lives supporting them. And I like the old jazz women, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald. Bessie Smith, even. But you know who I like?" Buffy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Bryan Ferry." Rosalie choked.

"Bryan Ferry? Roxy Music's Bryan Ferry?" Buffy nodded.

"Not something to be proud of, I know." She said. "But... I don't know. Don't you dare tell anyone else, I'll never live it down."

When she heard her voice called, Buffy stood up. "Duty calls. Enjoy the show."

The band were definitely on form that night. Spike had spent the better part of an hour and a half being made up, and now looked like a cross between Ziggy Stardust and Count Dracula. But he made it look cool. More importantly, he felt good enough about himself to forget his simmering resentment towards Angel. Angel, for his part was also feeling good, and his playing wasn't just incendiary, it was electrifying. The audience were having a ball, just like the band. Then Angel went to grab the microphone to join Spike for the chorus.

A slight pop was all the audience heard over the din of the musicians and themselves. Angel felt a huge surge of power shoot up his arm. The electricity seemed to fuse his hand to the mike. He went deathly pale and finally managed to wrench his hand away from the mike. Spike turned to look as he realised Angel had stopped playing. Angel stumbled backwards, searching the blackness for someone. He tried to pull his guitar off, but then he collapsed onto the stage, shaking. He really had been electrifying.

Buffy leapt from her stool and over her drum kit. Ripper had already reached Angel, who was conscious, but barely, and shaking violently. Ripper grabbed Angel's guitar and was yelling at the rest of the band.

"Everyone, let's go!" He screamed over the noise of the audience. Buffy put Angel's arm around her shoulders and helped him to his feet. Rosalie, who had been standing at the side of the stage, ran to help her. Together, somehow, they got the tall guitarist off the stage, through the backstage area and onto the bus.

"Everybody, if we could hurry the Hell up?" Ripper shouted. Cordelia and the other Band-Aids were carrying band luggage onto the bus quickly. Then, the promoter appeared.

"What the fuck are you doing? You didn't play twenty five minutes!"

"Your shoddy stage set up nearly killed my fucking guitarist!" Ripper shot back angrily.

"Your band trashed my dressing rooms! Lock the gates!" The promoter yelled as Ripper headed onto the bus.

"I'm gonna report you to every promoter in the COUNTRY!" The promoter yelled.

"YOU DON'T FUCK WITH MY BAND'S SAFETY!" Ripper screamed at him as he leapt onto the bus.

"Call your lawyer, pal!" The promoter shouted back.

"I am a lawyer!" came Ripper's parting shot as the bus door closed. The bus then started up and made its way to the exit.

"Wanna buy a gate?" Ripper asked casually. The bus picked up speed as it got closer to the steel gates. Then, it careened through the gates, which crumpled like paper. Everyone one on the bus except Angel and Buffy, who was too concerned with him to care, cheered loudly.

"Gentlemen, you just bought yourselves a gate!" Ripper said triumphantly, and the bus was on the road again, back to the hotel, and to a doctor for Angel.

The post-concert party was in full swing when Angel emerged from his room, his burned hand bandaged. It was the usual bacchanal, except that tonight, David Bowie, Ziggy himself had stopped by. Angel, in fact, was relieved more than anything. Bowie had taken away all the attention that Angel didn't want.

"How's your hand?" A voice asked.

"OK." He said, a little glumly. Rosalie sat down beside him.

"Don't you want to hang with Bowie?" He asked her. She shook her head.

"Already met him. My sister left home to work for him." Angel looked impressed.

"Cool."

"Don't you want to hang with Bowie?" She asked of him.

"Already met him." Angel's eyes crinkled up into his smile.

"Didn't you like him?"

"Sure. I think his music's great."

"What about him, the person?"

"I liked him. I did. He's cool. I'm just concentrating on being electrocuted at the moment."

"Oh." Rosalie said, suddenly at a loss for words. However, before it could become uncomfortable, Buffy appeared.

"How do you feel?" She demanded of Angel.

"OK."

"How OK? Are you still in pain?"

"My hand hurts."

"It's burned." Buffy told him with a look that said 'Duh'. "Weren't you paying attention to the doctor?"

"I was electrocuted." He deadpanned. Buffy laughed.

"Just as well one of us paid attention." She poured him a glass of water and handed him two painkillers.

"Take these."

"Yes, mom." Angel groaned. Buffy glared. "Sorry."

"It's OK. You want to talk to David?" She asked.

"I'm fine just sitting here."

"OK." She looked at Rosalie. "Keep an eye on him."

She then went over to Bowie and the rest of the party.

"Thank you nurse!" Angel yelled to her. She turned and rolled her eyes with a smile.

The party wore on, as parties do, Rosalie as always watching from the sidelines. This time, however, she had a companion in Angel.

"Angel," A melodic voice called. David Bowie had broken away from the party in his honour and now the flame haired icon was approaching Angel.

"Hey, man." Angel said tiredly. It had after all, been a long day.

"Sorry to hear about your hand." Bowie said. "It happens to all the greats."

"Oh, I'll be all right. Should be good to play tomorrow."

"Great." Bowie then noticed the girl sitting beside him.

"Who might you be?" He eyed her with interest. Rosalie smiled knowingly.

"Rosalie Cochran, writer for the NME." He recoiled slightly. He hadn't expected that one.

"That's cool." He said.

"Oh, we've met before." She said knowingly.

"Really?" The singer, probably under the influence of several substances, couldn't recall.

"My sister Ellie worked for you." She clarified for him.

"Oh! Ellie! Ellie Cochran!" Bowie said, a nostalgic expression on his face, combined with something else she couldn't quite describe.

"Where is she now? What is she doing now?" He asked Rosalie.

"Oh, she's in Manchester. She said she got bored with London."

"Cool. She was a cool girl." Bowie said. Then, abruptly, he switched subjects.

"What did you like of my last album?"

"I liked parts of it."

"That's more than I get from some rock writers." He laughed again.

"See you around Angel." He turned to Rosalie. For a second, the mask of Bowie slipped to allow David Jones to shine through.

"Say hi to Ellie for me." David said. Then, Bowie was back and he returned to the party.

"That was.. An experience." Rosalie said, turning to Angel. He smiled a little.

"He always is."

Rosalie found herself really, genuinely making friends with the band and their friends. As the tour progressed, she and Cordelia would sit for hours on the bus talking about London,

"Absolutely my most favourite city." Cordelia would say. Or she would sit with Xander talking about old TV shows. Or she would sit with Angel for hours on end. Their topics of conversation were always the same: Music. Sometimes it would stray to movies, but always in reference to music. They both had the same complete, overpowering love for music and the capacity to talk for hours about it.

"Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly's version of Brown-Eyed Handsome Man?" Rosalie would challenge him. Or Angel would ask her if she thought that rock and roll was dying. As the tour began to draw to a close, Rosalie wished it would never end.

But it did end, and she found herself bidding the band farewell on their return to New York.

"It was fun, right?" Spike asked in concern. She nodded, smiling.

"It really was."

"You're gonna write nicely about us?" He asked. She merely smiled.

"You'll see." Spike laughed nervously.

"Bye Rosalie. See you around." Xander said, curiously arm in arm with Anyanka.

"Bye Xand. Stay lucky," She called to him.

"Bye Rosalie, it was fun." Cordelia said, air-kissing Rosalie on both cheeks.

"It was."

"Bye Rosalie!" Little Willow called from a distance.

"It was good to get to know you," Buffy said warmly. "See you again,"

"Yeah." It only remained to say farewell to Angel.

"You recording another album?"

"In a couple of weeks."

"Good luck."

"You too, you know, with the article?"

"Sure. Thanks Angel."

"If they like it, you're welcome on tour next year." Angel told her.

"Cool. I'll remember that." Rosalie smiled. "Stay lucky. Try not to get electrocuted."

He laughed.

"I'll try." The taxi to take Rosalie to the airport arrived.

"Bye,"

"Bye." Angel said, before turning to join the band. Rosalie got into the taxi and it pulled away, to take her far away from it all.

The piece in the NME was a success and led to her being given more and more assignments and more money for each. She also started writing for The Times and other national British papers and magazines. She met all the big, hot musicians, was in on every big record release. In fact, Rosalie herself became hot property. Her sister returned to London and they bought a flat together in West London.

While Rosalie found success in London, Stillwater found difficulties in New York. They began recording their newest album in September 1973, much later than anticipated.

"Fuck this!" A voice rang through the recording studio. The sound of headphones clattering against the floor soon followed.

"Spike! Come back!" Buffy shouted, but he was already gone out the door.

"He'll be back," Angel said from his position leaning against the wall.

"Why do you aggravate him all the damn time?" She shouted at him.

"What?"

"This is a joke! We're not getting anything done except finding new ways to snipe at each other!" She continued.

"Hey! This is not my fault." Angel said, immediately on the defensive. "It's not my fault that Spike is such a FUCKING ASSHOLE!" His voice suddenly rose dangerously.

"OK! OK! OK!" Another voice shouted. Their producer, David Hall was sitting in the booth, his nerves equally as frayed as those of the band members.

"Why don't we take a five minute break?" He suggested. The three musicians still inside the studio nodded.

Buffy was the first out of the door, probably to persuade Spike to return. Xander followed, his shoulders slumped wearily. Angel remained, sitting down heavily. When had all this gotten so difficult? He remembered when all they wanted to do was play. Now they had to make sure that when they played, they had to make sure that lots and lots of people would like the songs. It was harder for him, because he was the main songwriter for the band and he'd had to deliver fourteen new songs for the album. At least Lennon and McCartney had each other or George to fall back on. He had no one. John had, in truth, helped him with one of the songs, but had refused a credit for it. He didn't want contractual problems. Of course, right now he was in California on a protracted bender, so he probably didn't care much. Angel sighed. He was worried about John, who had split from Yoko and was rampaging around with Harry Nilsson and whoever else they could find. He sat deep in thought until Buffy and Xander returned with a grumbling Spike in tow. Then, the session continued, Angel more silent than usual as he noted the close relationship between the other three. He envied that. He had always felt like an outsider in the band, and recent tensions hadn't helped those feelings.

"Angel! Wait up!" Buffy's voice called to him as they left the studio much, much later that night. He turned slowly to face her.

"Yeah?" He asked, more gruff than he had intended.

"Are you OK?" She asked in concern. He sighed.

"Sure, I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Because you'd tell me if you weren't fine."

"Yes." Angel had started walking down the street at this point, but Buffy caught up with him.

"Angel!" She said sharply. He stopped.

"What?" He snapped.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired of this fucking band and it's fucking arguments and I don't give a fuck about this fucking album anymore!" He said angrily. Buffy tried not to smile.

"That was a lot of cursing." She said. He smiled in spite of himself.

"I'll be fine, Buffy. It's just kinda stressful being me at the moment."

"The great guitar god Angel Flynn is stressed?" Buffy said in mock-horror. He smiled.

"I'll get over it." He promised her.

"By tomorrow?"

"Well... I'll try." He said. She smiled and stood on tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek.

"Good night Angel."

"Night Buff." He said to her retreating form. His cheek burned from her kiss and it was all he could do to stop leaping up and down as he walked the short distance home.

'Home' wasn't really home for Angel. He was originally from Boston, a good Irish family whose sons usually became policemen or lawyers. Instead, somewhere along the line, Angel decided rock stardom was his job of choice. Neither his mother or father had agreed, and so the youngest Flynn of five left home. Like Buffy, he wasn't entirely honest about his age. Most people had him down as about twenty seven, but Angel had a dark secret- he was only twenty four years old. Born in late 1949, he had left home in 1965 when he was sixteen and joined a band when he reached San Francisco. He hadn't had much choice- he'd run out of money. He stuck around there for a year, and worked his way through bands, until he played Candlestick Park at the same time as the Beatles performed their last official live performance. Meeting John Lennon by chance was the most important moment of his life- so far at least. Praise from the Great Lennon inspired Angel to carry on, just as he was about to admit defeat and head back to Boston. He went from San Francisco to LA to Kansas City to Cleveland to New York, where he met Xander and Spike, who duly invited him to join their band. He did so, and from there he found that there was no looking back. They had just become bigger and bigger. But more important was finding Buffy. Since then, the band had really been a band rather than just a group. They had found real success with Buffy as their drummer, and perhaps their heart. She owned Angel's heart, after all. He adored her. It was only her presence in the band that stopped him quitting for better things. He had reached the stage where bigger, better bands were approaching him, asking him to join them. But he wouldn't leave Buffy, even if she didn't know how he felt. There was no question of him saying anything to her. He didn't want to upset the already delicate balance in the band and he couldn't bear for her to turn him down. So instead, he watched her from afar, silently cursed Tom Ferry if he was around, hoping that one day, he would tell her.

Eventually, after much blood, sweat and tears (though shed privately) the Stillwater album was finished. Angel and David Hall then sat for hours perfecting the recordings, Angel even stepping in on one song to add a longer solo. He knew it would aggravate Spike, but by this point, he didn't care. The album was released in January 1974 to widespread success, and more importantly, widespread critical acclaim. Their old friend Rosalie reviewed it for both NME and Rolling Stone, her first piece for the latter. She gave it the thumbs-up in public, but privately she could tell that the recording had not been a happy one, she could even hear the strain in Spike's voice. She worried about the band, with whom she still kept in contact, so when she was told by the NME in the Summer of that year to go on tour with them again, she was relieved. That way, she could keep an eye on them.

London, England, August 1974.

"You'll be OK here on your own?" She asked her older sister anxiously as she prepared to leave. Ellie laughed.

"Yes, little sister."

"If you have any problems, go to mum and dad, OK?"

"Not on your life." Ellie said firmly. Rosalie stopped what she was doing.

"Promise. I won't leave otherwise. If you need help, go to them. They won't mind."

"I'll mind."

"Eleanor." She said firmly, so much older than her sister in many ways.

"Fine. And if you see Bowie on your travels, tell him I said hi."

"Fine. Why did you stop working for him anyway?" She asked. Ellie didn't answer, instead busied herself with folding Rosalie's shirts.

This time, she was meeting the band in Los Angeles. The plane took hours, stopping in Detroit to refuel. But finally she arrived to find a band clearly not on great terms. This was telling. In her short but full career, she had seen many bands, some at the beginning of tours, some in the middle, some at the end, and she had seen Stillwater all the way through. Usually, bands started full of verve and joy. Instead, they looked tired and annoyed with each other. Even the joker of the pack Xander seemed subdued.

"Hi guys!" She called. They immediately perked up, and she knew it wasn't that they were happy to see her, but they were on the alert now that the writer was there.

The first couple of stops on the tour went along without incident. The audiences had got bigger, and this was their first headlining tour, which itself added to the band's headaches. Then, in San Francisco, an unscheduled guest turned up.

"ANGEL!" The voice yelled. The post-gig party stopped immediately.

"Cleo?" He asked uncertainly. The redheaded woman smiled slightly.

"Hello darling."

Cleo was a musician, just like Angel. Her real name was Jayne Thomas and she was from a small town in Georgia, just where she wouldn't say. She was one of those singer-songwriters who tried hard to be Joni Mitchell. Cleo had a velvety voice that she used to good effect, but so far her fan base was small and dedicated. She was the kind of singer who's admirers were other musicians. She had been Angel's girlfriend for some time now, on and off. They had met at a concert in 1970, as Angel seemed to meet everyone important at such events, and somehow they had ended up being the musical world's golden couple- the singer-songwriter girl with a voice to melt the hardest of hearts, and the guitar god. Their relationship was a rocky one, to say the least. Angel was the reticent, brooding sort, while she was a fiery person prone to rages over tiny things. They had broken up more times than they could count, and if Angel was honest, he wasn't really sure why they got back together at all.

"Cleo? What are you doing here?" He said, surprised to see the redhead standing there. He couldn't help it, but he immediately threw a guilty look over towards Buffy.

"Surprise," She cooed. "I was in town."

"That's... Great." He managed. Cleo smiled, put down her bag and her guitar case and went over to him, before planting a kiss on his lips.

"Tell me... Good surprise or bad surprise?"

"Good surprise. Definitely a good surprise." He lied. She grabbed his hand and pulled him along.

"Which is your room?" She asked, leaving Angel to follow.

Buffy saw Cleo arrive and was surprised to feel a sharp pang of jealousy as she watched Angel and Cleo go off into his room. She didn't know that it was the same reaction he had when Tom was around, but she felt it just the same. The feeling took her by surprise, for she had never thought of Angel like that. That night was full of deep thoughts for Buffy, as she came to terms with the fact that she was undeniably attracted to the guitarist. Like Angel for her, she decided that there was no question of actually telling him how she felt. She didn't want to disturb the band's already fragile state any more than he did. And of course, there was Cleo. She would never know that the night was spent by Angel and Cleo in separate places- she slept, he sat on the balcony of his room softly strumming old classical guitar songs he had been taught as a boy.

"Buffy, earth to Buffy!" Cordelia said impatiently. The petite drummer had zoned out completely.

"What?" Buffy said after Cordelia tugged on her hair gently.

"What's the matter with you?" She asked.

"Nothing. Just tired."

"Oh." Cordelia sat beside Buffy on the pile of luggage waiting to be shifted to the bus.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" Cordelia asked her. Buffy mustered a smile and nodded.

"Of course I would."

"Good. Because I worry about you."

"You do?"

"Sure I do. When you were a Band-Aid, you were in control. Now you're the band, and it's different."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that now you have to do as Spike or Angel says or you get kicked out of the band."

"What are you implying?" Buffy snapped.

"Nothing, I just..."

"I have not had sex with either Spike or Angel. Nor, I might point out, would I want to." She said. She jumped up from her place on the bass drum.

"OK, chill." Cordelia said, taken by surprise by Buffy's outburst.

"It's not like I even like Angel or Spike anyway." Buffy said before storming away. Cordelia watched, amused.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." She muttered, before following.

The band had been excellent that night in Monterey. On fire, almost, electrifying without anyone actually being injured. So the mood in the dressing room was happy, jubilant even, certainly better than it had been for some time. Then Ripper came in with a large cardboard box.

"Gentlemen! Your t-shirts are here!" He had everyone's attention at that. They eagerly crowded around as Ripper opened the box and pulled out a t-shirt, displaying it proudly. The picture on the front featured Angel prominently, standing in the centre. The others, however, were all just a blur. The word Stillwater rose above their heads in red lettering. Ripper threw down the shirt.

"Record company's mistake. T-shirt gone, band happy." And then he rushed out with the box.

"Can we just skip to the part where we laugh about it?" Angel said. Spike made some kind of rude noise and turned away.

"Because I can see you really want to get into this." Angel said. He grabbed the t-shirt Ripper had left behind.

"This t-shirt says everything you want it to say." Angel said, draping it over a chair.

"It speaks pretty bloody loudly to me." Spike said. Angel snorted.

"It's a t-shirt." He said derisively. Spike turned away, unable to look at Angel any longer. Spike growled angrily.

"Are you on coke again?" Angel accused, knowing Spike always got worse on cocaine.

"Yeah, all the time," Spike snapped back. Angel sighed. There was no getting through to Spike in this mood.

"This is big stuff, man. From the very beginning we decided that I'm the front man and you're the guitarist with mystique. That's the dynamic we agreed on. You know, Page and Plant, Mick and Keef. But somehow it's all turning around. We have got to control what's happening to us. There's a responsibility here..."

"Excuse me, but didn't we all get into this to avoid responsibility?" Angel shot back.

"Guys!" Buffy cut in, noticing how the Band-Aids had left discreetly. Only Rosalie and the band now remained."

"Guys! Stop!" She continued. Spike and Angel both threw her dirty looks.

"I can't say any more with the writer here!" Spike said petulantly.

"No, Rosalie's OK! You can trust her." Angel said, his eyes boring into Rosalie, forbidding her to move.

"I work as hard or harder than anybody on that stage. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off. I look for the guy who isn't getting off, and I make him get off." Spike said. He turned to Rosalie. "Actually, that you can print."

Spike turned back to Angel, glaring, almost crying, it seemed.

"And yet, why do I always end up feeling like I'm a joke to you? You want to pretend this isn't going to be a very big band? Well it is! You call yourself a leader of this band, but your direction allowed the t-shirt, when you allowed Ripper to manage us, 'cause he's your friend... don't you see? The t-shirt is everything. It's everything."

"Is it my turn now? Because I think we should, for once, say what we really mean." Angel said, anger building up inside him. Spike yawned.

"This is the part where you quit, if I'm not very much mistaken."

"Yeah, I'm so predictable." Angel said sarcastically.

"Look, let's all just take a break! Stop acting like stupid little boys!" Buffy said, finally exasperated.

"Shut up!" Spike raged. He turned back to Angel. "I'm just gonna say one more thing, that nobody else will say."

"And what's that?"

"Your looks have become a problem!" Spike yelled, before flouncing out of the room.

"Great. Just great." Xander moaned, following Spike from the room.

"Couldn't you even try to get along with him? Can't you jump dump some fucking hormones?" Buffy said, annoyed at both Spike and Angel. Then she too left, leaving Angel and Rosalie behind, one raging, one stunned by what she'd just witnessed.

"Hey Rosalie, you're real." Angel was stalking along angrily now, with Rosalie in hot pursuit.

"You know everything about me, but I don't know, well, anything about you."

"Well, my dad thinks my sister's the Devil Incarnate because she listens to rock n roll and left home to work for a man who publicly declared he was gay." She started. "But you don't really care." She added knowingly.

"I do.... Sure I do!" Angel protested. "Does your dad think that you're the Devil Incarnate for listening to rock n roll and leaving home to tour with us?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I asked permission."

"Oh." They were outside now, and Angel was suddenly very aware that a number of fans were following at a discreet distance.

"A-woo-hoo!" A van pulled up and a kid of no more than seventeen, his hair long and lank, leaned out of the driver's seat.

"You're Angel from Stillwater." He said.

"On my good days, yes I am a-woo-hoo Angel from Stillwater."

"You want to come to a party at my friend Aaron's house? I know you're a big rock star and all." The boy paused, uncertain.

"We're just real Monterey people, man." He had said the magic word. Angel's eyes gleamed and he nodded eagerly. Rosalie shook her head.

"No... Angel, no..." She started. Grinning, Angel grabbed her hand and pulled her into the van.

The party was going strong at Aaron's house quiet suburban house. It seemed that every teenage in the neighbourhood had turned up. The long haired young man (by the name of Scott) parked the van, shouting out of the window to anyone who'd listen. He then led Angel and Rosalie into the house and into the party. Cups of beer were handed round, and even under the influence of large amounts of alcohol many people recognised Angel. They gathered around him, fawning. He was really enjoying it too, finding their hero worship a pleasant change from Spike's barbs, Xander's indifference and Buffy's... Well, he really didn't know what was going on with Buffy. The veil of sadness that hovered overhead was pushed away by his adoring fans. He talked, they listened, he loved it.

"And that's Rosalie. Hey Rosalie!" He yelled to the incredibly uncomfortable, stone cold sober writer. She waved to him.

"Is she your girlfriend?" One of the girls by his side purred. Angel laughed.

"No, she's a writer." He grabbed one of the red cups as they were passed around.

"There's acid in the beer in the red cups." Aaron told him with a surreptitious grin. Pausing only a second, Angel downed it in one and reached for another.

"PLEASE! Don't give him anymore acid!" Rosalie yelled over the music to the partygoers. Then, she headed to the phone. She fished around in her bag for the tour itinerary. Finally, she found the number for the hotel in Monterey and dialled.

"Ripper?"

"Bloody Hell, Rosalie! Where is he?"

"He's fine. He is on acid though." She listened for a moment, watching as Angel, usually so cool and collected, danced wildly with several adoring girls.

"How do you know when it's kicked in?" She asked Ripper.

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