It was amazing how one’s life could slip steadily past one’s notice, changing in tiny little increments till one tripped over something that would have been impossible days earlier, months earlier. Then one tiny phrase, one tiny moment, and you realized that the tectonic plates of your life had rubbed off in a different direction, and that it didn’t bother you at all.

Either that, Spike thought, or he needed better beer.

In what felt like three centuries of watching the Hyperion Hotel, he had discovered that they basically didn’t have any damned fun at all, except for Cordelia, who had either had lots of fun, or very little, judging by the pram he’d seen her pushing about. Based on his brief glimpse of the little ankle biter, it didn’t appear that the young black guy on the premises was the father, but he just couldn’t picture the weedy-looking accountant-type guy as the proud papa either.

Nor the green demon who periodically took up walking duties. And the mick was nowhere in evidence.

There was another woman on the premises, although ‘woman’ appeared to be the wrong word; she looked barely older than Dawn, if taller, and possibly even thinner. She had something of Dawn’s gawkiness, too, but based on the fact that there seemed to be no sulky body language in evidence, he guessed that she was a bit older than the late teens.

He didn’t see Angel once.

He seriously wondered how he was going to do this.

Plan? Why bother? It wasn’t as if he’d ever been able to stick with any of his plans any way, so why try? He was definitely better with inspiration, which was why he was still sitting grumpily in his car, glaring out the windows at the hotel, waiting for the muse. At least that’s what he told himself. Inspiration, dammit. He needed an idea. That was all; he certainly wasn’t dreading what would definitely be, even with rampant lying on his part, the most uncomfortable conversation of his life, and that included most of the nail biters he’d had with Buffy.

Except, no doubt, for the one awaiting him on his return.

He toyed with the idea of finding the safe and breaking into it, but tossed that idea aside. Angel had money, he knew, but he didn’t exactly keep it in his mattress; he’d kept a fair amount of it in the form of small, portable things that were easy to carry.

Or steal.

That was a good possibility, too, except damned if he’d know how to recognize something valuable unless it was gold and had a big huge price tag with numerous zeros slapped on it. He and his grandsire definitely didn’t share the same idea of value; Spike had always been the one to take a nice couple of well-bound volumes, aged and worn from generations of reading, but Angel had always gone for the shiny stuff, like a crow---at least when there was nobody around. With an audience, he always turned into Mr. Sensitive Literature.

Besides, much as he dreaded the thought of Revealing All, part of him actually liked the thought, the build up, the anticipation. It would definitely be a rush, squaring off after such a long drought. Dru had passed on some interesting tidbits by way of explaining those nasty burns on her face, but he rather suspected she hadn’t returned to Daddy after he’d set fire to her.

Yet.

And it wasn’t as if he himself were in much of a position to criticize. His eye hardly hurt any more. Hardly at all.

For a brief and rather disturbing moment, irritation flashed through him; at Dru, for being so attached to Angel no matter what; at Angel himself, for general principles, for somehow, despite all his torment, still displaying that wonderful knack he’d never lost, that of hurting other people even while he ever so picturesquely brooded over his own torment. And, well, lastly, at himself, for being irritated all over again, when it looked as if his irritation was accomplishing nothing more than keeping him here and away from Buffy.

That last was the biggest step. He suspected they wouldn’t believe him if he blurted out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but in an odd way, they’d not have a problem believing Buffy would shag him almost blind. And they’d think the less of her for it. Something told him that bringing that into the conversation would result in many vivid mental images of Buffy-boffing for the LA gang, when there was also the inevitable panicked dash to Sunnydale after he broke the news.

He was thinking of finding the least-secure bank in LA to rob, when a black convertible pulled up to the front of the hotel, and… who was it? Oh, it was---could it be? Was it…..Angel?---Who got up and opened the passenger side door for Cordelia, who was carrying a car seat. Why yes, it was Angel. How nice, how very bloody nice. Funny Angel had never displayed that solicitude toward Buffy, he fumed. He knew her mother had died, he knew she’d died, and he’d never so much as sent a card or …..

Him. Ahem. Hm again. So the Brooding One was going to help Cordy with the kid? Interesting. And opportune.

He’d been sitting in the bloody car too long, that was it, that was all. Too much time sitting here, thinking about Buffy, thinking about what he was doing. Time to get out and wreak havoc, or at the very least see what was going on. There was a payphone in front of the Hyperion, excuse enough to get out and stretch a bit. He couldn’t stand sitting in the hot car anymore, alone with thoughts he’d rather not have, and a body that didn’t belong to him anymore. Somewhere along the way, it had switched sides, going over to the enemy, becoming more hers than his. He got up and stretched like a dog, hearing bones and joints cracking as never before. Guess I’m not a hundred any more, he thought dryly. Time’s wasting. He flipped throught the ripped-up Yellow Pages, and found the number for Angel Investigations. Angel Investigations. How cute. Just the right note of the divine. He fumbled for change, and then managed to dial the number, cursing Pac Bell for switching to ten-digit numbers. Always forgot some of the numbers by the time he got to the last four digits. Always. Bloody bastards.

“Angel Investigations. We help the helpless. Can I help you?” English voice, perhaps West London, he thought.

“What sort of help is it that you provide?”

“We do the sort of work most other investigators can’t.”

“Such as?”

“Sir, may I ask what the problem is?”

“Uh.” Spike thought about it. “Vampires.”

“What, in particular?”

Well, I’m one, and I’m in love with the Slayer. But she doesn’t love me, or at least, she just won’t admit it. And it scares the crap out of her if we even get close to talking about the R word. See this eye? But see, she wouldn’t even have given me the time of day if she hadn’t died and her friends brought her back. The sex is amazing. We’ve done everything I can think of that doesn’t involve battery-operated devices and scary hillbillies. Got any Vampire Viagra? He actually wanted to say it for a minute, then stopped himself. “It’s rather difficult over the phone. How late do you schedule appointments?”

“We could take you now, if you’re close by.”

“I might be able to make that,” Spike said, as if he had other concerns draining away his free time. “Where are you located?”

“It’s…..” He tuned out the rest of the conversation, wondering what in hell he was doing. Then he thought of Buffy, and he swallowed his impatience. There just had to be a way of doing this. There just had to be. “Thanks then. I’ll be right there.”

He walked around the block a couple of times to kill time, then presented himself at the door of the hotel and knocked. As he’d expected, the door was answered by the guy he’d pegged as an accountant, who identified himself as Wesley Wyndham-Price, and who barely glanced at his eye before politely beckoning him across the lobby toward a small but tasteful office. He settled himself behind a desk, leaned back in his seat, and crossed his hands on his mid section. Then he gave Spike a look that was jarring coming from behind those librarian glasses, and asked, “So what sort of problems does one vampire have with other vampires?” He glanced at Spike’s eye quickly, then, and rearranged the pens on his desk.

“Wasn’t sure if I should mention that.” He realized that the fellow was looking at his eye and he glanced away himself so he wouldn’t have to pretend he didn’t see it.

“We can’t help you unless you’re honest with us.”

They studied each other across the desk, and it occurred to Spike that Wesley’s body language wasn’t that of a proper corporate minion. He’d had minions before, he should know. Hell, he’d briefly been one. All of them had certain minion-like traits, off the job and on. A certain submissiveness, perhaps, which was why he’d not lasted long in the ranks; ironic, really, because as a human he’d practically been born with a “KICK ME!” sign already in place. But this guy? He was the boss.

He tried to look properly bewildered, instead of calculating, stalling till he came up with a good explanation. “What sort of stuff do you do?”

Wesley sighed and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Protection. Extermination, in some cases. Exorcisms, astral projections.”

“Love spells?” He asked slyly.

“I’m sorry, Mr.-ah?” He glanced at Spike curiously, waiting for the name. Spike froze for an instant…..

“Ah--” Vampires didn’t have last names; they weren’t human; they didn’t hand out business cards. He covered his hesitation by extending a hand for a shake, and after a moment, Wesley reached across the desk and took it, giving it a firm shake and dropping it after only one iteration. Hm, Spike thought. Maybe the guy was more nervous than he looked; then again, maybe he just wasn’t used to shaking hands with vampires.

“We just can’t afford to keep a witch on retainer for that, that, ah, type of thing.” Spike could have sworn the guy blushed. “However, I can recommend you to certain-“

“No, just checking.” He smirked. He didn’t believe in love spells---it certainly hadn’t worked with Dru---but it was amusing to see that Wesley might, if he was giving recommendations.

“So, what sort of problem is it that brings you here to us? Might I ask how you found us?’

“Word of mouth,” he said, then wondered what sort of problem he actually had. Yeah, I need lots and lots of money, because my girlfriend is going to wither away from over work, and her worthless friends ought to be helping her instead of pressuring her to make happy. “I’ve heard interesting things about Angel.”

“Oh.” Now the human was shifting uneasily in his chair. “Really, may I ask what?”

Oh, you know the usual gossip; that he snapped and went bad, but not in an Angelus kind of way, although he did set fire to Dru and Darla. Plus there’s definitely been some odd stuff floating around the past while about him and Darla, but I never could get a handle on that area. So you wanna confirm or deny? Enquiring minds want to know, especially if it gives me some ammunition.

“So, this problem you have with other vampires is…?”

“It’s kind of complicated.”

“You did come to us for help.”

“Who’s us, exactly? How did you choose the name of the company?” Aha. Another uneasy shift.

“Well, there’s myself, of course…”

“How did you get into this, anyway?” Last time I was here, you weren’t around, Angel was large and in charge, there was that belligerent little leprechaun, and I didn’t have a chip in my head. And if Angel still has the Gem of Amarra, I’m in deep shit, he suddenly thought.

“I’m a former Watcher.”

Spike started to laugh, and turned it into a cough. Angel had a Watcher on the payroll! At that, the former Watcher ---who was he kidding? The Council of Watchers thought they were like the bloody Marines, once a Watcher, always a Watcher-----frowned and glanced at his watch. Then he looked at the vampire thoughtfully, and after a brief hesitation, continued. “Well, you know, aside from my experience as a Watcher, I have of course an extensive knowledge of ancient texts and languages, plus many years of training with weapons and tactics. All of the staff members have---“

All of the staff members? There’d been a grand total of three the last time. Then at that thought he perked up. They were making a go of it. Got to be some money somewhere. Then he thought: More obstacles to get around. “How many staff members?” He asked weakly.

“Well, as I said, there’s myself; there’s Cordelia Chase, who has the gift of the Sight; there’s Charles Gunn, who is a very fine investigator, Winifred Lewis, another fine investigator, and there’s Angel himself, who is the founder of the company..”

“But…”

“What?”

“He’s the founder of the company?” Spike gestured to the nameplate on Wesley’s desk that said, “Wesley Wyndham-Price, Director.”

“Ah, yes, well, family concerns,” Wesley said with a shrug.

Such as setting your offspring and mother on fire, Spike thought, but brushed it aside. Then there had been something about lawyers, but he hadn’t been able to make sense of what Dru had been babbling by that point, bless her heart. If it upset her, he could only imagine.

“Now, really, what is it I can help you with?”

Spike swallowed. Bloody hell, he’d managed to hold him off this long. He looked into the Watcher’s eyes and wondered how one became a ‘former Watcher.’

“Who was your Slayer?” He blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your Slayer? Who was she?”

Wesley glanced down at the desk. “It was a young woman named Faith. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“I suppose every vampire has some sort of curiosity about the Slayer, but, still, that’s not why you’re here, is it? I realize this must be difficult for a vampire to do, but what is it that you’ve come to us for help with?”

Spike looked up at the man and wondered again what had brought a former Watcher to the aid of the Vampire With a Soul. How did he deal with it everyday, the brooding, the noble self-sacrifice, the heroic jaw-clenching---oh, wait, that was the Industrial Size Ken Doll. He saw someone who was younger than he had been when he was turned, but far, far, wearier, saw sorrow lines where there should have been smile lines, and wondered if it had been his Slayer that Dru had offed. Giles had had irritation lines on his face, surprisingly rigid lines that said, “I actually do know how to operate a chain saw, thank you.”

Why had he decided to walk into the office, anyway? Case the place? Get the lay of the land? Criticize the décor?

“I’m in love.”

He couldn’t figure out who’d said that, and glanced away, as if looking for the culprit. Wesley looked down at the desk for a long moment.

“She doesn’t love you back?” He asked quietly.

“No, it’s not that, well, really, it’s just a matter of time….”

“But not just yet?” Wesley flinched, and took off his glasses. In a gesture eerily like Giles’ he wiped the lenses with the tail of his shirt, and then breathed on them and scrubbed them again. He sat up straight, and looked out the window over his desk. Spike got the distinct feeling that he was uncomfortable, and it was not with him. This he became absolutely certain of when Wesley sighed deeply and swallowed what was obviously a frog in his throat. “I don’t know that there’s anything we can do for you, sir. There’s nothing more impossible than being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.”

“Well, I know she feels something for me….”

“Has she told you that?“

“It’s not like that.”

“But she has to love you back herself of her own accord. “ He continued in a low voice. “Otherwise, it’s nothing. You may think you want anything from her, but if you really think about it, you’ll realize that casting a spell to make her love you isn’t enough, because actually, she’ll just love the magic. Not you. It’s not you she loves; it’s no good. For her or for you. You just can’t force it.”

They looked at each other across the desk, for precisely one second too long. It occurred to Spike that there were a lot of things that a man could think when presented with a lovesick vampire who had a fading black eye. A rival perhaps? But instead he’d leapt to the truth. Just my luck, Spike thought. It really does take one to know one. Finally, he asked, in his talking-to-Dawn voice: ”Who was she?”

Wesley froze, then licked his lips nervously, and with a great show of Giles-like calm, replaced his immaculate glasses on his nose. The effect would have been better if his hand hadn’t shaken. “What? Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that, well, it’s a subject we see often here, so we’ve developed a policy on it. I’ve gotten quite used to the lovesick.”

No witches on retainer, Spike thought. Sure.

“It’s, ah, William.” He said quietly.

“Uh, look at the time,” Wesley said suddenly. He had the slightest flush across his face, just like a schoolboy, Spike thought. “You know, my forte is really weapons and research, perhaps I could refer you to…”

If that s true, it explains a lot, Spike thought, not unkindly.

“Could I make an appointment for a more time?” He asked. “Perhaps tomorrow? This company has come so highly recommended….”

“Ah, Mr.---“ Again, Spike noticed. Twitchy much?

“William.”

“William. I just don’t think we can do anything for you.”

“You don’t know what it is I want done.” Spike pointed out. “I’m afraid I do go on and on. But I can’t help talking about it. And you’re such a sympathetic listener; most people don’t listen to vampires.”

Wesley looked down at that. “Ah, well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll consult with the staff, and see what they think.”

“At the very least, you need all the particulars of my case.”

“Yes, that. Mr., uh, well, our rates, I must tell you…”

“Oh, I quite understand.” Spike said. “And once you hear all about it, you can tell me then whether you can help me or not.” They’re charging an arm and a leg! He thought. I can do this!

Something about the vampire’s visit disturbed Wes mightily, but in such a soft, intermittent way that it was like having a word constantly on the tip of his tongue. A vampire in love! When he had trained to be a Watcher, such a thought had been the subject of jokes, frowned on officially of course, but nevertheless, good fun. There’d been jokes about sexual practices, fashions, and just what an advantage it was that vampires didn’t need to breathe---even though many of them seemed to like it. He paused in the door to his office, taking it in; the nice cherry wood mission-style desk; the impressive brass plate on his desk that clearly indicated he was the Big Cheese, and the banker’s lamps that gave no indication he’d found them in junk stores. Looking at it all, his cozy little environment, he shook his head, almost amused, picturing how he’d explain his job at the next reunion of his class at the Watchers’ Academy.

Or at home.

It suddenly deflated for him, then, the cozy little office, even the door he could close between himself and the sight of Fred, all glowing eyes and coltish eagerness. He wanted to get angry over something, anything, but there was nobody to be angry at. Fred? Charles? Fred brought out a side of Gunn he’d never suspected, and more importantly, Gunn wasn’t at all embarrassed by it, either. He wondered at the alchemy between souls, wondering what he could have brought out in Fred if he’d had a chance. Not like he hadn’t dreamed about it, waking and sleeping, for weeks.

It just wasn’t going to happen. He was slowly acclimating to that notion, like adjusting to a new climate. It seemed that since he’d realized it, his whole temperament, like the temperature in a greenhouse, had been thrown off, and he clung to the notion that he just had to ride it out, and then the pain would be over.

He closed the door behind him, crossing the lobby to the big old registration desk. Vampires in love, he thought. Two years ago, he’d have been scoffing at it. Before Cordelia, before Angel, before that awful poisonous incident. Once he’d wrapped himself in cozy suppositions, like blankets, to protect himself from the buffeting of the gray winds that whipped other people around. He had been certain, resolute, decided. He’d laughed at the jokes about vampires, especially the ones circulating about Angelus, the worst of them all. It made it easier to kill them.

Now, though, now….He’d read somewhere the burn victims were greatly at risk from infections, until they received skin grafts, because with their skin burnt away, they were vulnerable to every germ out there. Their nerve endings had no protection from the world. Now, he knew what that felt like.

Ever since he’d experienced that---incident ----he’d felt that way. He felt as if all those protective layers of reaction and distance had been stripped away and worse yet, the skin beneath them as well. Stuff he hadn’t noticed before now seemed vivid and painful, as if his emotional skin had been burnt away and he’d been left exposed to what felt like every molecule he’d ever missed.

He could have killed her; worse yet, he’d wanted to. Oh, the memory of the joy of that thought. He still remembered how good it had felt to finally have the upper hand, to know she was scared of him, to know she’d do whatever it took to placate him. He didn’t have to wonder what, if anything, she actually felt about him; he didn’t care. All that had mattered was what he felt about her.

He grimly found his dictionary and opened it, finding the papers he’d tucked inside. They were very old, very fragile; it had been very irresponsible of him to do that. What if they were destroyed? Well, then he wouldn’t be able to continue with the disturbing translation. Then he just wouldn’t have to deal with it.

He flipped pages back and forth across the thickness of the book, not really ready to begin translating. He retreated, thinking back to the office, the vampire who’d shook his hand, as if he were used to shaking hands---or observed a lot of it, which indicated lots of exposure to humans----and had claimed to be in love. Of course, he probably thought he was in love. But that was just impossible. It wasn’t possible unless you had a soul; that wasn’t one of the Council’s stupid pronouncements, that just made sense. If you had a soul…

“Hey, Wesley.” Angel peeked through the door, hanging off the doorjamb like a teenager. “Anything interesting?” Then he ducked back out of the door for a minute, returning with Connor clutched to his chest. He was making googly eyes at the baby as Cordelia brought up the rear, swinging a car seat from one hand. Wes had picked it up and found it rather heavy and unwieldy, but then again, he wasn’t half demon. Smiling at him, she plunked it down on the counter and headed for the coffee machine with the tip of her tongue sticking out in anticipation. Angel looked up as she brushed by him, his eyes still and unreadable for a moment, then softening as he returned his gaze to the baby’s face. Gently, he settled the child in the seat, wiggling the little body around to make sure no blankets were lumped uncomfortably against the baby’s back. Then he lifted up the shirt and blew air against the child’s belly, producing a startlingly vulgar farting sound. Wes sighed and winced just a bit.

Angel noted that reaction and did it again; Wes pretty much repeated his reaction as well. Angel raised his head and looked at him. “I saw that.”

“Then you’ll stop?”

“Why? He liked it.”

“He doesn’t sign your paycheck.” Wesley said, but softened it with a smile.

“You don’t, ah, actually, pay me.”

“Well, I change more of those diapers than you do.”

“Do not.”

Wesley sighed and eyed the ceiling. “Do too. Don’t pretend, Angel, I’ve seen you running away.”

“Vampires have a more acute sense of smell than humans. And-“ he sounded injured, “I don’t run.”

“Then how come-“Cordelia returned with coffee for herself, and blood for Angel, ---“I always see you sneaking in the opposite direction when there’s a diaper to be changed.” She nodded

“I don’t sneak.” Angel sounded worried, swinging around to look at Cordy as she casually clicked her way through the computer menu. “Cordy?” He looked at her plaintively.

“Yes. You. Do.” Cordy said. Then she stuck out her tongue at him. Wes sighed and blinked from one to the other. He clearly needed to talk to Angel about it; on the one hand, they could always use the money; on the other hand, who could really say what that vampire had been up to?

He felt invisible for a moment, as Angel took the baby up to his room for changing, Cordelia following behind, coffee cup in hand. He shook his head, wryly; if Angel thought his feelings were more than temporarily unrequited, he was wrong. Then again, he thought, when have Angel’s feelings ever been unrequited? When he was Angelus, he wasn’t capable of love; when he was Angel, at least till Buffy, he had been too focused on survival to love. One moment of perfect happiness, he thought. Was it that simple? Did love just mean consummation? Until that happened, did what he felt even count? If he never got closer to Fred than her quiet co-worker, did he even matter at all?

“Going for some strong silent record, there, my friend?”

Wes started, his heart jumping at the sudden sound of an unexpected voice. He cautiously turned his head, warned by the sound of the demon’s voice that there might be hurtful sartorial excess. “No, just thinking.” He took a deep slow breath, trying to calm himself. It didn’t help that Lorne, now attired in a yellow suit with a lime green shirt, looked perfectly calm and relaxed, almost debonair. If you squinted, and were colorblind, you could even sort of picture him as a sort of pastel-toned, scaly, Rick from Casablanca.

“You could think a little less and get out a little more. Or is there a prize involved in staying indoors this long?” He settled himself into a chair after turning it backward, and leaned over the back. “Because I think Angel’s the titleholder. I mean, if you’re that old, what else is there to do?”

“No, just a lot of translation to do. “ Wes shrugged, and purposefully opened the book again. This time, he smoothed the prophecies out, and regarded them sternly, before meeting Lorne’s eyes. “I’ve just been avoiding it.”

“No wonder. I looked at that stuff and almost died of boredom. C’mon, honey, they’re all tucked in for the night. Let’s go kick up our heels----- in my case, literally.”

Wes’ lips twitched. “What, do you need a chaperone?”

“No, but you do. Somebody’s gotta make sure you have some fun. C’mon, let’s get out of here. You don’t have to look at any happy couples and I don’t have to get any insulin shots. We’ll be a great team.”

“I don’t really care if they’re happy or not. I’m glad for them.”

“Honey, you lie like a rug. And I am proud of you. That’s the spirit. Never let them see you cry. Don’t cry out loud. I will survive. By the way, that’s the karaoke list for this evening.”

“I still don’t understand why I have to be part of it.”

“Well, see, honeybunch, there’s this thing called ‘fun’ that they’ve invented. It involves entertainment, laughter, and sometimes nudity. There might be catering, from what I’ve heard. I used to be pretty good at it. And you could use some practice.”

“Practice at what? Being miserable?”

“Not being miserable.” Lorne said, grabbing his arm in a grip that was impossible to break. “See, here’s the thing. You’re being all noble and everything, and that’s just great, but you know what? You need an audience for that.”

“Are you implying that my behavior is…showing off?”

“No, no, honey, calm down. It’s just that it’s such a waste. Good looking English guy like yourself, tragedy, high cheekbones, perhaps a little sympathy sex…”

“Lorne…”

“Look I’m not saying you don’t feel what you feel, but would it kill you to stop being so noble? Couldn’t you be a bitch for just a little bit like the rest of us? Come down off that pedestal and roll around with the rest of us. Besides, think how much fun it would be to critique your rivals. C’mon, you’re gonna tell me you really don’t think it’s nauseating the way they think they’re not noticeable? Oh, hello, I can hear loud smacking noises as well as anyone, maybe better when it’s somebody lip locking. You mean you haven’t noticed Cordy cut Groo’s hair like Angel’s? You don’t think that’s beyond tacky? Plus it just doesn’t look good, Freudian issues aside. You don’t think it’s sort of alarming that Gunn looks like he’s going to start rapping about love one of these minutes? Is it really just me or would it be too much for Groo to assimilate and pick a name that doesn’t remind me of oatmeal? Sounds like something they serve in old folks’ homes to people who don’t have teeth. Let’s go.”

“Shouldn’t we get Angel?”

“Ah-ah-ah, sweetness, not a chance. Love the guy, really, really do, but the man needs to brood, plus change diapers, and who are we to possibly get nailed for nasty nappy duty? Uh uh. Love him, really, but take him to a whorehouse, and he’d induce celibacy. Now, I meant that in a good way. And, oh? By the way? You’re driving.”

“But….”

“I don’t have a license. On this planet. Plus I don’t think I can stand the thought of Groo dancing. Just sounds bad, doesn’t it? The tequila is calling us…”

Lorne yanked Wesley up the stairs, giving him only enough wiggle room to grab a jacket. “Jeez, did your mother tell you to always bring a jacket in case it got cold? C’mon already, there’s bitching to do…..”

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