When
Maybe (miztruzt@blueyonder.co.uk)
Rating: Pg-13(at most.)
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, only the plot, no
money made etc. I promise I'll give them all back when
I'm done - so don't hold your breath.
Summary: Spike decides to play a trick on Angel; because
he was so utterly inebriated he passed out, therefore not
wreaking enough havoc in L.A to warrant an immediate
return to Sunnydale.
Author's note: Sequel to `Civilised Hours'. (Also, thanks,
Dusk, for beta-ing for me again.)
There are days, Angel thought without opening his eyes, when you just know that it is going to be a bad day. He shifted slightly in bed, easing the cricks out of his neck, and stretched. There was a certain comforting element in the knowledge, triggered by a sixth sense, that at least he would be prepared for a bad day. However, nothing, he discovered, could have prepared him for being green.Angel opened his eyes. Blinked. Blinked again. Shook his head. Closed his eyes. Re-opened them. He swore softly under his breath. He was still green. "Oh, perfect," he muttered darkly. "And what the hell is going on?" he asked nobody in particular. He raised a hand to scrape his hair out of his eyes, still vainly hoping against hope that something, somehow, was altering his eyesight instead of his skin colour. He really didn't need to come into contact with the horns. Both of them.
Whether the ignorance inducing fug brought on by sleep had not yet fully dissipated, or simply that his brain was refusing to engage in the hopes of denying the alteration in his physical state, but Angel's first thought was that he had finally gone insane. Possibly irreversibly. Having decided this was the case he collapsed back against the pillows in defeat. "This is not happening to me," he groaned. The phrase rang a bell, an alarm bell at that. He had said much the same thing, yesterday morning... when Spike arrived. Spike.
Angel growled low in his throat, a deep savage snarl that threatened his usually fairly impressive self-restraint. He flicked back the covers and launched himself out of bed. Searching for his robe, he remembered that Spike was responsible for the absence of that as well. "I am really going to kill him," Angel vowed, stalking towards the door with the intent to carry out his promise and regretting, not for the first time, not having fulfilled it before.
He was distracted by the full-length mirror Lorne had presented him with a week or two earlier. Apparently it was a necessary addition to any room. "I don't care if you can't see yourself in it Angel cakes. I can see me in it." So that was that.
Now he could see Lorne in it as well. Angel glanced behind him. Nothing there. But when he looked around Lorne was still eyeing him from the glass. Angel frowned. Lorne did the same. Angel groaned. He wasn't just green. He was Lorne. Technically, he could see himself in the mirror. "What...?" he began and broke off, reaching to touch his throat. He even sounded different. And entirely too cheerful, given the predicament he was currently in. The mound of covers stirred at the sound of his voice.
"Wha' time `sit?" a muffled voice mumbled. The covers slid back and Angel found himself staring into his own face. The mouth opened. And a yell issued from it.
"Lorne," Angel said, casting a horrified glance in the direction of the door. If, as he suspected, it was daylight outside, the crew would be downstairs and unlikely to stay that way if the creature on the bed didn't shut up. "You are Lorne? Aren't you?"
His physical reflection ceased its assault on his ears to say: "I thought so, but apparently you are Lorne, so that leaves me in something of a dilemma."
It was too early in the morning for this. Angel rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, clipped a horn and pulled his hand away abruptly.
"I think that you are me," he said. A quizzical expression crossed over what used to be his face and settled.
"Huh? Angel?" Lorne queried.
"Yeah, or I thought I was."
"And what time did you say it was?" Lorne shook his new head. "Oh forget it, I don't even want to know. But, one question here: why are you wearing my body?"
"Same reason you are mine,"
"That's not an... wait, he's still here isn't he?"
"Spike? Not for long," Angel assured him.
"I'm with you Angel cakes, really I am. But you can't go out there like that."
"Like what?" Angel snapped, another growl rising in his throat. It sounded faintly strangled with Lorne's vocal chords, which only served to heighten his irritation.
"Firstly, naked and secondly as me. Thirdly, if we stake him, we don't find out exactly what the hell is going on."
"Strangely, that is not my top priority," Angel hissed at him.
"Now, now. There's no need to take it out on me," Lorne chided. He adopted a casual position, reclining back against the pillows, but the flicker of hurt in his dark eyes was unmistakeable. For the first time Angel realised what it must be like to be on the receiving end of his own expressions. Guilt hit him like a tsunami and he sank down on the end of the bed.
"Lorne, I'm sorry,"
Lorne flicked his eyebrows and turned his face away. His eyes closed as though he was trying to stop the spill of tears and his shoulders started shaking.
"Lorne!" Angel was aghast.
It occurred to him all at once that Lorne was not, in fact, crying. The waves of emotion that he could somehow sense, were of amusement not sorrow.
"Lorne!" he exclaimed as the vampire's face split with the explosion of mirth.
"Now, you know what it feels like, big guy," Lorne told him amid snorts of laughter. "And, yeesh, for future reference, that scowl does not suit me."
Angel was eyeing Lorne with a wary expression, as though he had found something very rare and rather dangerous in his bed. It was much the same way he looked at Spike when he was trying, and failing to make sense of him.
"Angel cakes, stop it," Lorne begged holding his sides.
"You stop," Angel suggested.
"Look, I appreciate that your facial muscles are not used to this much exercise but please, if you tense up like that you are going to ruin my posture."
He rolled his shoulders as he spoke and shook his head.
"I have no idea how you can stand this," Lorne informed Angel, trying to relax his adopted body into something resembling his own laid back posture. Angel shrugged, not wanting to admit that, privately, he thought that his body probably did look much better draped conspicuously across the bed than it ever did the way he wore it. Slightly disturbed by this thought, he banished it. Lorne just grinned at him and Angel felt the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile despite himself.
"This really isn't funny."
There was an audible crash from downstairs, shortly followed by the pounding of fists on the door.
"Angel!" Cordelia's voice shouted.
Angel moved swiftly to block the door and fastened his hand around the knob to stop it opening.
"Angel! I know it's like bedtime for you and everything... and I don't even wanna go there, but..." she broke off as a yell of mingled pain and fury reverberated up the stairwell. "Oh God, what did he do now?" she cursed under her breath and hammered on the door once again, the handle twisted beneath Angel's hand. "Just get up will you," she flung at the door.
"Cordy, we'll be there in a sec," Angel called. There was a moment's silence and Cordelia muttered.
"Why me? Why is it always me that gets to find the non-boss with his pet demon?"
"Damn," Angel said softly. "Lorne, say something!"
"Alright, alright, sweetie, keep your hair on. I'm coming," Lorne scrambled out of bed.
Outside the door Cordelia frowned. Inside Angel did the same.
"Yeah," Cordelia sounded uncertain for a moment. "Well, you'd better!"
Angel turned to Lorne as Cordelia's footsteps retreated.
"What are we going to do now?" he demanded.
"The obvious," Lorne replied grimly.
"You do realise that there is not a single thing in here that I can wear," he pointed out a few minutes later. He was naked from the waist up, the `decorative' shorts Angel had been wearing to bed bunched up around the waistband of a pair of Angel's black jeans. His head was buried inside Angel's wardrobe.
"At least not wear well," Angel remarked.
Lorne cast him a withering look over his shoulder and tugged sceptically at the jeans.
"Care to explain to me how you fit anything in here besides yourself? If I didn't know better I would say that you were severely lacking in the lower departments..."
He silenced himself hastily as Angel folded his arms and glowered. Lorne snorted with laughter.
"Give it up, Angel cakes," he advised. "I am really not meant to look ferocious... and the horns. I look like a sheep, and a snooty one at that."
Angel sighed. "Great. Just great. I'm offended. And pissed off. Wait, aren't you insulting yourself there?"
"Very probably. And don't be offended. I look really good in that suit."
"I feel ridiculous."
"Oh, so now you are criticising my dress sense?"
"No, I'm criticising your dress sense on me."
"But you are me."
"Yes, but... anyway - you were criticising mine!"
"I can't wear black all day!"
"And yet you expect me to wear yellow?"
"It suits you."
"No, it suits you, not me as you."
"It's not like either of us has a choice in this. Not if we want to keep Wesley and the others out of this."
Reluctantly Lorne extracted a dark blue shirt and slipped into it. Turning to check his reflection in the mirror, he let Angel's face settle into a familiar scowl. Angel smiled and crossed the room to straighten the lapels of the shirt. He ran his fingers backwards through Lorne's hair; combing it into the style he normally wore it in. Lorne tilted the corner of his mouth up into a smile.
"ANGEL!!!" came from downstairs.
"Showtime," the Host whispered.
"Scowl," Angel reminded him.
"Only if you smile," Lorne told him, heading for the stairs.
Cordelia was standing on a chair. Her hair was straggling across her flushed face and she was yelling at the top of her voice. Wesley was flat on his back in the middle of the floor, and showing as much sign of moving as Cordelia was of shutting up any time soon. Gunn was hopping around the room trying to shake a mousetrap off his forefinger, cursing in a startlingly wide vocabulary and demanding that some one stake `that son of a bitch'. The `son of a bitch' was standing at the foot of the stairs, a self-satisfied smile on his face as he regarded the chaos from the Welcome mat.
"Spike, get your foot out of the butter dish," Angel said tiredly, wondering for the hundredth time if he could stuff the entire mat down his idiot childe's throat. If sufficient force was exerted one could make anything fit anywhere. He could prove that, his relationship with Lorne pretty much depended on it. He also noticed that Spike was wearing his jeans and his sweater.
With a shake of his head Angel turned to Cordelia. "What is going on?"
"It's him!" Cordelia shrieked. "Wheatabix and him! And then there were rats and a mousetrap in the breakfast and..."
Lorne raised his eyebrows and glanced at Angel, who was equally baffled.
"Spike?" he asked in a dangerous voice. The vampire looked directly at Lorne.
"You have Watcher boy running the company and now yer boyfriend's walking all over your authority," he tutted. Angel didn't fail to notice the calculating look in his eye, which evidently confirmed his suspicions that Spike was involved with his recent change of state.
"Just answer the question," Lorne said smoothly.
"Like the lady said: breakfast," Spike shrugged as though the entire matter was self-explanatory. "I wanted breakfast, `cept I didn't count on the rats likin' wheatabix. An' then that poofter," he jerked his thumb at Wesley's prone figure, "Stepped in the butter, and then, it went down hill from there..." he trailed off.
"Angel's" face was threatening to crease into laughter lines. The real Angel nudged Lorne sharply.
Abruptly Lorne sobered.
"Did you say rats?" he asked suddenly.
Spike nodded solemnly.
"Only one actually. Big rat," he added with a pleased grin.
Lorne shuddered and retreated rapidly back up the stairs.
"Where d'it go?" he demanded, scanning the surrounding vicinity with alarmed eyes.
"What do you care?" Spike snorted.
"I don't like rats," Lorne replied tensely.
A knowing smile spread across Spike's features.
"You used to eat them, mate," he said with some relish. "Manhattan wasn't it?"
Lorne froze.
"Yes!" he filled in hastily "Which is why I now don't like them."
"Look," Cordelia butted in " I hate to interrupt, okay, I really don't. Whatever your reasons - I don't care. Just Get. It. Out. Of. Here. NOW!"
"I was trying to!" Gunn finally managed to rid himself of the mousetrap and cradled his pulped digits.
"Yeah, `cause a trap that size was really gonna work," Spike muttered.
"Wesley was trying to as well!" Cordelia reminded him, gesturing to the figure that was sitting up at last and trying to wipe the butter off the soles of his shoes with a handkerchief. "Angel, please, eat it if you must. Just get it gone."
Angel noted with amusement the emotions playing across Lorne's face, ranging from disgusted disbelief to frank terror.
"Cordy, it is gone," he intervened kindly. Cordelia glowered at him. Resolutely she folded her arms.
"Well, I'm not getting down until some one finds it and removes it."
"Stick then," Spike retorted, swanning past in the direction of the kitchen. The butter dish thunked with each step he took.
Wesley tried to get to his feet, his foot landed back in the butter and he crashed onto his backside again.
"Angel!" he howled at Lorne "Stop him!" With that same thought in mind, Angel and Lorne moved swiftly toward the kitchen in pursuit.
The microwave was humming busily. Spike was lunging about on one leg, tugging at the butter dish that remained stubbornly attached to his foot.
"Spike..." Angel began.
"What d'ya want, greenie?" Spike snarled, straightening up immediately as though he hoped they hadn't seen him.
"I want my butter dish off your foot."
Spike glared at him. After a moments hesitation he shrugged agreeably and swung his leg back, kicking the wall in a powerful roundhouse. The porcelain shattered instantly.
"That wasn't an intelligent thing to say," Lorne commented.
"It's off, ain't it?" Spike demanded belligerently.
The microwave pinged; Spike extracted his breakfast and vanished out of the door.
Angel opened his mouth, closed it again and stooped to pick up the fragments of the dead dish.
"Remind me again, why was it you turned him?" Lorne asked, setting the kettle and slipping another pint of O positive into the microwave.
"Pure insanity. There was never a reason and I am about to correct the error," Angel replied firmly.
"Keep telling me I had a reason for it or I shall simply stake him now."
"Then my mouth is closed," Lorne grinned and passed Angel the mug of warmed blood.
At that moment Spike wandered back in, mugless, so no doubt that was now festering somewhere, not to be uncovered until it had congealed or crawled off of it's own accord.
"That's not what I heard," he commented blandly. For the first time in two hundred and forty something years Angel felt his cheeks colour hotly. Spike smiled innocently and plucked Angel's mug from his grasp, exchanging it for Lorne's, so that the vampire was holding the blood mug.
Waiting until Spike left again Angel reversed the swap, until Wesley came in to wash the butter off his shoes. Lorne hurriedly took back the blood mug. Sitting at the table they exchanged mugs once again.
Angel frowned. "Wait, shouldn't you be drinking this?" he asked, staring into the murky crimson depths and considering his green hands that held the mug.
Lorne hesitated.
"Yes," he said after a moment's thought. "Definitely. Your body, therefore, needs blood. You, don't actually need it, seeing as you are now me. Or something like that."
He passed the mug of coffee over regretfully. He took a swallow of the blood and grimaced. Catching Angel's eye he smiled guiltily.
"No offence intended honey, but coffee is infinitely the superior drink."
Angel smiled in return and pushed the coffee across the table.
"You drink it then. If I do I might have to pee. I don't think I want to investigate that possibility in any sort of detail."
"Hey," Lorne protested. "It's all perfectly natural. Besides, it'll be an experience for you."
"The loss of human functions was not a great one."
"But this is a demon function."
Angel just cringed.
After a few moments Lorne put his mugs in the sink. "If we're on the topic of bathroom business, mind if I have a shower?"
"Go ahead," Angel replied. "Just, lock the door. Spike's still around."
Lorne looked at him thoughtfully. "You two have a history by any chance?"
Angel traced the grain of the table with a nail polished forefinger. "Yeah," he said eventually. " I s'pose you could call it that."
He glanced up and read the other demon's mind. "It's in one of those I'd-rather-not-talk-about-it categories."
"You really do have a lot of boxes in the proverbial attic," Lorne remarked. "Something you regret, huh? Corrupted him? I imagine he wasn't like this when you turned him?"
Angel laughed and seemed rather surprised at the volume that it came out at. "No, he really wasn't," he broke off and glared at Lorne. "What part of `I don't want to talk about it' do you not understand?"
"The part where we don't talk about it. I can't read your aura like this so you have to talk now." Lorne was actually finding the sensation quite unnerving. He was so used to being able to read people's souls through their aura's he felt as though he had suddenly gone deaf. He had lost a vital communication link, which, as he discovered, left him feeling curiously vulnerable. It also made talking to Angel doubly difficult. A major part in the reason that he could understand Angel so well came from knowing what the vampire was dealing with at any one time. Without it he had to rely on conversation alone, not Angel's strong point.
"How `bout not?"
"You can't blame yourself for everything, Angel cakes."
"You think I blame myself for Spike? I do not accept responsibility for Spike! I'm just... alright, I'm ashamed of myself, okay?" He felt his cheeks turn scarlet again and avoided Lorne's gaze.
The demon roared with laughter. "And I don't blame you for that either!" he strolled off, chortling to himself.
"ANGEL! I'm not standing here forever, you know!" Cordelia's voice sounded out as the shower started running upstairs.
Angel came out of the kitchen to find her yelling up the stairs, still perched atop her chair. "Rat removal required, now!"
Gunn was nowhere to be seen and Wesley was engaged in a book, studiously ignoring Cordelia's predicament. "Cordy, I'm sure it's safe to come down now. The rat has probably gone. The amount of screaming you've done would be enough to drive anyone away," he added, getting a sudden kick out of being Lorne and therefore being able to speak his mind without getting staked. "Just because you are screwing my ex-boss doesn't mean you get to be smart," Cordelia informed him.
Angel was about to reply when there was a yell from upstairs. A cloud of steam drifted over the balcony and Lorne came flying down the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints. And his towel. Angel groaned aloud. Much as Lorne complained about them, some inhibitions were invaluable.
"Uh, about the naked thing," Angel started.
Cordelia lifted her eyes to the heavens. "Okay, scarred for life here."
"Ah, Angel? Clothes?" Wesley asked, concerning himself with simulated interest in his book. Angel noted with some alarm the way his eyes strayed backup again when he thought that no one was looking.
Lorne ignored all of them. "I can't sing!" he announced.
"Oh, well done, Sherlock!" Cordelia turned to cast him a withering glance and looked away again hastily. "We've been trying to tell you that for like, ever. I mean... um, sorry, but you really can't."
"Cordelia, sweetie, you don't understand. I can't sing!"
"Angel? We. Know," Cordelia stated. She treated him to a look usually reserved for the mentally retarded. And occasionally Wesley.
"Angel? Cordy, honey, open your eyes... and, oh, yeah, Angel. Ah."
Cordelia stared at him. "Angel, I swear, you are really beginning to scare me. Are you evil? No, wait, if you were you would never call me sweetie..."
Wesley's mouth opened to form a perfect `O' of surprise. "Lorne" closed his eyes and stifled a sigh, in such an Angel gesture that any doubts Wesley might have had left took wings. He closed his mouth, swallowing rather hard. His cheeks turned purple with the effort and he exhaled heavily. "Wes, if you laugh I am going to rip out your insides and feed them to you," Angel warned him.
"Geez, what is with you guys today? It's like, major personality transplants. And what are you finding so funny anyway?" Cordelia demanded of Wesley.
"That'd be the personality transplants," Spike supplied, sauntering up and producing a small silvery gadget on his open palm. "Red fixed it up for me, after Faith an' little Buff got all mixed up."
"Good grief, this happened to Buffy and Faith?" Wesley asked.
"Yeah," Angel affirmed, recalling all too vividly Buffy's account of that tale, after they'd beaten each other up, argued about Faith and, of course, apologised for all of the former things.
"You said Willow gave this to you?" Cordelia asked suspiciously.
"Well, sort of. She mended it. I just, borrowed it," Spike replied evasively.
"So, you like, switched their bodies?" Cordelia asked Spike, glancing from Angel to Lorne and back again.
"Yeah," Spike replied smugly.
"Why?" Cordelia asked bluntly.
"On that topic it may be as well to remain silent," Wesley suggested prudently.
Cordelia opened her mouth, closed it again and wrinkled her nose.
"Please tell me it wasn't some icky demon sex thing."
"Nothin' like that, Princess," Spike protested, his smile suggesting that the thought had occurred to him.
"Makes me wonder if you want it to be though."
"Stake. Now."
Cordelia climbed down from her chair and plucked one from the supply under the desk, advancing on Spike menacingly. The other three stepped back to allow her space, and avoid the pointy end of the stake.
"Hey, watch it!" Spike stumbled backwards. He slipped in the remains of the butter and tipped over the back of the couch, landing starfished out on the floor. Cordelia paused, stake raised.
"Can you reverse the transformation?" she asked.
"Dunno," Spike sat up cautiously and shrugged, affecting dignity as he struggled to stand. Cordelia raised the stake again. "Really!" Spike held up both hands. "I didn't exactly ask." A grin spread across his face before he could stop himself.
"Just put a stake in him." Angel shook his head. "Wesley, will you...?"
"Of course," Wesley straightened his tie and squared his shoulders, swallowing hard again. Angel fixed him with a beady red eye and he controlled himself quickly.
"Lorne," Angel began in a slightly troubled tone.
"Towel," Lorne anticipated him.
"Clothes would be good also."
"Willow? Ah, good. It's Wesley Whyndam-Price. Yes, thank you, very well. And yourself? Splendid. Ah, it seems we have a small problem here," he coughed and had to pause to compose himself, inducing a sigh from Angel again. "Well, we thought that you might be able to assist us. No, no. There's no need to trouble Buffy or Mr. Giles. It's not that sort of problem. We have found ourselves in a situation not unlike the one I am led to believe Buffy and Faith... yes, that's right. Yes, it was Spike as a matter of fact. Yes, he is here. Actually it's Angel and a friend of his... ours." Wesley made the mistake of glancing in the direction of the unfortunate duo and swiftly averted his gaze when confronted with the snooty sheep look.
"Really? Ah, that's excellent, Willow. Thank you. Yes. Goodbye."
Wesley replaced the receiver and turned to face the pair, straight faced at last.
"You are in luck," he informed them. "Willow thinks that the device will work in reverse. She altered it somewhat, just in case someone else got hold of it, ah, accidentally."
"Thank God," Angel said flatly, glowering at his errant childe. Spike offered him an innocent smile and handed him the tiny instrument.
"And I am flattered," Lorne teased. "Anyone would think that you don't like my body."
Angel's smile was an instant contradiction. "It's your dress sense," he replied "Nothing personal."
Lorne sighed, managing to look remarkably like Angel for the first time that day as he did so.
* * * * * * *
After what seemed like eternity the sun sank below the horizon."Sheesh, any one would think that you wanted to get rid of me," Spike remarked as Angel, restored to his own body, pointedly held open the doors to the hotel onto the street.
"Funny that," he replied. "Spike, just get out. Now. And don't you dare breathe a word of this back in Sunnydale."
"I don't breathe," Spike reminded him. "Old habit. No need. Dead now."
"Soon will be if you don't keep it zipped."
"Oh, by the way Buff, your ex-shag swapped bodies with his demon lover. Funny how you were the only one who makes him go crazy, in't it?" Spike mimicked himself telling Buffy. "She'd bloody stake me where I stand, mate. And then I wouldn't get the chance to see what she'd do to you. What, you think I'm crazy? G'nite Angelus." He shook his head and stalked off into the night, taking Angel's jeans and sweater with him. At the end of the drive he turned.
"'Tis funny in't it? That she was the only one to make you go psycho. All that rolling around in the sack and the new guy can't give you a happy? You and she still have a lot in common," he added softly, as Angel shut the doors abruptly.
Angel closed the doors firmly behind him and heaved a sigh of relief.
"Is he gone?" Lorne asked standing up from the couch and turning on the desk lamp. Angel flicked off the main lights and came to sit on the arm of the couch.
"Yeah. Forever, with any luck."
Lorne smiled sympathetically. Before they had left an hour or so ago, Cordelia and Wesley had filled him in on Spike pre-chip. In Lorne's opinion, the behaviour modification was a trifle redundant. And a failure. He stroked Angel's hair until the vampire leaned his head against his shoulder and relaxed.
"If nothing else, one thing has come out of today," Lorne murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of Angel's head.
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Well, I'm beginning to understand why you find me so attractive."
"And yet it still confuses me," Angel replied with a smile, tilting his head to look up at Lorne, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Lorne leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips instead of responding. He placed a hand on Angel's chest and began to undo the buttons on his shirt.
"Don't," Angel pulled away suddenly, Spike's comment still ringing in his ears. "I'm still recovering from the whole you were me and finding myself attractive and by the sounds of it vice versa. The whole concept is just..."
"Disturbing? You have waaay too many inhibitions, big guy. It could have been fun."
"You just love yourself don't you?" Angel teased.
"I know I love some one in here. But I don't think it is me." The look in his eyes suddenly became very intense.
"You mean that?" Angel lifted his eyes to meet Lorne's incredulously.
Lorne held his gaze steadily. "Yes. I think so. I love you."
Angel's gaze dropped and for a moment he was at a loss for words. "Well, I lo..."
"Shhh," Lorne's forefinger was immediately pressed over his lips. "Don't say it. Not unless you can really mean it. And something tells me you aren't ready for that yet."
Angel was silent. In his heart he knew Lorne was right but he felt that in some way he had to offer an explanation. It hurt him to be unable to give the demon the same affection in return but Spike's words cut too close to home. Not least the parting comment about Buffy.
"It's not the curse," he admitted honestly after a pause; wondering, as he said it, why it wasn't. "It's just that... Lorne, I'm sorry. I can't. There's still too much to forget."
"I know," Lorne reassured him. "I get that."
"When it happens, I'll let you know," Angel promised. He kissed Lorne lightly on the mouth and moved off into the night, leaving the demon to let himself out. Lorne stood for a moment in the darkened reception room, watching the doors swinging back and forth; reflecting the moon in it's waxing half.
"At least he said `when'," he said softly to himself.