Thanks for the name, and an egg timer is a good idea. I need to get another one. Nick borrowed mine and I'm not sure I'd want it back if I could find it.

a person tries to write, and the cats and the husband suddenly all need something done right now. Another scene that will be finished anon

Los Angeles in summer. Asphalt swelling in the sun. Brown-outs when the city power grid couldn't handle the drain of millions of air conditioners any longer. Angel could feel the heat through the walls of the Hyperion. He supposed the heat should have felt oppressive even to a vampire, but a few decades in hell did have a way of resetting a person's internal thermostat.

It had taken Cordelia to remind him that he didn't live alone any longer. Fred never complained about the heat, but she never complained about anything. Maybe to a Texan, LA in summer was a cakewalk, but Angel noticed she'd greeted her new window air condition with a small bounce of delight.

He heard it running even as he finished his morning tai chi exercises. Have to see about getting her out of that room later. Unless . . .

"Angel! Fred! Breakfast!"

Nailing her cue the way she never could no stage, Cordelia entered the lobby below. The Sunday morning ritual continued.

"You've got a housemate who needs to eat, Angel," had been another of Cordelia's lectures on Fred-care, this one delivered over a box of doughnuts and a tray of coffee. She had found a coffee shop that had a blend so dark and strong that a vampire could appreciate it. She showed up mid-Sunday mornings and made sure that Fred came out into the open for at least a couple of hours, and Angel discovered he didn't have the nerve to bow out.

Two weeks later, Wesley appeared on Sunday morning, towing the Sunday LA Times. The next week, Gunn showed up, saying he just wanted to make sure everyone was alright after whatever events had happened the Saturday night before. He stayed to read the sports section of the newspaper and argue soccer vs football with Wesley.

Angel listened to Cordy bustling around downstairs as he dressed. Fred wouldn't go down until she heard Angel was already there. It was kind of like being followed around by an adoring puppy that couldn't quite bring itself to be in the same room as you. On Sundays, though, Fred would manage to sit on the steps with everyone else in the room. She was slowly working her way lower and lower, and in a few more weeks she might even sit on one of the plush sofas in the lobby.

As he headed down the staircase, Angel heard Wes' motorcycle and Gunn's truck pull up. He wondered which of them this week would be the one to lurk in the courtyard for ten minutes so no one would think they'd arrived together.

Cordelia was setting up on the main desk: doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, orange juice, milk, coffee, and a red plastic pitcher that no one was going to mistake for human friendly again.

"Morning, Angel." She poured him a glass of blood and held it out to him, smiling brightly.

He accepted it, smiling back. "Good morning, Cordy." She went right back to setting up her buffet, but Angel watched her a moment. He had never known a human who not only took his being a vampire in strike but who even went so far as to serve him his blood. Wes and Gunn still twitched just a little at the blatant reminder of what he was, but Cordy didn't seem to care. At this year's Fourth of July party, she'd even put a little flag in his glass, like all the others.

"Good morning, all," Wes announced as he strolled through the doors. Angel raised a brief eyebrow at Gunn walking in right behind.

"Hi, guys," Cordy said. She wrestled with the cap on a glass jar. "Angel, come here and be useful." Sighing ostentatiously, Angel obeyed.

Wesley brought the Sunday paper to the desk and helped himself to a cinnamon roll. He smelled like Gunn's usual brand of soap, Angel noted as he twisted off the stubborn cap on the bottle of salsa.

"Why salsa?" asked Gunn, who leaned no the desk next to Wesley. "Hey, English, hand me one of the glazed."

"Certainly." He handed the doughnut to Gunn, a procedure which seemed to involve more finger contact than Angel assumed was strictly necessary. Wesley caught the faint smile. "What's so amusing, Angel?"

"Nothing. Cordy, why is there salsa?"

"For the nachos, silly." She emptied a bag of chips into a large bowl.

"Nachos for brunch," Wesley commented. "I suppose it makes sense to a Californian."

"It's for Fred. Familiar food, to make her feel more comfortable."

Gunn grabbed a chip and sampled the salsa. "Well, it won't go to waste either way."

Angel heard the faint footstep on the stairs behind him, but he didn't turn too quickly. "Hi, Fred," he said over his shoulder to the wraithlike girl, who had managed to come two-thirds of the way down the stairs.

Cordy gave another bright smile. "Good morning, Fred. Would you like orange juice or milk?"

Fred sank slowly to a step. "Um, juice?"

"Coming right up."

They settled into their Sunday morning routine, sharing the sections of the paper out. Angel took the want ads, but more for something to hide behind as he studied his friends. Cordelia had the entertainment section, Gunn had sports, Wesley was working through the international news, and Fred was giggling faintly to herself over the comics. Angel took a swig of cold, disgusting pig's blood to remind himself not to get too content with his lot in life.

Nice, jarring reminder there at the end. Also,

As he headed down the staircase, Angel heard Wes' motorcycle and Gunn's truck pull up. He wondered which of them this week would be the one to lurk in the courtyard for ten minutes so no one would think they'd arrived together.

caused me to snerk mightily.

Bloody typos.

Typos? No comprende.

Anyhow, I loved the story. You really did a good job of making that whole post-Pylea time seem as if it was one of the best, happiest times for the MoG as a whole. It hurts that Angel has to remind himself not to let himself get too used to that sense of family or to become too content. It hurts even more when you think about everything that the MoG will go through after that time.

Connie, I really liked that look at life at Angel Investigartions that summer. Thanks.

I have an Anya/Xander story (linked drabbles, really) up at my LJ. It's odd how the easiest ficathon requests are sometimes the hardest things to turn into actual prose.

Lyra, comment left at your LJ.

I did actually do "real" writing, not just this, today. But the Munchkin decided I could *not* get smutty without giving him his say..although he held back more on the touchy-feely, I would say...I would be embarrassed except I lost my shame in the recession. Same event different perspective. [link]

yay, more V!Giles. You knew there was a reason we were visiting with the MoG.

"Who's got the want ads?" Cordelia asked.

"I do." Angel took the section over to her. "What are you looking for?"

"Oh, this and that," she shrugged. "The personals are a hoot."

Angel picked up the entertainment section as he poured himself another glass of blood. As he started scanning the front page, he noticed Cordy turning to the Help Wanted section. He was ready to ask her if she really was looking for a new job when he saw she was looking over the audition announcements. He tried to remember when she'd last been out on an audition, much less had a call back.

"When did this happen?" Wesley suddenly said, looking at his section of the paper.

"When did what?" Angel asked.

"Hector Ramierez is dead."

Cordy shook her head. "Who's Hector Ramierez?"

Angel folded up the entertainment section. "The car collector?" He ignored Cordy's smirk. Cars were a perfectly acceptable thing to have an interest in.

Wesley re-read the story. "Yes, he. Oh, dear. 'Ramierez was brutally murdered Thursday night when he interrupted burglars who had broken into the garage where his car collection is stored.'"

Gunn snorted. "'Brutally murdered.' Cop talk for he was beaten to death or something equally messy."

"This looks like merely a filler story. It seems the police have brought in his grandson for questioning. Apparently they had a fight not long before Mr. Ramierez died."

Angel drained his glass. "You said burglars. How many cars did they get?"

Cordy poked his arm. "Maybe you can find them, get to keep one as a reward."

Wesley scanned the story one more time. "Just one, it looks like. It was apparently driven away."

Gunn looked over Wes' shoulder. "What kind of car, does it say?"

"Yes, a rare De Soto Fireflite Sportsman."

They all jumped when Angel's glass slipped out of his hand and shattered on the floor. Silent Fred gave a squeak and moved up a step.

"What color is it?" Angel asked in a tight voice.

"It doesn't say. Angel--"

"Cordy, I need you to get me the police report on this. I need to know about this car and exactly how Mr. Ramierez was killed."

Cordy put down her orange juice, but she looked doubtful. "What are we looking for? Why does it matter what color it is?"

"It's a rare car. I'll just feel better if I know what color it is. Especially if it isn't black."

She folded her arms. "It easier to find information if I know why I'm looking for it."

Wesley put the paper aside. "Angel, who do you know who drives a black De Soto Fireflite?"

He sighed. "Spike."

He hadn't admitted it at the time, but Angelus had admired the old car his obnoxious descendent drove--when Spike wasn't wheelchair bound, that is. He was never able to find the keys to the thing, though. Not even Drusilla would cooperate.

"Oh, no, Daddy, the car is my Spike's darling. I think it talks to him," she confided, "like Miss Edith speaks to me. I put its eyes out once, because it was watching me and whispering terrible things." She shivered at the memory. "Spike was terribly cross."

Wesley frowned. "It might have nothing to do with Spike. There must be thousands of those cars out there, and we are in Los Angeles, where the car is king."

"They made a little over two thousand of them. I know it doesn't make any sense, but--that particular car, violent death, it makes me nervous, is all."

Cordy, bent over the computer, shook her head. "Well, score one for the big guy's hunches, then. The car is, indeed, a black 1959 De Soto Fireflite Sportsman. And as for the cause of death?" She looked up. "Severe laceration of the throat resulting in extreme blood loss. Very little blood spatter evidence at the scene of the crime."

"Damn," Angel muttered.

Wesley shook his head. "But Spike has the Initiative chip in his head. He couldn't have killed Mr. Ramierez."

"He might have had help," Angel said. "He loved that car nearly as much as he did Drusilla."

"But why now? Cordy, when did Mr. Ramierez acquire the car?"

She scrolled through the records. "About two years ago, according to the records the police have. He bought it at an auction of seized property. Damn it," she muttered.

"What?" Angel asked.

"I get visions for everything else, why wasn't Mr. Ramierez important enough for the Powers that Be to clue me in that he was going to get munched on by a vampire? Especially one working for Spike."

Gunn interrupted. "We don't know that this Spike character was the one that jacked the wheels."

"True enough," Wesley said. "It could be a vampire who was wanting some means of influence with Spike."

Cordy shook her head. "I don't know, bribing a vampire with a car? What am I saying, this is Spike. You could probably bribe him with a bottle of whiskey and a candy bar."

Angel almost smiled at that, but he was still worrying at the puzzle. "Why now? What's changed? Cordy, when's the last you talked to anyone in Sunnydale?"

She frowned. "You know, it has been a while. The Glory thing worked out all right because, well, here we are. I think Willow sent me a couple of emails at the beginning of the summer, but there wasn't much in them."

Wesley chuckled. "What, only three pages worth of gossip instead of five?"

"Not even that." She looked at Angel. "Do you think something's wrong?"

"I think I ought to head up there tonight and check on Spike. I should have been doing it anyway. God knows what he might have gotten up to by now."

"Do you want one of us to come with you?" Wesley asked.

"No, I can deal with Spike." He looked down at the broken glass on the floor. "I'd better get that cleaned up." Cordy helpfully handed him the broom and dustpan

A hand appeared cautiously from behind the staircase bannister. "Excuse me?" whispered Fred.

"Yes, Fred?" Wesley asked.

She looked carefully from person to person. "Who's Spike? And who's Willow? What's Sunnydale?"

"That's a long story," Cordy said. "Fresh drinks all around for this one."