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."

No porn today, just a bit to keep the story moving...
MUNCH

Another thrilling briefing(or possibly indoctrination) at Wolfram & Hart. Honestly, I’ve not stuck out this badly since that awful summer after the newspaper, but before the police academy, when I wrote fortune cookies. Not surprisingly, they thought my work reflected a certain nihilistic quality people wouldn’t want with their chicken lo mein.
Every once in a while, I still see the one they kept, “Don’t expect romantic attachments to be logical or rational.”But apart from that,they told me my fortunes put people off their food. Can you believe that? As much bad Chinese food as there is criss-crossing this great nation, and it’s all my fault?

I waited around afterward, outside the door, to see if Lilah would talk about me with Aryan Ken.(They had to have fucked...why else would they distrust each other so?)

“Are you sure about this one?” Ken(I mean Lindsey) said. “The Senior Partners haven’t really forgiven us for the Faith debacle. And, you know they don’t...give many second chances.” Was it me, or was Mr. Perfect afraid? I could swear he was.Part of me loved hearing it, and part of me dreaded anything that could get up a Hitler Youth member’s skirt.

”The problem with Faith was her poor impulse control,” Lilah pointed out. “I can reason with this one...he thinks he’s an intellectual.”

Ouch. And these are defense lawyers? Obviously, I’m not getting her best material.
“ What if he decides to start a revolution, Lilah?”

”I’ll take care of it...the best way to kill this guy is to love him.”

Now and forever, I will see Lindsey and the name to come up will be "Counselor Herrenvolk."

Perfect.

I shouldn't do that. I mean, thinking about what I really look like...apart from the whole "As is" thing.(But it is what Munch would think, but as blonde me I get the wig...even if my pedigree is more "Hitler's nightmare" than "Lebensborn")