Angel nodded, his mouth pursed tightly.  "I know," he said, sounding every bit as defeated as he felt.

"I know a few people," Nick continued.  "But they don’t have a lot of experience with criminal cases."

"Don’t worry," Angel said wryly.  "I know someone with a lot of experience.  He also happens to owe me a few hundred favors."

Nick cocked an eyebrow at his father.  "For what?"

"For not killing him."

Nick looked at his father.  Angel smiled a mirthless smile.  He hated this entire situation.  He hated that his son had to know anything about his sordid past, about his relationship with Clarice.  Hell, she’d been six years younger than his son and even Nick had the decency not to date someone that much younger.  Angel was disgusted with himself, not only for his actions, but for the fact that they reflected negatively on Nick.  Some father he was turning out to be.

"What the hell do you want?" Lindsey sneered into the phone.

"You’re going to do me a favor," Angel said, his voice filled with quiet menace.

"You’re sure this guy is good?" Buffy asked, her eyes perpetually puffy from all the crying she’d done in the last two weeks.

"Good?" Angel snorted.  "He’s good at getting people off, but if you’re asking if he’s a good person, the answer is no.  He’s as slimy as they come."

"How do you know him again?"

"L.A.  He worked for Wolfram and Hart."

Buffy gaped at him from her position, leaning against the door jamb to the kitchen.  "You’re going to use someone who worked for those bastards?"

Angel let out a bark of sardonic laughter, shifting his position on the couch to look at his wife.  "I don’t have a lot of choice," he said soberly.  "Lindsey knows how to fight a criminal case and as much as I don’t want to think it ... "

"It looks like you’re being set up," Buffy finished for him.

He nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes wearily.  "I have another ‘appointment’ with Detective Wong this afternoon."

"Great," she said, nonplussed.  "This is what?  The third one this week?"

He nodded again.  It had been two weeks since Clarice’s body was discovered, and while the police hadn’t outright charged him with a crime yet, it was glaringly obvious that he was their only suspect.  They’d gotten search warrants for his home, office, and the apartment he’d stayed in before moving in with Buffy.  They’d been, as yet, unable to secure a warrant for Buffy’s gallery, but it was only a matter of time.

He was exhausted, as was Buffy.  The constant questions, the wary looks from the neighbors and colleagues were hard to deal with.  Buffy, at least, didn’t have to deal with it too much.  Most of her business was out of town, so her clients weren’t aware of her personal situation.  Angel, on the other hand, was forced to deal with it every second of the day.  As a "precaution", the university had taken away his instructor’s duties.  With nothing else to do, he sat in his office eight hours a day and obsessed over Clarice’s disappearance and death.

The effect it was having on his marriage was nothing short of staggering.  Buffy was constantly upset.  The incident would have been enough by itself to set her world on tilt, but she was also still suffering from the fertility drug induced mood swings.  All of their conversations centered around Clarice and his brief, sordid relationship with her.

Angel didn’t often allow himself the luxury of regret, but he did regret his relationship with his former student.  Deeply.  If he hadn’t been such a damn pig, strutting around like some horny teenager, none of this would have happened.  How could he have been so stupid?  He’d pursued a relationship with Clarice solely to try and distract himself from Buffy.  What a joke. He should have just given in and called up his ex.  It would have saved them all so much trouble.  As it was, now the only relationship in his life that had ever meant anything was being jeopardized by some stupid fling that had meant nothing.

Sighing heavily, Angel held out his hand to his wife.  "Come here," he said quietly.

Her expression didn’t soften any, but she walked towards him, taking his hand.  She didn’t fight when he pulled her down onto his lap, nuzzling his face into the warm flesh that bore his brand.  For long moments, he seemed content to just hold her quietly.  However, when he parted his lips, pulling the scarred flesh of her neck into his mouth and sucking lightly, she tried to move away, not wanting to act on the feelings his advances inspired in her.

"Angel," she said with quiet exasperation, trying to maneuver off of his lap.

He growled in frustration, tightening his arms around her waist so she couldn’t move.

She quit struggling and settled against him.  "I don’t think this is a good idea," she said quietly.

Angel shut his eyes, trying to will away the pain her words caused and he hugged her even tighter.  They sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity until Buffy slowly raised one hand, running it through his hair.  He turned his face into the contact, desperate for her affection.

"You know I love you," he said, his voice hoarse with longing.

She nodded slowly.  "I know."

"I’m sorry," he continued quietly, unable to meet her gaze, "for everything I’ve ever done to hurt you."

She swallowed convulsively, trying to blink away her tears before they spilled down her cheeks.  "You never meant to hurt me," she said in a hushed voice.

"But I did," he said, his self-loathing evident in his voice.  "Time and time again I did nothing but cause you pain."  Saying the words aloud made him hate himself even more.  She should have heard them decades ago, but he’d been too weak to tell her.

Her hand slipped from his hair so she could curl her arm around his neck, drawing him into her embrace.  He went willingly, sighing with relief as he nuzzled against her chest, taking comfort in the only being who had ever truly understood him.  He knew in his heart that Buffy would always forgive him and he hated himself for how that knowledge made his heart leap with joy.  He didn’t deserve her forgiveness or her love, but he was too desperate to refuse.

"When are you supposed to meet Detective Wong?" she asked lightly, her lips resting against the shell of his ear.

"Three," came his reply, muffled by the fact that his face was buried between her breasts.

She glanced at the clock on the wall.  1:30.  She needed to get back to the gallery.  Instead, she leaned forward, kissing him wetly on the neck.  He groaned and his fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, hiking the soft fabric of her skirt upwards.  She knew she shouldn’t have been doing this.  There was too much stress in their relationship, too much pain so close to the surface, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him.  He wanted and needed comfort that only she could provide and she would not deny him.

She wiggled out of her panties as he pulled them down her legs, stretching her out on the couch underneath him once her sex was bare.  Her skirt pooled around her waist.  He didn’t bother with her thigh high pantyhose, turning his attention instead to the fly of the jeans he wore.  She helped him inch the confining denim and his boxers down his hips far enough to release his erection.

She gasped as he slid into her liquid warmth, not bothering with foreplay, verbal or otherwise.  Too anxious for the safe haven of her body, he rocked his hips into her, not stopping until he was seated to the hilt inside his mate.  Instinctively, she wrapped her arms and legs around his back, holding him still while he panted raggedly.

"I believe you, Angel," she said quietly.  "I trust you.  I know you’re a good person."

He buried his face in her neck and she felt the telltale wetness on his cheeks though he did not audibly sob.  Blindly, she turned her head, mouths fusing together as she kissed him deeply.  She understood his desperation, his pain.  He’d been in situations as dire as the one he was currently facing, but in the past he’d always had the option of disappearing.  He’d been immortal; eventually, if he was gone long enough, everything would be forgotten.  He no longer had that luxury.  He didn’t have time to wait out the storm, and he couldn’t leave.  He was no longer a solitary creature of the night.  He was a human man with a wife, a son, a job, responsibilities too numerous to count.  He was being forced to face it head on and he was deathly afraid of failing.

With a groan, he withdrew and slammed back into her body, causing her to draw in a breath sharply.  He picked up the pace, rhythmically sliding in and out of her protective warmth.  Buffy moaned, digging her fingers into the flesh of his corded biceps.  They hadn’t made love in over a week and she had missed the intimacy terribly.  He whispered her name, driving into her as she keened in pleasure, her back arching sharply as she climaxed around him.  A soft grunt escaped his lips as he spilled inside her.

Long moments later, he was still resting on top of her, still buried deep within her body as she idly stroked his hair.  He wanted nothing more than to wake up and have the Clarice ordeal be nothing but a bad dream.  Cradled in Buffy’s embrace he could almost believe it wasn’t happening.

Dan grimaced as the smell hit him. He instinctively looked away from the pile of decaying corpses that littered the chamber, instead focusing all of his attention on Sethak.  The demon’s mouth was stained with blood, evidence of a recent feeding.  He could remember a time when the elders could go for months on end without needing to restore their power; now it was only days.  They were weakening and weaker they got, the more the process accelerated.

"It is finally happening," the demon rasped harshly.

"Yes," Dan replied curtly.

The demon laughed hoarsely.  "Not fast enough," he bit out, causing Dan to shiver at the cold menace in his voice.

"We have time," he said, flustered.  "The prophecy has not yet come to pass, the Hellmouth can still be reopened."

The elder contemplated him silently, his luminous golden eyes fixed firmly on his quivering form.  He detested having to rely on a being of Daniel’s flimsy constitution for something so vital, but he had little choice.  With a swift nod, he dismissed the boy.

"Samples taken from the girl’s body match your DNA," Detective Wong said quietly, trying to elicit a response from the suspect.

Angel met his gaze without blinking.  "I already told you we were lovers," he said evenly, "why should that information come as a shock?"

Detective Wong’s mouth made a hard line.  "An eighteen year old girl turns up dead with your semen in her body and you don’t even care?"

Angel’s eyes screwed shut of their own accord and he flushed.  "I didn’t say I didn’t care," he said though clenched teeth, loathing that he was forced to defend himself.  "I said I wasn’t shocked."

"Does your wife know?" Detective Wong asked pointedly.

"Of course she does," Angel replied.  "She’s my wife.  I trust her with everything."

"How convenient," Wong said, his usually immaculately composed facade beginning to crack and show his underlying disgust.  "I also find it convenient that you became so attached to your former girlfriend the day after Miss Jenkins went missing."

Angel didn’t say a word, but turned sharply in his chair as the door behind him opened.

"Don’t say another word," Lindsey ordered stiffly, taking a seat next to Angel.

The End

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