Buffy spent the months cavorting around musical circles in New York, London and Los Angeles. She went to movie premieres, record launches, benefits and awards ceremonies. Each time she had a new handsome young man on her arm. Back home in Sunnydale people began to talk, while in New York, Angel silently watched as she was pictured falling out of nightclubs drunk or worse with any number of young men. Angel himself, on the other hand stayed at home, going into his shell. He rarely went out, finding the city too noisy. He occasionally spent time with John and the now-pregnant Yoko, but like John, he seemed to be becoming a recluse. In October he celebrated with John and Yoko as their son Sean was born, and watched as John became a househusband instead of a rock star. His lost weekend had had a profound effect on the ex-Beatle, who now seemed intent on learning to bake bread instead. Angel, for his part, spent much of his time running in Central Park, writing and playing music and painting, a new hobby he had picked up. Then, in December, he was told that they would be expected back in the studio in January, exactly a year after starting the last album. This New Year, instead of spending it with Buffy at Tramps, he spent it at home alone. Cleo stopped by on occasion, telling him that she was still his friend and she was worried about him. It wasn't healthy for him to shun his bandmates, she told him. But he didn't care anymore. He kept meaning to call Ripper, tell him that he was going to quit the band, but he didn't have the heart. Truth be told, he was scared. He was scared of going it alone. He knew he was good, but he didn't know if he was good enough to go solo. And if he quit, he couldn't be near Buffy. He couldn't watch out for a girl who was clearly going off the rails.

March 1976, Abbey Road Studios, London, England.

The band had been recording the new album for a full two months already and seemed to be getting absolutely nowhere. They had even moved to London, to the most famous recording studio in the world and all they seemed to do was argue about every note of every song. Spike had decided to have a go at writing songs and was insistent on including each and every one of them on the album. Unfortunately, each and every song was awful. Not even Angel had the heart to tell Spike that one of his songs was actually just a rewrite of an old Chuck Berry song with minor alterations in the lyrics and a new title. So they recorded it, and it sounded terrible, then Spike realised what he'd done. That was a week and a half wasted. Buffy was consistently late for one reason or another, Angel was usually annoyed, Spike was so consumed in trying to get one up over Angel that he couldn't concentrate. Xander, meanwhile sat watching the other three with a mixture of amusement and frustration. He knew he was no amazing musician, but at least he was willing to work, he thought. Now if only the other three could be so amiable.....

"Well, I'm bloody sorry if I'm not bloody Beethoven!" Spike's voice rang out clear through the studio.

"I'm not asking you to be Beethoven," Angel said. "Mildly good at songwriting is more than I dare hope for." He said calmly to Spike. The blond lunged at Angel, who was faster and dodged. Spike knocked over a microphone instead, and the noise filled the room.

"That's it! I quit, OK? I'm out of here." Angel said, exasperated. He put his guitar into its case and stormed out of the building.

"Angel? Come on, open the door!" Cordelia yelled, her hand red from banging on the door. "It's me, Cordelia!"

She waited impatiently, still banging loudly and eventually he did open the door.

"Come in why don't you?" He said to her.

"Are you insane?"

"Quite possibly."

"You can't quit now!"

"Why not?"

"You're in the middle of recording an album!"

"So?"

"So, at least Steve Marriott waited to finish Ogden's Nut Gone Flake before quitting."

"And? I'm not Steve Marriott." Angel sat down and grabbed the bottle of Coke he was drinking. Cordelia sat down opposite him and fixed him with a steely glare.

"I haven't spent the last four years with you guys only to have you walk out now. At least finish the album. Spike promises to behave."

"Yeah, right."

"I spoke to him personally." Cordelia said. Angel sighed, knowing she wouldn't give up.

"Just until the end of the album?"

"Sure." She said, knowing he could be persuaded later to carry on for the tour later in the year.

"OK. Fine. But I've had enough of Spike's fucking songs. He can't write."

"I know. He knows too. No more Spike songs." She got up. "Good boy. You made the right choice."

"Cordelia?"

"Yeah?"

"What's your last name?" He grinned at her.

"I'll never tell." She smiled, before sashaying out.

So, Angel returned to the studio the next day. He answered all the questions he was asked politely, but he didn't want to be there. He imagined this was what the making of Let It Be was like for the Beatles- it just wasn't fun anymore. He went through the motions, knowing that he had to do better to be really good at what he was doing, but he just didn't care if the next Stillwater album was awful. He didn't care about Stillwater at all.

In fact, the album wasn't finished until June, thanks to Spike getting sick again and being entirely out of action for the month of May. The album Raw Fruit was released on August 19th 1976 and one critic wrote "The band sound like they dislike each other so much that instead of Raw Fruit, perhaps they should have named the album Sour Grapes." Who was that critic? Rosalie Cochran for Rolling Stone. She knew, she could hear it in Spike's voice, in Angel's guitar that not only did they not like each other anymore, this band really hated each other. But Cordelia had been right about one thing- Angel was persuaded to go on tour, when she pointed out to him how disappointed all the fans would be when he walked out on this sold-out tour. He always was a sucker for the fans argument.

October 1976. Las Vegas, Nevada.

So far, the tour had gone without an incident and they were getting much larger audiences than ever before. Angel purposely avoided contact with the rest of the band. Even on stage he was distant, preferring to stay at the side, playing like he didn't care much- which he didn't. But if the audiences noticed, they didn't seem to mind.

The band noticed. The roadies noticed. The always perceptive Band-Aids noticed. Even stage managers at one-night gigs noticed. The reporters who were accompanying them this time certainly noticed, but not wanting to be thrown off the tour, wisely said nothing to anyone about it.

But by the time they arrived at The Sands, the most famous hotel in Las Vegas history, each member of the band was exhausted. Spike, Buffy and Xander had made a pact to get along with each other on tour, but it was becoming frayed at the edges, partly due to Angel's complete unwillingness to do the same. Buffy had her usual stream of handsome and famous boyfriends meeting her at each venue, and this time was no exception. She quickly disappeared upstairs once the latest in a long line arrived- this time a blond surfer dude type who seemed utterly incongruous with his surroundings.

"Why are we staying here?" Spike moaned. "The Sands is old news. We couldn't get Caesar's Palace?" He asked an irritated looking Ripper.

"Sinatra's in at Caesar's." He merely said, as if this explained everything. Which, really, it did.

Angel looked around him. Sure, the Sands had seen better days, but not many hotels had seen such high times as the Sands had. He made his way up to his room in the tower, and found to his dismay that he was next to Buffy's room. The sound of her laughter drifted through the open windows, and he slammed the shut. Oh, how he longed to go home to New York, or to Boston. Or to anywhere. He picked up the events calendar the hotel had provided for him, and his eyes lit up like he was a child. Immediately, he was on the phone making some enquiries.

"Where's Angel?" Cordelia demanded of the band when she arrived in the Sands restaurant that evening.

"How the bloody Hell should we know. Are we even meant to care?" Spike asked snidely. Cordelia ignored him.

"Why?" Ripper asked, a little concern building up inside him.

"Well, I haven't seen him since we arrived." She said. They all look unimpressed at her reason.

"I know, he's not exactly Mr. Sociable recently, but he always arrives for dinner. Even Angel Flynn gets hungry."

"Maybe he ate earlier."

"No. We made dinner reservations for the entire group now. The restaurant's full tonight. Everyone's in town to see Sinatra." Ripper said.

"Not just him. Dean Martin's at the MGM Grand. Didn't you hear?" Xander mentioned.

"Dean Martin?" Buffy asked, looking up curiously from her dinner.

"Yeah."

"Well, I think I just solved your mystery. The famous guitarist from the famous band Stillwater could get a last minute seat for a Dean Martin show, couldn't he?" She asked Ripper.

"Sure. Why?"

"Angel loves Dean Martin." Buffy said. Spike choked on his chicken from laughter.

"Angel likes Dean bloody Martin?" He scoffed.

"Yeah. He told me a long time ago. When we were all still speaking to each other."

"Fine, I'll go find him." Cordelia said.

"Why?" Buffy asked curiously.

"Because I'm worried about him. Unlike the rest of you." She said, spinning on her heels and marching out.

Angel remembered life as a child now as he sat close to the stage in the Celebrity Room of the MGM Grand. The legendary Dino was due on stage any moment now. His grandmother had loved Dean Martin, as did his mother. He recalled sitting at home aged ten, listening to his mother's new record. He couldn't recall the title, but it was about sleeping or something. Sleep Warm- that was it! He remembered how he couldn't sleep one night, so his mother put the record onto the very last song- the Brahms lullaby, he remembered that, and he was asleep quickly. He remembered his mother sitting in their kitchen listening to Dean on the wireless, and later she would almost religiously watch the Dean Martin Show. By the time the show was on, however, Angel was already off in the world of rock and roll and would never admit to liking Dean Martin's music. Now however, eleven years after leaving home, he had come full circle and was waiting for Dean Martin to arrive. It hadn't been easy securing a seat at all, let alone one so close to the stage. Then he'd 'happened' to mention his name and that he had met Dino Jr., Dean's son just a year ago. Suddenly, he was welcomed with open arms, and a seat in the second row was found for him. Now, here he was, remembering how whenever he was sick or couldn't get to sleep, his mother would bring the record player into his room and play the lullaby until he was asleep. In fact, he was wishing she was with him, then he might not feel so woefully out of place. The room was full of smartly dressed gamblers, most of whom were decidedly older than the young man in faded black jeans and a white shirt, whose dark hair fell into his eyes. He realised that, if he hadn't been the Famous Angel Flynn, he would never gotten into the room dressed as he was.

The room erupted into cheers as Dean Martin sauntered on stage in his usual don't-care way. The band immediately struck up the opening chords to Everybody Loves Somebody. But Dean had other plans, deciding to sing completely different lyrics to the song, garnering a laugh from the audience, Angel included. Dean stood nonchalantly on the stage, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other and uttered the already immortal line:

"What are all these people doin' in my room?" The room exploded in cheers and laughter and applause.

"Now, folks. Apparently we've got a very special guest in this evening." The room hummed. Who could possibly be so big Dean was going to announce him? After all, presidents came to his shows. Several big names of the old Hollywood were in tonight, sitting as close as Angel. He too craned his neck to look. Was Sinatra making a guest appearance? Maybe Sammy.

"I've heard one of his records, and well, it was just a lot of noise to an old guy like me. But my daughter just adores him and his group. Angel Flynn, of Stillwater," Dean said, and the spotlight zoomed in on the shocked young man, who looked like a cat caught in headlights.

"Now, what are you doing here?" Dean asked, mock-annoyed.

"I couldn't get into Sinatra's show." Angel shot back, a smile on his face that showed he didn't mean it in the slightest. Dean laughed.

"Good man, enjoy the show, OK?" Angel nodded, and Dean resumed his show.

"Excuse me, sir," A MGM Grand waiter appeared. "There's a young lady who says she's with you."

"Who?" Angel asked, annoyed. He looked up and saw Cordelia at the door. He sighed.

"Would you like her to come in, sir?"

"There aren't any empty seats." It was true. As usual, Dean had filled the house.

"I'm sure something could be arranged for a special friend of Mr. Flynn." The waiter said knowingly.

"Fine." Angel sighed again and turned his attention back to Dean, who was now singing in Italian. The only part he understood was 'Torna a Surriento', the title Come to Sorrento in Italian.

"Hey Angel!" Cordelia said chirpily as she sat beside him.

"Shh..."

"What?"

"Shut up! You're disturbing everyone." He said. Cordelia smiled knowingly and leaned back in her seat.

"I had so much trouble getting in here." She started, but stopped when she caught his steely glare. Angel turned his attention fully to Martin, allowing himself to lose himself entirely. In here, he was no star, not really. When he'd been around as long as Dean, when he'd been as big as Dean, he could call himself a star. But not yet. Not yet. He forgot all his troubles with Stillwater, and only thought of Buffy as Dean sang Return To Me and other sentimental love songs.

Then, the show was over. Angel finally turned to Cordelia.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"Well, I wanted to see if you were OK. When we found out where you'd gone, without telling anyone, we thought you'd gone mad. Dean Martin, Angel?"

"What about him?"

"Excuse me, sir?" Another MGM Grand official appeared.

"Yes?" Angel asked, forcing politeness into his voice.

"Mr. Martin would like to know if you and your friend would like to see him in his suite."

"Sure!" Angel brightened immediately. Cordelia looked shocked as Angel grabbed her hand and dragged her along with the official. They were led through the hotel to Dean's palatial suite.

"Angel Flynn!" Dean saw him immediately. Angel noticed he was drinking water, instead of what one would imagine him to drink.

"Mr. Martin, I thought that your show was amazing." Angel started.

"Yeah, well, you know..." Dean said dismissively. "More important things to talk about. Gina!"

"Yes Daddy?" A young woman of about twenty years, with dark hair just like her father, came out of one of the rooms. Her eyes widened as she saw her father's guest.

"You're Angel Flynn!" She said. Angel nodded.

"Hi." He thought it was funny. This girl had grown up in Hollywood, she probably called Frank Sinatra 'Uncle Frank' and she was starstruck for him. It was definitely an ego-booster.

"It's great to meet you. I know you met my brother recently." She said.

"Yes. Dino." He said, noticing the way Dean's eyes lit up at the mention of his children.

"And who might this beautiful young lady be?" Dean's attention was focused on Cordelia. Cordelia was taken aback by Dean's charisma and charm, and found herself- for once- speechless. Again, Angel was amused. Cordelia was cool as cucumber around the biggest names in music- David Bowie, the Stones, the Who, the members of the Beatles, Iggy Pop- and the list went on, and here she was rendered speechless by a man of nearly sixty years who was considered a dinosaur by much of the rock community.

It was two hours later that Angel and Cordelia finally left Dean and his friends. Gina had been sweet and lovely, but Angel wasn't going to break her heart by doing what he suspected she had hoped for. Cordelia had almost fallen into Dean's trap when Gina broke in.

"Oh Daddy, leave the poor girl alone!" She had chided gently. Dean had responded with a crack about 'spoiling his fun'. Now, Angel and Cordelia, who was now uttterly under the Martin spell, and would probably tomorrow go and find every record he'd ever made, returned to the Sands, Dean's old haunt. Unfortunately, tomorrow, it was back to work. His happy night was ruined by the thought of tomorrow.

The night before had been the first time in a very long while that Angel had really enjoyed himself. He'd been so happy that he'd even called his mother on his return to the hotel to brag about meeting Martin. Unfortunately, it also served to show how much he hated being in Stillwater. He'd had a better time with a growing-old-disgracefully crooner than with his so-called bandmates. He was more and more sure that his Stillwater career was coming to an end. But how could he make them understand? He'd already quit once and they had written it off as a tantrum. How could he make them understand that he really meant it?

The venue wasn't like the fine one Angel had been in last night. instead of a palatial casino, they were playing in the usual run of the mill rock venue. The rest of the band were all ready for a run-through when Angel arrived.

"Good of you to show up." Buffy remarked. Angel bit his tongue to stop himself pointing out her chronic lateness recently. Instead, he merely smiled tightly. Ripper handed him his guitar and automatically, Angel began tuning up.

"Have a good time at the Senior Citizens' Ball, Angela?" Spike asked, snickering. He had recently taken to calling Angel Angela after Buffy recounted parts of the New Year story to Spike and Xander. Angel didn't bother replying to Spike, who for his trouble, had dark circles under his eyes and a bag of coke in his pocket, which he would not-so-discreetly dip into quite frequently. Cordelia then arrived, humming happily. Angel recognised the tune as that of That's Amore.

"Cordelia, where did you get to last night?" Buffy asked, hoping to start up a conversation with her friend to deflect from the fact that the band was bickering again.

"Oh, I was with Angel," She said absently, thinking of the party at Dean's. True to his predictions, she was now sorting through a bunch of records she'd bought that morning. Buffy's shocked, hurt expression suggested that she'd interpreted Cordelia's answer much differently than it was intended. But before Cordelia could pick up on it, Buffy's dispassionate mask was back in place.

The concert was just like all the others so far this tour- good but not great. This was due entirely to Angel, who refused to put any of his heart or soul into it. He wasn't going to pretend to care about something he patently didn't care a damn about. But he wasn't sloppy- he refused to be sloppy. Buffy, however, had played abysmally for the second half of the show and that had riled Angel up. He wouldn't tolerate it, not while he was still in Stillwater.

"Buffy! What do you call that particular style of drumming?" He rounded on her in the dressing room. Silence fell and everyone turned to watch.

"What?"

"I mean, was that a new style, was that deliberately bad?" He asked.

"How dare you!"

"Well, you were terrible tonight and I won't stand for it in my band, that's how I dare." He said calmly. Buffy on the other hand, leapt from her chair angrily.

"Your band? You don't even talk to YOUR BAND! Your fucking band? I don't think so!"

"That's not the issue here," Angel said, refusing to get angry and refusing to be distracted.

"Well maybe it should be!" She screamed. Angel noticed how Spike, Xander, Little Willow, Anyanka and Ripper had all edged over to Buffy's side of the room. Only Cordelia remained in the middle, stoutly refusing to take sides. So, that's how it worked, that's how they all felt.

"Maybe if you didn't spend so much time entertaining half the male population of America, you wouldn't get tired halfway into a gig!" Angel shot back. Buffy's nostrils flared with rage and she reddened angrily.

"What the Hell would you know you fucking MUSICAL NAZI!" She screeched like a banshee before storming out of the room. She was rapidly followed by everyone else, even eventually a reluctant Cordelia, who shot him a wry smile. Angle was alone. That was a relief. But the things she said! A musical nazi? He slumped in his chair. He didn't care about the band but he did care about one thing: Buffy really did hate him.

On their return to the hotel, Buffy was called over by the manager.

"You have a message, Miss Summers." He handed her a Sands envelope. She opened it curiously. In unfamiliar handwriting, her sister Dawn spoke:

"Mom's not too well. Gone to hospital for tests. Nothing serious. Will call later. Love Dawn."

Buffy's heart dropped through her chest. What was wrong with her mother? She ran to the phone and dialled her home in Sunnydale. It rang and rang and ran. Dawn wasn't there. Buffy began to feel faint. She ran up to her room and headed straight for the mini-bar.

Some hours later, Buffy was sitting in her room, drinking heavily from a bottle of fine Irish whiskey. Dawn had promised to call. She still hadn't and it was getting late. Or more importantly, Buffy was getting drunk.

"What's up love?" Spike asked, coming into her room and slumping down into the seat beside her.

"S'nothing."

"Come on love, tell Spike." He said. She began cackling with laughter.

"What's so funny?" He asked, taking her bottle away from her and drinking from it.

"You. You're going to give me advice?" She scoffed. He laughed along with her.

"No love, something much better." He told her, pulling a bag of cocaine from his jacket. Then he began ceremoniously dividing the powder into neat lines on the tabletop.

The next morning, Angel was outright sulking. The argument the evening before with Buffy had left him thinking horrible thoughts about himself. He wasn't really a 'musical nazi' was he? Was he really stifling the rest of the band- or were they stifling him? Perhaps by remaining with the band, he was doing both. He walked, deep in thought to Buffy's suite, where they were all meant to congregate for a meeting of some kind. He arrived, finding the door wide open and Ripper, Xander and the Band-Aids waiting. Rosalie the writer had joined the band the night before and was now sitting with Cordelia.

"Hey Angel," Xander acknowledged, subdued. He was about to ask what was up, but he found himself shushed by Cordelia. He sat down. Clearly they were waiting for Buffy, and he had no idea where Spike was. Then again, the day that Spike was on time for anything was the day the world spun in the opposite direction.

The bedroom door opened and Buffy stumbled out, in last night's clothing, looking absolutely terrible. He opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by Spike stumbling out after her. Both of them looked like Hell. Angel was used to seeing Spike like this in the morning, after a hard night's coke-fuelled partying. But he'd never seen HER like this before. Panic rose within Angel, followed quickly by raging jealousy as he realised that Spike and Buffy had spent the night together. His eyes flashed with anger but as always he held it in. He had no claim on Buffy, he knew that. It just didn't make it hurt any less.

Ripper was shocked. It made his job today so much harder. He sighed. This band would be the death of him, surely.

"Buffy, can I have a word?"

"Have a sentence, even." She felt utterly awful. Had she really spent the night coked up? Had she really spent the night coked up with Spike, of all people?

"Sit down." Ripper told her gently. She did so. Then, in the fuzzy fog of her mind, a thought occurred to her.

"Did my sister call?" She asked him, concern breaking through the fog.

"Yes. Yes Buffy, she did." Ripper said solemnly.

"How is my mother? Is she OK?" She asked.

"I'm... I'm afraid she died last night." Ripper said, finding no gentler way to say it.

Buffy's world crashed down around her. Her mommy was dead? How did this happen? She'd only gone into the hospital complaining of headaches. And Dawn! Dawn was fifteen years old and all alone. Buffy staggered to her feet.

"I have to go home." She announced. Ripper nodded.

"Of course. I'll sort out the arrangements for you."

"Yeah. Uh. Thanks." Her mind was still full of fog. Then, she fell back into her seat. Her face crumpled, her mouth widened but no scream or cry came out. She rocked back and forth a few times. Then, the scream came- primal, utter pain, a sound that broke the hearts of all that heard it. Spike left for his own room, Xander, Anyanka and Little Willow in hot pursuit. Only Cordelia, Angel and Ripper remained, the latter already on the phone making arrangements for Buffy.

Cordelia rushed to her friend, wrapping her arms around the little blonde. Angel, on the other hand, sat frozen. He was filled with anger, jealousy and sympathy. Then, with a huge effort, Angel set aside the first two and concentrated on the third. He finally moved over and knelt beside her.

"You want someone to come with you? I will. You know, if you want me to."

Buffy sniffled.

"You'd do that?" She asked. He nodded with a little smile.

"If you want."

"Thank you. You're a great friend, Angel." She told him. His heart sank. Friend. Well, that was good enough for now. And he was going to put his heart and soul into being the best friend she could ever have.

Buffy and Angel arrived in Sunnydale later that afternoon after getting onto the first plane they could. It was dreary and grey, not typical Sunnydale weather at all. The weather matched Buffy's mood perfectly. Despondent, grieving, guilty. After all, she had been getting off her head with Spike in Vegas while her mother lay dying. The taxi pulled up outside her childhood home on Revello Drive and the two got out. The lights were on and an unfamiliar car sat in the driveway. Buffy fumbled with the keys she hadn't needed for so long and managed to open the door.

"Buffy?" Her sister's small voice called. Fifteen year old Dawn Summers came running through the house. Her eyes were red and she looked tired.

"Dawnie," Buffy whispered, pulling her sister close, tears streaming down her face.

"Dawnie," She repeated. Both were sobbing, clutching each other tight in the doorway.

Eventually, they moved, still sniffling, into the living room. Her mother's best friend Pat was sitting there with another woman Buffy didn't recognise, nursing cups of coffee.

"Buffy," Pat began in the syrupy way Buffy recalled all too well.

"I don't think you know Edie? She's a friend of your mom's."

"Hi," Buffy managed. Edie smiled at her, as cloying as Pat.

"Glad you could make it Buffy," She said. Buffy sensed an edge to the older woman's voice.

"What does that mean?" She asked, trying to remain calm.

"Nothing, dear. I'm just glad you could get away from your hectic schedule." Edie said.

"My mother just died!" Buffy exclaimed "Of course I came. What do you think I am?" Her voice rose dangerously. Angel approached her, placing a comforting, and warning, hand on her shoulder.

"And who might this be?" Edie asked.

"Hello ma'am, I'm Angel Flynn."

"You'd be Buffy's boyfriend?" She asked. Angel sighed. If only.

"No ma'am, I work with Buffy."

"He's my friend. He came to help me with... Everything."

"Oh, you don't need to worry dear. We've got everything all under control." Pat told her.

"What?"

"Well, we didn't expect you back so soon."

"I was only in Las Vegas! Where did you think I was, Mars?"

"Well..." Edie started.

"What?" Buffy demanded angrily. "What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem." Edie replied blandly.

"Buffy, sweetie, why don't I get you a coffee or something, and we can discuss everything." Pat said, genuinely concerned for the girl.

"OK." Buffy flopped into her favourite chair tiredly. Angel sat down on the end of the sofa closest to her. He smiled at her comfortingly.

"Hi. You're Angel Flynn, the guitarist, right?" Dawn asked shyly.

"On my good days, I am Angel Flynn the guitarist, yes."

"On your good days? What about your bad days?" Dawn asked.

"Well, on my bad days, I'm just plain old Angel Flynn." He said, giving her a dazzling smile. It won her over and she sat beside him, chattering away, glad to talk about something other than her mother's death.

Buffy watched Dawn and Angel talking and a wave of relief washed over her. She was glad he had come with her, more so now as she saw how well Dawn reacted to her friend. Then the relief was gone as she saw Edie glaring at her. Why had this woman taken such a dislike to her? Buffy got up, intending to help Pat in the kitchen.

"Do you need some help?" She asked Pat. The older woman smiled warmly, a gesture that reminded Buffy of her mother.

"Don't you take any notice of Edie," Pat told her.

"Why does she hate me?"

"Her nephew is Tom Ferry." Pat advised. This was making sense now.

"He, uh..." Pat trailed off.

"What?" Buffy pressed her.

"He put it around that you left him so you could uh...." Pat's face reddened.

"Please tell me."

"Have sex with all those rock stars and take drugs and party all the time." Buffy reddened, both with shame and anger.

"He said that?"

"I'm afraid so. I didn't believe it, because I'd seen you on your visits home, and your mother would tell me how well you were getting on. But not everyone in Sunnydale saw that."

"Oh." Buffy reddened. Wasn't everything Tom said more or less true, at least recently?

"Edie's an old bag anyway." Pat said. Buffy laughed a little.

"We'll get everything sorted Buffy, don't you worry." Pat said. She put down the cups of coffee and hugged Buffy, who suddenly felt very young indeed.

"Thank you Pat. It means a lot that you're here." Buffy said, straining to keep the tears in her eyes from falling.

"And you have your young man too." Pat said, smiling a little. Buffy looked at her strangely.

"He's not my young man. He's my friend."

"Oh. OK. Must be some friend to come all this way for you."

"He is. We're in a band. It really promotes togetherness." She smiled sourly. "Or it just makes you hate everyone else in the band."

"Which is it that you feel?"

"Honestly? Both." Buffy laughed harshly. "It depends what day it is. What hour, sometimes. Just yesterday I was calling Angel a musical nazi." She laughed, truly this time.

"What's the joke?" Dawn asked, coming into the kitchen.

"Nothing, not really." Buffy said. She handed Pat a cup of coffee. "Let's get down to business, shall we?" Pat nodded, and they headed back into the living room.

The funeral was set for five days' time. The press had somehow heard, and a small contingent of rock and tabloid press had arrived outside the house. They didn't stay long, to Buffy's relief. It would've been too much. Having said that, it would've been too much for her anyway if it weren't for Angel. He was always there for her, reassuring, supportive, helpful. He cooked meals for Buffy and Dawn, he did everything he could. While Pat spoke to everyone who phoned and dealt with the outside world, Angel concentrated on Buffy and Dawn. He had become attached to the younger Summers girl, who was so much like her sister and so much unlike her sister. Angel imagined Dawn to be the girl Buffy had been before rock n roll hardened her. Before heartbreak of one kind or another hardened her heart and made her cynical before her time.

On the morning of the funeral, Angel came down the stairs to find Buffy busily cleaning everything she could lay her hands on. She was also already dressed.

"Buffy, it's all fine." He said gently, taking the vase she was cleaning from her hands and setting it back down.

"Pat and I cleaned yesterday remember?" He said with a comforting smile. She sighed.

"I just want it to be perfect for.... After."

"I know. It already is, trust me. You want a drink?"

"Cyanide?"

"No. Tea."

"Not tea. I've got tea coming out of my ears." She said. "Just a water will be fine." She said.

"Sit down, I'll get it for you." He told her. She did as she was told. A minute later he returned with a glass of water for her. She drank it straight down.

"Calm down, Buffy." He said.

"Calm down!" She exclaimed. "I'm putting my mother in the ground today! How can I possibly be calm?" He wrapped his arms around her, his heart aching for her.

"I know, Buffy. But you don't need to do anything. We've sorted it all out, you me and Pat, remember?"

"Yeah." She sniffled slightly, before sitting down. Her head already ached. Oh, this was going to be a long day.

The funeral was, as funerals go, a good one. Most of Sunnydale had turned out to bid farewell to one of the best loved women in town. Some of them, perhaps, had come in hopes of glimpsing a rock star, and they would have seen two that day. But today Buffy wasn't Buffy the Star, she was Buffy the daughter. She was Buffy the utterly miserable, gripping Angel's arm tightly, as if without him she might just crumple to the ground. The sun was out for the service, but at the very moment they began to lower the coffin, the skies open and the rain began to pour. Just like Buffy felt.

"I'm very sorry for you loss," A mourner said once they were back at the house. Buffy merely nodded numbly, unable to do anything else. If one more person said that, she might just scream. Hell, she might just scream anyway. Angel kept bringing her cups of coffee just as she thought she needed them, as if he could read her mind. Now he was sitting with Dawn on the back porch, talking to her. Making her laugh, even. Buffy smiled at that. Then the smile disappeared. She wanted to come home now. She had to. Dawn had to be looked after by someone, and there was only Buffy now.

She didn't say anything to Angel that day. She didn't say anything about it the day after, or the day after that. No, she would tell them all together. So, when she and Angel joined Stillwater and its entourage in New Haven, Connecticut, she wanted to find the best time to tell them. Ripper had called a meeting for that evening, ostensibly to welcome Buffy and Angel back. But they all knew that there was more to it than that. The argument before Buffy and Spike did whatever they did, then Buffy's mother dying, it had all built up into one big ball of anger and frustration.

"Hello, everyone. I hope you all, uh, had a good break." Ripper said a loss for words. Buffy looked down at the floor, away from everyone else. She knew she had to say it, but she couldn't bring herself to do it yet.

"I have to speak to you all," Angel stood up. "I quit."

Buffy's head snapped up in shock. Had he just quit?

"What?" Xander exclaimed.

"Bloody Hell." Spike moaned.

"I was going to tell you before, but then Buffy's mom... I'm leaving the band. The fight we had and everything that happened... After. I don't want to do this anymore." He then left the room, his head held high. That was how she'd wanted to quit, with coolness and dignity still attached. She stood up and said quietly.

"I was going to say all of that. But I'll keep it simple. I quit too." She then left the room and headed straight to her own.

"Bloody Hell." Ripper sat down heavily. "What are we going to do?"

Angel quietly closed the door of his hotel room and sat down on the bed. He had been thinking in the time he spent at Buffy's home in Sunnydale. It was like torture. He couldn't pretend to be her friend anymore, he couldn't watch as she went out with other guys. But most of all, he couldn't bear to be around her anymore and not have her all to himself. The band was finished now, he knew that. Well, it didn't bother him. He'd wanted out of Stillwater for years. He began throwing things into his bag. Then came the banging on the door he'd expected. Without any invitation from Angel, Ripper came barging in.

"What the bloody Hell do you think you're playing at?" He demanded. Angel looked straight into his eyes.

"I'm leaving. I'm going to Boston to see my family then I'm going back to New York. It's become impossible to work in this band! You were there at that argument. Just because Buffy's mom then died doesn't make any of that go away! I was going to quit then, but I decided to wait."

"Why do you have to leave now? Can't you finish the tour?"

"No. I finished the tour last year and I wanted to leave then. And the year before that. Come on Ripper, this band has been falling apart for years." He hauled his bag onto his shoulder and picked up his guitar.

"Send the rest of my stuff to New York." Angel said authoritatively. Ripper could only nod. Angel stopped.

"I'm sorry, Ripper, really I am. But this band is over. Or you could always find another guitarist. One that Spike actually doesn't hate." Then, Angel was out of the door. He was out of the hotel before anyone else could speak to him. He never found out that Buffy had quit too.

Go to the Next Part