November 1976. New York City.

"Come on Angel! You know you want to!" Ripper yelled down the phone. Angel sat in his apartment, shaking his head. How many times did he have to say "I quit" before they listened to him?

"No. No. No and no." He told Ripper. "No. Again, I say no. Must I say no again?"

"Please Angel! The rest of the band have all agreed. What do you say?"

"I say no."

"Please, Angel, we can't do a final concert without you! And it's a big pay day for you."

"I don't care about the money. You know me better than that, Ripper."

"I do." Ripper paused. Angel hoped he'd give up.

"Which is why," Ripper continued and Angel sighed. "We've got the Hollywood Bowl." Angel's eyebrows shot up. That was one Hell of a venue. Could he turn down the Hollywood Bowl? Could he?

"I know you're thinking about it Angel," Ripper said. "Come on, are you going to turn down the best venue on the West Coast?"

"Yes."

"Angel... Just think about this. One last concert. Then it's over. One last concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The Beatles played there."

"I know." It was tempting.

"One last concert. Everyone will be there to see you. It's billed as the last concert. It's all over after February 1977."

"You're sure?" Angel asked uncertainly. In Los Angeles, Ripper grinned. He was getting through to the most stubborn man he knew. All was not lost.

"Yes. We can't say it's the last concert and then have you get back together again, can we?"

"No. And I won't have to do anything before the night of the concert?"

"Only soundchecks that afternoon. You already know all the songs. Strictly greatest hits."

"How much money?" Angel's eyebrows raised as Ripper reeled off a long number.

"And at the Hollywood Bowl?"

"Yes. Angel, please. If not for you, think of Xander and Buffy. They don't have songwriting credits to fall back on. Who knows how their careers will go? This will set them up for life." That made Angel's decision for him. He wanted to make sure Buffy was taken care of.

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Great! You won't regret this Angel!"

"I already do." Angel put the phone down. What had he just agreed to?

"No. No way. Not on your life." Buffy said. Ripper was sitting in her living room in Sunnydale sipping tea.

"Please, Buffy. Think about it. The Hollywood Bowl."

"I don't care about the Hollywood Bowl!" She exclaimed. "I just want to stay at home. I need to look after my sister. I can't do that if I'm gallivanting around with goddamn Stillwater."

"Buffy....."

"I'm tired of the whole scene, Ripper! I don't want to know! Just let me lead a normal life for the first time ever!" She exclaimed, getting up and pacing.

"Buffy, it's just one time. One last time and then you can be done with it all." Ripper told her.

"No."

"How are you doing money-wise?" He asked her, changing tack. She glared.

"Is that your business?"

"No. But I have an idea how much you have." Ripper said. "I was your accountant for a good long while. Do you have any idea how much you're being offered for one last concert?"

"No." She admitted. He handed her a piece of paper and watched as her eyes widened.

"Enough to keep you and Dawn very well off for the rest of your lives. Buffy, you need to do this. Just once. To say goodbye."

"Fine. Once." She said, looking down at the floor. That much money was impossible to pass up. Ripper stood up and went to the front door.

"Thank you Buffy. You won't regret this."

"I already do." She mumbled. Ripper smiled broadly as he walked down the path. He was good. He was very, very good.

12th February 1977, Los Angeles, California.

The atmosphere could have been cut with a butter knife. Each member of Stillwater stood apart from the other, separated not only by distance, but by emotion. Buffy was tired, and she looked it. She was thinner than usual, she was pale and had dark, heavy circles under her eyes. If you looked closely, her hands shook a little too. Her mother's death in October of the previous year had left her shell shocked, worried about her home in Sunnydale, the future, and most of all about her soon-to-be-sixteen sister Dawn. She had just wanted the band to split for good, but the others couldn't resist the allure of one last great hurrah. And at the Hollywood Bowl, of all places. She swallowed another amphetamine, just to keep her going through the soundchecks, she told herself.

When he wasn't glaring moodily at Spike, Angel was watching Buffy with growing alarm. She looked half-dead, and he noticed her lack of interest in the gig or well, anything at all. He knew that her mother's death had hit her hard, leaving so many questions unanswered, guilt left over and the threat of the future. He didn't notice how she was keeping herself going. If he had seen her, he would've changed from alarmed to downright panicked.

The Hollywood Bowl filled rapidly, many Stillwater fans still upset at the band's demise, but cock-a-hoop at having tickets to the already mythic Last Show. The band were still barely talking, if at all, when they finally came on stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for the very last time, please welcome, from New York City-" Ripper paused sadly, knowing it would be the last time he would ever say this.

"Stillwater!" He shouted into the microphone. The audience went absolutely wild as Spike, Xander, Buffy and Angel, no longer Stillwater in their hearts or minds, came into view.

Without hesitation, Angel started into an electrifying riff, figuring that the sooner he started, the sooner he could be finished with the whole damn scene. Clearly, Spike had the same idea as he sang a little faster than usual. Xander accordingly sped up to match, but Buffy, hyped up on uppers was already drumming double-time. Then almost too soon, but not soon enough, the concert was over.

They still had the big farewell party to deal with, however. Again, they kept their distance from each other. Spike did his usual trick of disappearing into a corner to snort enough Bolivian Marching Powder to keep the entire Bolivian Army marching for weeks. Xander spoke only to Anyanka, as always hanging from his arm. Angel sat politely answering the questions from journalists. But his mind wasn't on the questions. He'd made a decision. This might be the last time he'd ever see Buffy Summers, and he was going to finally get up the courage to tell her how he felt. Just as soon as the journos left.

Buffy, however, had other plans in mind. She sat in her room, silence all around, a bottle of someone else's pills in her left hand and a bottle of good Russian vodka in her right hand.

"Cordelia, you seen Buffy?" Angel asked after breaking away from the press.

"Not recently. In her room probably." Cordelia said swaying. She was drinking to the health of Stillwater. Angel was worried. One thing he knew about Buffy: She always came to the party. Leaving a bewildered, drunken Cordelia behind, he shot out of the room. Down the long hall he ran, wishing they hadn't all insisted on having rooms miles away from each other. Then he ran straight smack into Rosalie.

"Fucking Hell! Look where you're..." He started. When she saw it was him, she cut him off.

"Shut up! Come with me!" She cut in, clearly panicked. He followed her as she sprinted down the hall, through an open door. Angel's heart practically stopped. Buffy was lying on the floor, one large glass bottle and one little plastic bottle, both empty by her side.

"You called the doctor?" He asked Rosalie. She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. In all her years of rock writing, she'd never had to deal with this. Then again, neither had he.

"Buffy! Buffy!" He shouted, sitting her up in his arms. She made no response.

"Please, Buffy," He said, desperately now. The hotel doctor and his assistant burst in.

"What's her name?"

"Buffy."

"OK, Buffy," The doctor said, hauling the blonde into the bathroom. Angel and Rosalie watched in horror as the doctor forced the rubber tube down Buffy's throat before pumping her stomach. The sound of Buffy retching as she came to consciousness was heard and tears fell freely, unchecked down Angel's cheeks.

"I love her." He said desperately. Rosalie took his arm gently.

"I know."

"You know?"

"It's pretty obvious. You go all googly eyed when you look at her. You should tell her. You know, when she's well again."

"Yeah."

"How are you feeling?" Angel asked a pale looking Buffy. It was the morning after the night before. Angel had spent the night sleeping on the couch in Buffy's suite. Or rather, not sleeping on Buffy's couch. Now, she was sitting up in bed.

"Like shit. You?" She snapped.

"Buffy...." He started.

"Don't Buffy me." She told him harshly. She pulled herself from the bed and began pulling all her things into a suitcase.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"I'm going home. Right now."

"You need to rest."

"I need to go home!" She yelled.

"Just sit down." He pleaded. This wasn't going the way he'd hoped.

"No! It's all your fault anyway!"

"How? How the Hell is your trying to kill yourself my fault?" He asked, himself angry now.

"You made me join your fucking band! If it weren't for your I'd be home right now in Sunnydale with my sister and I would've had four years with my mother!" She was screaming now and Angel looked on in awe. Only hours before she'd almost died and had her stomach pumped of all it's contents. Now she was railing against him. Where did she get her strength from? But now, she had finished packing her few things and was calling the desk to get a taxi.

"It's all over Angel. All of it." She said coldly. She shrugged on her coat over the clothes she'd been wearing the night before and was out of the door. The sound of the closing door broke Angel's heart.

He didn't know that Buffy had had an epiphany that night. As she came round, a tube down her oesophagus, she realised that her life was going nowhere. The years had been fun, but destructive. The nights of partying, taking whatever was going, it had all led here. The undignified process of spilling one's guts up in front of strangers. Then, she had thought of her sister. What would Dawn do if Buffy died? It was that thought that made her survival instinct kick in. It all became clear to Buffy. Her years of success with Stillwater had made her incredibly wealthy, thanks to Tom Ferry's expert help and advice on that side of things. She would go home and take care of her sister. Maybe she'd get a little job in town, maybe at the boutique. But she was going to retire now. She had meant to retire from being a Band-Aid years ago. Now she was going to leave the scene behind her forever. She had to, because if she stayed, she'd turn up dead in a hotel room sooner or later. She couldn't die, she knew that now. She wouldn't die. She squared her shoulders, ignoring the funny look that the taxi driver gave her, and told him confidently.

"The airport please." The taxi roared away from the hotel and away from her old life.

Angel didn't hang around long afterwards. He went and packed his own few belongings he'd brought and arranged a flight back to New York. The only goodbye was a note to Rosalie telling her to look him up if she were ever in New York. Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder and carrying the two guitars he'd brought, he didn't even look back at the hotel when the taxi arrived. He was finished with it all. Without Buffy, none of it was worth the time or the bother.

What each member of the band did next was perfectly in character for each.

Buffy made good on her promise to herself and got a job at the boutique in Sunnydale and looked after Dawn and the house.

Xander, who had never really been into the big music scene shocked them all by settling down in upstate New York with ex Band-Aid Anyanka.

Spike continued partying hard, pausing only briefly after the death of Keith Moon in 1978. It had shocked him for while- if Moon the Loon couldn't take it, who could? He recorded the occasional alcohol-soaked album, but found parties and girls to be more important.

Angel stayed in New York, doing very little at first. He visited John, Yoko and their son Sean a lot, finding strength in his friend's musical non-activity. After all, if the Great Lennon didn't have to make music commercially, why should he?

However, Angel's fingers soon began to itch. He wanted to make records. So, he contacted his old producer friend David Hall and then Angel Flynn returned to the studio. Except this time he was alone. He didn't have Spike's bravado or Xander's workhorse reliability or Buffy's manic drums to hide behind. John refused to appear on the album, citing his care of Sean as a reason. But Angel knew that John's real reason was that he wanted Angel to go it alone. He knew that Angel needed to go it alone just as he had after the Beatles.

The boy did good. Instead of calling on famous friends, he found the best session musicians that he could and recorded the album in just a month, including a song called Return To Me, made famous by Dean Martin. Capitol gave him the big promotional build-up befitting a Guitar Hero and in October 1977 Flynn by Angel Flynn went straight to number one in both the US and the UK. In the middle of the Punk revolution Flynn stood out as a refreshing return to meaningful rock and roll.

Angel used to good feelings he'd gotten from the reviews of Flynn and went back into the studio after only a short break. This time, some of his famous friends did help out- including Cleo, who duetted with him on two songs. The album was released in late 78 to some acclaim, but everyone, including Angel himself, wondered where he was going next. He began guesting on other people's records, becoming perhaps the greatest session player of the dying years of the decade. Then for Angel, and the rest of the music world, the world fell down.

8am, December 9th 1980, New York City.

Angel was in New York recording. Just two days before he'd gone for dinner with his old friend John Lennon. Now he was staring at the televisions screen, watching a stranger on the news tell him that his friend was dead.

"Fans of Mr Lennon have already begun gathering outside the Dakota building where he lived, and where he died late last night." The voice droned. Angel was so shocked he couldn't shout or cry. He just sat, motionless, unbelieving.

Eventually though, it did sink in. The man Angel had longed to be, had idolised, then had become good friends with, his hero, had been gunned down outside his own home. Still, Angel couldn't cry. He called Yoko and left a message, then the same to Paul in England. He got through to George and to Ringo, and spoke to them. Nobody could believe it, but they had to. John Lennon was dead. But there was nobody Angel knew that he could really talk to about it. Nobody understood how he felt. It was the same feeling he'd had a long time ago when he was nine years old and his father had woken him up to tell him that Buddy Holly was dead. It was the feeling that rock and roll itself had died. Except that this time, he had lost a friend too. This time they had lost someone whose biggest crime had been to plead for peace. John had loved music as truly and deeply as Angel did. Rock and roll had recovered from Buddy's death eventually, due in no small part to The Beatles, but who would help them recover from Lennon's death? Angel's sarcastic, wise-cracking, peace-loving friend was gone. He needed to talk to someone.

December 10th 1980, Sunnydale, California.

Buffy was at home. She heard about Lennon, and had been sad, crushed even, but she hadn't been a part of that scene since the band broke up. It seemed like decades ago. Had it really only been three years, nearly four? She had so completely broken away from it, that it seemed like much longer. When she heard the knock on the front door, she was surprised- she didn't get many visitors now and she liked it that way. But she went and answered the door. Standing there was a man who looked like he just might have a broken heart.

"Angel?" She asked, not believing that he was really there. She had missed him most of all, remembered how her heart had skipped beats when he smiled at her. Time had allowed Buffy to dismiss it as a childish crush. Now he was standing right in front of her.

"They killed him." Angel said hollowly. Without a word, Buffy understood. She held out her arms and he collapsed into them. It had taken a trans-continental trip, but for the first time since he'd heard, Angel cried.

"He was my friend." Angel told her. They were now sitting in her living room, both holding cups of hot, steaming coffee.

"I know. I know."

"Don't you miss it?" He asked her. She shook her head emphatically.

"I don't think about it." She paused. "I miss the times on the bus going from town to town. Singing along to the radio or playing cards with Xander, who always won. Listening to you write songs. What I miss most of all is how all that mattered was the music."

"It was simple." He agreed, laughing harshly. Buffy looked at him and agreed.

"It was." She stood up. "It's getting late. I'll make up the guest room for you." She smiled comfortingly at him before disappearing up the stairs.

God, she was still beautiful! Angel sighed. Granted, it had only been four years (nearly) since he last saw her, but they'd been long years. She seemed delicate, fragile now. She wasn't that huge, strong presence she'd once been. Then, of course, he reminded himself, she had almost died. A pang of guilt shot through Angel's heart. He remembered Rosalie telling him, how he had rushed to Buffy's side. That was the day he realised that he truly loved her. He'd known before, but it had never been shown to him so clearly exactly how strongly he felt. He had resolved to tell her, but before had the chance, she was off to Sunnydale forever. That had been four long, lonely years in which Angel's only escape was his music.

Buffy stopped at the top of the stairs. He was still so gorgeous. His hair was the same mane it always had been, strands always falling in his eyes. He was still the commanding presence he had always been, but now it seemed even more effortless than usual. She had kept a close eye on him. Had Angel been in the right mind to, on searching through her record collection, he would've found all of his solo ventures.

"Your sister doesn't live here anymore?" He asked when Buffy returned.

"No, no. She's at Berkeley now." She told him, an affectionate smile on her lips.

"Aren't you lonely?" He asked. He knew he was. She smiled.

"No. I like the quiet. It makes a nice change. I sat behind a drum kit for years."

"Oh."

"I mean, I am lonely." Buffy amended. "But I don't really mind."

"You don't have anyone at all?" He asked clumsily. She laughed.

"A boyfriend? Don't you think I've had enough of those in my time?"

"Maybe you never found the right one."

"Maybe. Maybe." She repeated, pondering the thought. She knew she'd found him, she'd just never told him.

"What about you Angel? I read about how well you're doing, all this great music. But what about everything else? Don't you have anyone?"

"I haven't really had anyone serious since Cleo." Buffy's eyebrows shot up. Angel and Cleo had parted ways for good in '74!

"Really?"

"No. There have been a couple..." He trailed off. "But nobody serious."

"Oh." Buffy said. A thought occurred to her.

"I see you in the newspapers a lot with Cordelia." Angel laughed, really laughed for the first time that day.

"Cordelia? Buffy, she's like my little sister! She always was." Buffy blushed a little, then joined him in his laughter.

"There was one girl, actually." Angel began. Did he dare tell her?

"Really?" Buffy's heart dropped in her chest.

"Yeah. I was going to tell her how much I loved her, but she ran off before I had the chance." Did he dare? Could he?

"Oh." Buffy managed. Who was he talking about? Was he talking about Cleo? He couldn't be....

"Buffy." He said, getting impatient for the penny to drop. "I'm talking about you." That had been easier than he'd expected. She turned to him, shocked. She was Angel's mystery love? She remembered now little things all of a sudden. How Angel had reacted that time she came out of her room with Spike. Even in the fog of that night, she remembered the look on his face. She remembered how he always watched over her, how he had persuaded the band to let her drum. How he had sat with her on the bus and talked about the future and about music for hours. How when she fell asleep, she would always wake up with his coat draped over her. She remembered how he had been the first to see her after she overdosed... How could she have never noticed? She was too wrapped up with being in love with him to notice, she realised with an ironic smile.

Angel waited anxiously for her to respond. She seemed deep in thought and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

"Why are you telling me now?" She asked softly.

"I have no idea. I probably should have just never said anything."

"No, no. I'm glad you told me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean you could've told me before. It might've come in handy. You know, so I didn't swallow a bottle of Quaaludes."

"I know. John was always telling me to just say it. But I was never outspoken like him." Angel's shoulders drooped again.

"I think that's a good thing." She said. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think I have a big enough mouth for the both of us." She smiled. Then, she kissed him.

"I love you Angel. I always did. It was why I joined the band, why I stayed in the band. And why I left, I guess."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked.

"Well, we all knew that you were pining away for someone. I never thought it might be me." She laughed.

"You all knew I was... Pining?" He asked.

"Yeah! It was pretty damn obvious! You never partook in the groupies available, you wrote lots of sad songs. Angel, you may think you're a closed book and, well, you are. But you can't hide everything." She kissed him again and as the kiss gathered momentum he put his arms around her, pulling her close. Then, he broke away.

"Buffy..."

"Shut up and kiss me."

"Well, when you put it that way...."

Angel opened his eyes. Where the Hell was he? He hadn't woken up in a strange place for years, and the usual groggy feeling that accompanied this kind of thing wasn't there. He shifted slightly, confused, and felt his foot touch a leg. He turned to face a still sleeping Buffy. He sighed happily. He remembered now. Well, that had only taken them nine years.

"Morning," She murmured, opening her eyes and smiling.

"Morning. Want to marry me?"

"Yeah, all right then. Bacon and eggs for breakfast?"

"Cool." He kissed her again. Well this was all going swimmingly, he thought.

In January 1981, Angel Flynn announced his retirement from the music business. It just wasn't the same as it used to be, he said. In March 1981, with only an announcement in the Sunnydale News, Angel Patrick Flynn married Buffy Anne Summers. Of the old group, only Cordelia was there. In 1982 their daughter Ava Marie was born, followed in 1984 by a son, Michael Liam. A couple of years later, Angel started recording again. He couldn't stay away, and remembered that even his great friend John had returned to music eventually. It was in his blood.

In 1985 after over ten years of abuse, Spike James checked into a rehab clinic. When he left, he managed to stay clean and in 1992 he married a supermodel by the name of Isolde. They got $500,000 for selling the wedding pictures to Hello! magazine.

In 1983, Xander finally made an honest woman of Anyanka, their relationship having proved stronger than anyone, including themselves, had expected.

They all lived their separate lives, happy enough. Then in 2000, an old face made a reappearance

December 2000, New York City.

The phone was much too loud for Spike's delicate ears. He yanked the receiver from the cradle and barked down the phone.

"Hello?"

"Spike?"

"Yeah. Who's this?" He demanded.

"It's Rosalie Cochran."

"Fuck me." He exclaimed in surprise. On the other end of the phone, Rosalie smiled. He never changed.

"Not right now, Spike. I'm writing the story of Stillwater. Can I speak to you about it?"

"Why not? Sounds like a laugh."

"Great! I'm in New York next week. I'll call your PA to set up a meeting."

Xander, Buffy and Angel got similar phone calls and each agreed to be interviewed. It was the least they could do for their old friend.

Rosalie had done well for herself over the years. She had been a regular writer for Rolling Stone and the NME and now she was an editor for Q magazine, as well as a contributing writer for MOJO magazine. She spent all of December 2000 interviewing the key players, all of January 2001 writing it, and then in March 2001, her book Stillwater Runs Deep was published to international acclaim and made the top of the New York Times bestseller list. It was the book Everyone was talking about.

The demand for Stillwater was astounding. It seemed that the world had fallen in love with the story of the star-crossed lovers mixed with the usual sex, drugs and rock and roll. Nineteen year old Ava Flynn found herself a hero at UC Sunnydale, while Michael Flynn began asking his father for guitar lessons. They had known that their father was a musician, a good one, but Stillwater's success came as a shock even to them.

Then perhaps inevitably, people began asking if Stillwater would re-form. So many people, in fact, that the band members agreed to meet in Sunnydale.

"Hello Spike." Angel said, a little uncomfortably.

"Angel." Spike nodded. His face lit up when Buffy appeared, older but no less beautiful.

"Hi Spike."

"Buffy." He breathed. She smiled and Spike was bewitched all over again. Then he turned to see Angel glaring at him. Things never really change, he realised.

"Come in Spike." Buffy said. "Angel, don't glare." She added with a grin. She led Spike into the light, airy living room of the Flynn house.

"Drink of some... Sort?" She asked.

"Uh.... Yeah, water please." He said, clearly still having problems of the drink and drug variety. But then, he probably always would. In fact, Buffy's next question was along the same lines.

"When did you last have a drink? Or anything else?"

"19th August 1985." Spike said mournfully.

"It's hard, isn't it?"

"Damn straight." He said, sipping at his ice water.

"DAD!" A voice yelled. Angel looked up and the sound of thundering footsteps on the stairs filled the room. A tall, willowy girl came in. She had Angel's dark colouring, with long dark hair pulled wildly into a ponytail. She was wearing a pair of skinny fit Levis and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt.

"What's the matter?" Angel asked. She pouted.

"Michael stole my Clash album and now it's all scratched! I can't live like this!" She said dramatically, posing in a way reminiscent of Clara Bow or one of those other silent movie divas.

"I'll talk to him." Angel promised her in his usual quiet way. It was a common complaint in the Flynn house.

"Ava, this is an old friend," Buffy started.

"Spike James, I know, I'm not an imbecile. Unlike your son." She said, earning a steely glare from her mother.

"Nice to meet you," She said to Spike before disappearing into the dining room. Within a few seconds the opening strains of 'Maggie's Farm' by Bob Dylan drifted into the living room. Spike shared an amused look with Angel.

"She likes the old stuff, huh?"

"You have no idea." Angel said with an affectionate laugh. Ava was so like her father in many ways, and in fact had been taking guitar lessons since she asked for them at the age of ten.

The joke broke the ice between Spike and Angel and they began talking about music old and new. Soon, it was like they were friends. Then, Xander turned up with Anyanka and their daughter.

"Xander! Come on in!" Buffy led the three into the living room.

"Hey Xand." Spike said. He and Xander had been friends before the band and afterwards too.

"And Anyanka," Angel said, shaking Xander's hand warmly.

"It's just Anya really," She told them. "And this is our daughter Madison."

"Hi Madison. How old are you now?" Buffy asked the girl.

"Sixteen." She said. Buffy looked at her. She seemed to be the opposite of Ava. Madison was wearing a feminine dress with strappy sandals and her face and hair were made up. If Ava was rock, Madison was bubblegum pop. Buffy's lips curled up with a smile.

"You're about the same age as our daughter." Buffy told her. "Ava!" She called, loud enough to be heard over the music next door. The dining room door opened and they were hit with the full force of Walk On The Wild Side by Lou Reed.

"Yeah?"

"This is Madison Harris. Why don't you take her next door?" Buffy suggested. Ava sighed but held the door open for the girl anyway. The door then closed behind her.

"What kind of music is Madison into?" Angel asked Xander, clearly thinking along the same lines as Buffy.

"N'Sync, Backstreet Boys. Stuff like that." He said. Angel and Buffy shared a knowing look.

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall." Angel said dryly.

Aside from the ensuing argument between Ava Flynn and Madison Harris (Ava won) the afternoon also spawned the plans for the Stillwater reunion concert. It was going to be held at the Hollywood Bowl, just as their final concert had been. The date was set for August 19th, the anniversary of Spike's entry into rehab, and also, Ava had pointed out, the 25th anniversary of the band's final album. They were thrown into rehearsals, but it was like they'd never really been away. 52 year old Angel (who still looked about thirty five, his wife said) still had nimble fingers, Spike's voice had matured and mellowed. Buffy, who had spent the last twenty odd years working in a boutique instead of behind a drum kit found her arms tiring quickly at first, but then, after a short time, Buffy the rock drummer was back. By June, it was as if twenty five years hadn't passed. They bickered like they always had, but now there was no malice behind the bickering. They didn't say things simply to be mean, they no longer tried to score points off each other. Of course, the biggest change in the band dynamic was the togetherness of Angel and Buffy. There was no tension between the two now as there once had been. Perhaps though, the most important change was between Angel and Spike. Spike no longer had a childish crush on Buffy, so that was gone between himself and Angel. More importantly, Spike had spent twenty five years as an influential, successful musician. He no longer had to compare himself to Angel. After so long, after a spell in rehab, Spike had found peace with himself.

As the concert date drew nearer, press news grew until each newspaper and TV station had a feature about the reunion of Stillwater. They made the cover of Vanity Fair, Newsweek and Rolling Stone. Angel alone made the cover of Time, but the others were there inside. Stillwater fever began to become deafening. Something in their story had touched people who hadn't even been there the first time around. Whether it was the straightforward rock and roll story or the now famous Buffy-Angel love story, or the Spike-Angel love-hate relationship, something interested people. Tickets began selling on the black market for thousands of dollars. On eBay, one ticket reached $10,000 before even finishing. The VIP guest list was like a Hall of Fame list. So much so that some people began suggesting that it was reunion of Stillwater and their party friends.

Angel felt an absolute idiot. He was fifty two years old and he had been forced into leather trousers.

"Don't make that face." Buffy told him. They were in the attic of their home, and Buffy had rooted out his old clothes.

"I look stupid." He complained.

"No you don't. Come on, you still fit into your pants from twenty five years ago! That's pretty amazing." It was true. Angel, through a little luck and some hard work, was still the lithe person he'd always been.

"Buffy, I look like a Jim Morrison wannabe who never quite got over his death."

"You really don't want to wear them?"

"No, I really, really don't want to wear them."

"That's a shame." She said mournfully.

"Why?" He asked suspiciously. She smirked.

"I think you look awfully cute."

"Cute?" Angel cocked an eyebrow.

"Cute, gorgeous, undeniably sexy." She said, approaching him.

"Really? That so?" He said, his arms going round her waist.

"Oh yeah."

Ava was busy watching TV in her room and heard a loud banging noise. Rats in the attic again. She groaned. If only.

There was a pre-concert press conference arranged and this concerned Angel. As Rosalie had noted the first time she met him, Angel wasn't much of a talker right before a concert. That hadn't changed. But regardless, the day of the concert arrived and a sleek black limousine pulled up outside the Flynn house. Angel, Buffy, Ava and Michael got in and they sped off towards LA.

Soundchecks began that afternoon. For the first time, the band was back on a real stage. Later, they would have a real audience to go with it. Spike had stage fright for the first time ever. He felt old, and he needed a drink. He leaned heavily against an amp.

"You don't need a drink." A voice told him. He turned. His eyes widened.

"Fucking... Cordelia!" He shouted, grabbing her and swinging her around.

"How are you Spike?" She asked with a smile, smoothing down her dress when he put her down. She still looked exactly the same, her hair shorter, but still Cordelia.

"Need a drink."

"No you don't." She said. He paused, took a couple of deep breaths then spoke.

"No. I don't." He grinned. "What are you doing here?"

She looked shocked.

"You didn't think Stillwater could go on without the world famous, legendary, practically mythical Band-Aids?"

"Not for a second." He smiled. "Good to see you Cordelia. You look fabulous."

"I know." She smiled. She went to turn away, but he spoke again.

"What's your surname?" She turned back.

"I'll never tell." She uttered her famous line, then walked away.

"I'm... I'm the stage manager... Sir."

"Well, why don't you go and actually do your job then?"

"Sir?"

"If you had been here at all, you would already know that this young lady is my daughter..." Angel paused. "And is wearing her pass on her jeans." He nodded to the laminated pass hanging from the pocket of Ava's Levis. The stage manager nodded again and rushed off, his face flaming red. Ava began to giggle.

"Ava..." Angel said warningly. "You should've just shown him your pass."

"He didn't give me a chance to! He was just mean." She pouted, knowing that Angel couldn't fight that. He sighed, knowing too.

"Fine." He smiled. "I thought you said I needed a new D string. What are you waiting for?"

She stuck her tongue out at him, but sat down and restrung the guitar just the same.

*******

"Buffy, I'd like you to meet someone." Spike said. Standing with him was a tall, thin woman, with striking features and a sleek black bob of hair.

"This is Isolde." He said, introducing to Buffy his wife of nine years.

"Hi, I'm Buffy." She said holding out her hand. Isolde took it lightly and released it almost immediately.

"Hello." She said coldly. Buffy looked at her strangely.

"I'm going to the powder room, William." Isolde told him. Spike smiled and nodded at her retreating form.

"William?" Buffy asked with an amused grin. Spike blushed.

"She won't call me Spike. Nine years, and she won't call me by my bloody name." He shook his head.

"She was a little cold." Buffy commented. Spike nodded.

"She read Rosalie's book. In particular the part about, you know, that night."

"Yeah." Buffy nodded, not really wanting to dredge up That Night.

"If only..... If only they all knew we never actually, you know..."

"Had sex? No, getting coked up and rampaging around was enough." Buffy said, grimacing at the memory.

"Yeah."

"Angel knows." She said with a sly grin.

"Oh, bloody Hell! The one person I wanted to think we actually did it..."

"Was the one person I told." Buffy smiled. "Sorry William." He glared at her, but she just laughed. Still laughing, she left him to ponder.

"It's not right." Cordelia told Buffy. They were sitting backstage drinking Starbucks coffee brought in especially for them.

"What isn't?"

"Ripper should be here. Little Willow should be here."

"Cordelia...."

"I know. She's a nun."

"I was as surprised as you were, Cordy."

"She's somewhere in Wisconsin, last I heard." Cordelia commented, sipping her coffee delicately.

"And Ripper?" Buffy asked. Cordelia's eyes opened wide.

"You mean, you don't know?"

"What?"

"He died, Buffy. Last year. Too many hard years on the road took their toll on him."

"Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Well, I thought you knew!" Cordelia said. "But we all lost contact. I didn't hear until months later."

"Was he... Alone?"

"No, no. You really have been out of the loop, haven't you?"

"I had to be."

"I know. Well, after Stillwater split, Ripper took on a couple of other bands, but it was never the same. So he quit the business, became a proper businessman. I think he lived in some small town in England. He got married and had a couple of kids. He was happy, Buffy."

"Oh. Good." Buffy sighed.

"So many of our old friends are gone." Cordelia said sadly.

"Yeah, I know. Rock and roll always had a high mortality rate." Buffy quipped sadly.

The arena began to fill rapidly as the time to begin came rapidly along. Young and old were there- original Stillwater fans, people of the same age who regretted missing out the first time, people who weren't even alive when the band split. They were all here to see Stillwater play again.

"I can't do this. I can't bloody do this!" Spike paced. "I need a drink. I need a drink."

"No, Spike, you don't." Buffy came over to the nervous singer. "You've gone sixteen years without a drink or any drugs. Aren't you proud of yourself?"

"No. I want a bloody drink. I'm no good sober."

"Spike," Buffy said as if talking to a child. "You don't need anything but yourself. OK?" She paused, needing help from someone. That someone appeared.

"Spike doesn't want to drink does he?" Angel asked quizzically.

"Yes I sodding do!" He moaned.

"Why?"

"Because I can't do all this stage stuff without it!" He exclaimed. Angel looked genuinely surprised.

"Sure you can. You've been onstage sober before."

"Yeah. But I never had to compete with you sober." Spike hissed.

"Compete? With me?" Angel was utterly shocked. "I thought I was competing with you."

"What?"

"You're the charismatic lead singer. Everyone looks at you. Everyone likes you. Without Spike there wouldn't have been a Stillwater." Angel told him. Spike stopped. Clearly, he hadn't seen it from this perspective before.

"Really?"

"Hell yeah! You started the band, remember."

"I do remember. So, what you're saying..." Spike began. "Is that I'm just as good as you?"

"Yes."

"You might say, even better than you?" He asked. Angel gritted his teeth.

"Better singer, way better." He conceded. Spike stood up tall and squared his shoulders. "Well, what are we waiting for?" He asked them all, before striding onto the stage.

The cheer was deafening as the audience saw the singer arrive. Banners reading "WE LOVE SPIKE" fought for space with "ANGEL ROCKS MY WORLD" posters. The band picked up their instruments and began to play. They started off with a couple of early Stillwater songs, and then Angel launched into another riff and Spike began singing.

"If you wanna hang out you gotta take your own.. Cocaine." He drawled the opening line to the JJ Cale song which Eric Clapton had made a classic. Now it was the biggest in-joke Spike could find. He winked at Buffy, recalling the crazed night they spent on cocaine and he didn't regret it. He'd just rather be able to remember a bit more of the seventies than that.

The band played on for an entire two hours before finally, they had to stop. They gave two encores before finally the crowd began to leave and the band were free to go to the after-party down at Morton's on Hollywood Boulevard. A long line of limousines spirited their passengers away from the Hollywood Bowl to Morton's.

"Angel! You were wonderful!"

"Buffy! You're a total babe!"

"Spike! You're amazing, Spike!"

"Xander! You're so cute!" Voices all around outside called out. This was more than they'd had when they were still really Stillwater. They hurried inside, where they found their VIP guest list already assembled, giving them a standing ovation. Angel felt uncomfortable about it all. He had never really been one for the limelight, and so he hurried to his table with Ava.

"Dad?" A British voice asked. Spike turned to see a tall young man standing waiting for him.

"Dean?" He asked softly. The young man nodded.

"I uh, couldn't make it to the concert in time. My sodding plane was delayed." He said. Spike didn't answer but his eyes were teared up. Suddenly he was very aware that everyone in Morton's was watching this display with great interest. Sod it, he realised, and grabbed his son into a tight hug.

"Good to see you, boy." He said quietly.

"You too." He replied. Then Spike broke away and led his son over to his ex-band-mates.

"This is Dean. My son."

"Hi!" Buffy said, her expression clearly asking for an explanation.

"Sit down," She commanded softly.

"Can't I have a drink first?"

"NO!" Came the resounding reply.

"Sod it. OK. This is my son Dean."

"How old are you Dean?" Cordelia asked the somewhat uncomfortable young man.

"Twenty three."

"His mother was my first wife." Spike said.

"Your what?" Anya exclaimed. Everyone exchanged confused looks. Spike had only been married once- to Isolde. Right?

"First wife. I married her before Stillwater was even Stillwater. Anyway, she was English too, but living in New York. We sort of moved back to England, but I was never there due to sodding Stillwater. Still got no idea why she didn't divorce me sooner. Anyway, where did you think I spent all my time when I wasn't on tour?"

It was true. Aside from partying, none of them had ever known where Spike went.

"And Dean was born in 1978. But by that time I was such a coke-head that Katie divorced me for the sake of him. She was clever, that bird. Then I ended up in rehab, which is better than ending up in the ground." Spike paused to laugh. "And I met Isolde a few years later. By the time I got meself sorted out, Dean was already an older kid and... Everything. But I went to visit, sent presents. Not really good enough..." Spike trailed off, and Dean put his hand on his father's shoulder.

"He was a good dad." Dean told them. "Better than he realises."

"Why did you name him Dean?" Buffy asked.

"Dad's a Dean Martin fan. Didn't you know? It's a big joke in our family." Dean said innocently. Everyone turned to Spike with smirks on their faces.

"Really? Is that so?" Angel asked.

"Yeah." Spike begrudingly conceded.

"The stuff the Senior Citizens' Ball is made of?" Angel continued, recalling that night in Las Vegas.

"Yes." Spike said through gritted teeth.

"Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but this has definitely not been a wasted evening." Angel leaned back in his chair grinning.

"So, Dean, what do you like to do?" Cordelia asked, deflecting away from Angel and Spike's continued power games.

"Well, I've been playing the drums since I was just a kid."

"The drums? You're not a singer like your dad?"

"No. I can't sing." Dean said. Angel now noticed his daughter eyeing the handsome young man curiously. Figured, he thought. She wouldn't pay any attention to just any handsome man, he had to be a musical one. But did it have to be Spike's son? He sighed.

The night wore on. Ava and Dean got into a heated debate about music, and unbeknownst to everyone else, hatched the plans for a new band. But that night was special for one other reason.

"Can I have your attention!" Cordelia shouted. She got it easily.

"I have an announcement to make. A lot of people have been asking me for the last thirty years what my surname is. And even more tonight. Now, frankly, I'm bored with the line of questioning. Chase. It's Chase."

"Cordelia Chase?" Angel asked with a smile. "What's so bad about that?"

"Nothing." Cordelia said.

"But why did you keep it a secret?"

"Mystery. Charisma. And besides, I always liked the one-name deal." She laughed. "Too late for that now!" He pointed out to her. Her response was to stick her tongue out at him.

Well, the band never got back together again, although they were repeatedly pressed to do so. Angel and Spike continued making records like they always had. Ava and Dean started a band with some friends and worked their way up, proving the exception to the rule that rock star children's bands usually suck or are unsuccessful. Soon, too soon, for Angel's liking, Ava's platinum disc for their debut album hung next to all the ones Angel had. After thirty years though, the feud between Angel and Spike had been laid to rest, the loose ends had been fully tied up, they knew what Cordelia's last name was and so they could get on with their lives. And they did, better than ever.

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