"Beggars can't be choosers, pet. Especially after half an hour walking down that sodding empty road." He's having fun, slipping around, singing - slightly off key - and catching the metal bars each time he threatens to fall over on his ass.

She'd be cross with him if he didn't look so adorable. "Especially when they look like half-dead raccoons!"

"But devilishly attractive ones, pet." The scary thing is that it's true. "'Sides, we're giving Carlos in there the money, so, not beggars."

"No, not beggars." She can't help smiling at the memory of him unbuckling that big belt and unzipping the back to pull out dollars, and saying, "What? Can't go spoiling the line of the jeans with a wallet now, can I? I mean, I had a few notes in my pocket - but the little buggers must have dropped out in the well or somewhere."

The money gets them a ride into the centre of town from a man driving in to spend Christmas Eve with his girlfriend. It also gets them a detour to a side street when a driver going the other way shouts that, "The army, they're stopping anyone trying to go into the Plaza de Armas."

"Looks like we'll have to look elsewhere for a phone, pet." Spike is right.

The truck stops and Carlos lets them out, saying. "I am sorry, my friends. I would offer you a telephone, but the family of my girlfriend, they do not have one."

She thought things were going too smoothly. "Thanks. It's ok. We'll find one."

He drives away, leaving Spike and her in the street.

"So, no net cafes, phone shops in the main square - even if the bloody things are open this time of night. Sod all cabs I can see to get us back to my hotel, even if I could remember what the fucking thing's called and they'd let us in looking like dried, drowned rats."

"And we don't want to get arrested for blowing up Peruvian national treasures, and there might have witnesses who saw us going into the crypt. So no going near the square."

"Reckon a bar's our best bet, Syd." Two guys in clearly fake sportswear are walking far too casually towards them.

"Should have a phone we can use for a nice big tip." Adidas hiding something in his right hand.

Nike grins wolfishly. "A bar, chica? We show you such a bar."

Spike notices something wrong with them too and snaps into scary mode. "Nah, mate. Thanks, bar's something I never have problems finding." Dad is so going to hate that.

Adidas puts a knife to Spike's throat and shouts, "Money, watch, rings now, Inglese."

Nike's pulls Syd's arms behind her back. "You too, chica. She throws her head back and feels his nose break.

"You stupid sods. You just picked on the wrong tourists, mate." He grabs the knife hand and Syd hears the snap of breaking wrist.

She spins and kicks Nike into the wall, knocking him unconscious.

Spike kicks Adidas in the gut before leaning over and crunching the unbroken hand. "Think you need to get into a new line of business, mate."

If the army is around, "Time for a strategic retreat."

He nods. "Bar, pet?"

"Bar." And they run up the street, through a couple of alleys before she spots something familiar, and calls a halt. "The Kamikaze Club - where we set out from."

"Probably have a phone. Serve a good drop of pisco too. Here?"

"Here." She takes some twenty buck notes out of the waterproof inner pocket of her fleece, and gives one to the doorman to get them through the door despite the way they look. Another couple gets them in a back room with a phone.

Where she calls the familiar number. "This is Mountaineer. I have the package, and I am safe, my partner too. Dixon, I'm... ready for extraction."

What she does not expect is to hear, "Our team is being held, Syd. Calls are being made, but it's looking more and more like a diplomatic incident. We can't get you out ourselves without making the situation worse."

"And it's Christmas Eve, and too late for a commercial flight." Just what she needs.

Spike's bouncing. "Got an idea, pet. Call 'em back. Need to make a call."

"I'll call you back, Dixon." She hangs up, and tells Spike, "I hope it's a good one. Or that you remember the name of your hotel."

"Even better than that love." He takes the phone and dials. "Lilah? Yeah, bad penny's all in one piece. Don't get rid of me that easy. Yeah, I know you wouldn't want to. You'd miss me, wouldn't you? Anyway, me and Syd, we need out of here. Her plane's run into a bit of trouble, by the sound of it, and I want to give her a lift. Is the plane ready to go? An hour or two? For refuelling?" He looks at her and she nods. "That'll be fine. Any tips on getting there, the place seems to be in a bit of an uproar?" He laughs. "Makes sense. And while you're making calls, can you get the pilot blokes to get us some food on board too? Thanks. Yeah, pizza, pasta, fruits, anything decent they can beg, borrow or steal from the best hotels in town, only we're both starving. And ciggies, lots of ciggies. Thanks, princess. See you and Wes soon, yeah?"

He puts the phone down and she calls Dixon. "I have a ride. Can you tell my dad I'll see him soon? Thanks, Dixon."

He grins. "My lot, they've got some mates down in the square, keeping an eye out for us - big, blond blokes in suits from the Paraguay office. We talk to one of them; they'll give us a lift to the airport. When the plane's all ready, and all, that is. We're sorted, Syd."

She can't help smiling. "We are."

"Quick drink and a bit of fresh air before we're stuck inside again, pet?"

"Good idea. The bar itself is a bad idea while we have the Pieta. Too crowded." She gives the last twenty to the bar owner, who gets her a coke and Spike a beer, which they drain as they walk out to a balcony. It's high off the ground, but once cleared of necking travellers it's empty and not too high for them to evac from with the rope, if anything goes wrong, so she relaxes into the moment.

***

It's a small balcony, with a flimsy door, but the view across the city and the mountains is so magnificent it'd make Darla happy, let alone Syd. "It's lovely."

"And private." He breaks the door handle. "Just you, me, background track of Aussie rock music, a nice wooden balcony that's the perfect height to lean on, and the world spread out before us all nice and pretty."

"When I go on a mission, I hardly ever get to stop and just look..." She sounds so wistful it breaks his heart.

He's going to give her that moment, and make it perfect. "Some bloody amazing things out there, Syd. Seen so much over the years, so much beauty in the night. So much right here, an' all." He puts the knapsack down and snuggles into her back.

"I know I should, we should, have gone to the airport even if they are refuelling, that this is an indulgence, but it is beautiful. Like Tuscany - with bigger mountains and fireworks. Fireworks being set off everywhere." She leans onto the balcony and back into him.

"Think it must be Christmas now, pet." The music's certainly changed from Aussies singing about hardest years, the darkest years, the desperate and divided years, not be forgotten years, to the horrors of George Michael and Last Christmas. Spike knows he should have eaten him before he could come up with that nightmare.

But on the upside, it makes Syd turn and kiss him. "Merry Christmas, Spike."

"Merry Christmas, love." He can hear gits trying to open the door, share the Beirut-under-bombardment that are the fireworks overhead, from the street, everywhere across the city it feels like, but the door keeps it private, keeps it theirs, and with her kiss, he'd have it no other way.

Or be anywhere else. "You're right, pet. What with the cobbles, terracotta tiles, and people trying to kill me, the bloody place is like Florence on crack." Especially with her hands caressing his back, his arse.

"The rockets exploding over our heads and, I think, some aimed directly at us, it reminds me of Kashmir." Her skin's soft as cashmere.

"Reckon you'd look fetching even in a burkha." Even more fetching out of one, so he can't help playing with the zip on her jeans.

"Close by. But I was a hit." She's one Christmas present he can't wait to unwrap.

She hits his spot too; freeing his cock, and making him see stars quite separate from all the dynamite playing out in all the colours of the rainbow across the night sky. "More ways than one too, I bet?"

"Came out holding the bouquet. Well, a flower." She's enough of a feast for his senses.

And he knows exactly how to send hers wild. "Sweetest thing of all right here."

"And, God, you know what you're doing with it." She does, the way she's grinding her clit against his fingers.

"God's got nothing to do with it." It's not the later he had in mind, but they can do the mile-high thing too. But he's had the fight; he needs the rest. "Want you, pet. Want you so fucking much. Can't wait."

"Here?" Her hands on his dick says she wants him, her tone says she wants him. "I don't think anyone can see us, but if we get any further -"

"Turn round, love. Lean on the balcony." She gives him one more kiss and does.

He pulls her jeans down just far enough and thrusts in, whispers, "Just right, baby" into her ear, palms her nipples, and nibbles his way down her throat, moving all the time.

"That coat covers a multitude of sins, huh?" She gives as good as she gets.

And it feels bloody marvellous. He rumbles, "Oh yeah," right into her neck.

Which only gets her hotter and wetter, and grinding faster and faster into him as his fingers play her clit closer and closer to orgasm. "God, yes."

He's locked into sensation overload. The feel of her round him, giving him as much as he's giving her, the music, the blasts of the fireworks going right through him, the knowing they're getting away with fucking each other senseless in front of the whole city. He doesn't know if it's her orgasm that finally triggers his, or if it's the feel of the firework exploding into a crimson starburst right over their heads, but either way, it's, "Heaven."

She collapses into the balcony getting her breath back.

He collapses onto her. "Feels so good, Syd. Never want to leave."

"I know that feeling." And it feels like forever until she continues, with a sigh, "But we have a plane to catch." He can feel her desire to snuggle fight with her duty to move.

So he makes it easy for her, slips out, and pulls her jeans up. "Have to say. A burkha might be easier than jeans this trashed. Quick flip, the possibilities of slipping underneath and giving you a good seeing to -"

"In the field, I'll go with jeans." She caresses his face while he sorts his own out.

He could kill a ciggy, but he hasn't got any, so he sticks to trying to get the after talk right. "Fields are good too. Unless you've got allergies, I guess. Sneezing, sex, not mix-y, I reckon."

Her giggles tells him he's got it right. "I love that you make me laugh."

And it feels so good. "Love that you tell me that, Syd. 'S good to hear - even better that you're here, sharing this with me. Can't help thinking it'd be nice to stay here forever; know that ain't an option."

"I have to get back to my dad for Christmas dinner - he only has me." He'd think it an excuse, but he can feel the truth in every inch of her.

And has to be better than the last few Crimbos with Angel and his , Spike! We need to soak the dishes before sitting down with the brandy issues. "Plane's top of the range, love. Have you home in no time. Time for Christmas breakfast, I bet. Fancy spending it together?"

"Sounds tempting, really tempting. But I have to report to the office with the Pieta, debrief -"

"Always in favour of that, pet." He's still got them, after all.

"I can believe that." She laughs into a sigh. "But I have a job I have to do and it takes time. Dad and me, we might be eating dinner at midnight."

"Mission comes first?" He really does know how to pick 'em.

"Yeah." She sounds so sad.

He can't help kissing her. "'S all right. I know how it works."

She's holding him. "You do, don't you?" He's holding her.

But it doesn't feel like goodbye. "Lots of practice, Syd. And I'm good with it. Know what it means, and here to help, Syd, anytime you need it, you don't even need to holler."

She sounds like hope. "It feels like I've known you forever. I know it's barely a day, but I do know that you would be there for me. And in my job, I have to trust my judgement, or people die or get hurt."

And feels like the future. "Know it's quick; know we're rushing into this. We are rushing into this, aren't we? You're not dumping me at the airport with a 'we'll always have Cusco?' - are you."

"We are, on all counts, going ludicrously fast, but we do seem to be rushing into something. So no, no big airport break-up scene. Even if this was it, I've done too many of those with Vaughn, I can't do any more."

Even if it's built on all their past tears. "Know the feeling. Big flaming farewells; might as well have a musical accompaniment - they never work out too well. So, it's back to the CIA for you, freelancing for the Great Poof for me, them book readings, parties we talked 'bout back in the caves, the odd take-out when you come back to me from missions with the ex."

She caresses his cheek. "This is where is really starts to get hard, isn't it?"

He cups hers. "Yeah, pet, reckon it is. But it's going to be one hell of a ride, and all. And not just what I've got in mind for the plane."

She smiles. "You're a bad boy."

He grins. "You know it, baby."

"As long as it involves food. I am starving." She hands him the knapsack. "We should get going."

"Know the feeling, love. But the condemned man gets a hearty meal. And we're going to have a feast." He puts the knapsack on and breaks the door free for his lady.

Who takes his hand walking out of the club. "Before we face the firing squad?"

"Well, yeah."

***

Wes is already in position when she walks into the boardroom. "You're late, Lilah."

"I'm sorry." She's not. She's been enjoying some private gloating time in her own office before indulging herself in going through the game with Wes.

"You know what to do." He won't get up from the big chair until she bends over the big table.

She will, but not until she's scored first blood. She adds just that little more husk to her voice. "Every time."

"Damn you." It gets him every time how much he hates that he needs this, her.

"Been there, doing that." So does that.

It gets him out of the chair and devouring her lips like there's no Christmas Day any time now, just her about to go up in flames for all eternity. "I tried to save you."

"I know." It's almost a shame that he'll be joining her in them by the time they've finished with each other. "And it matters that you tried." There's part of her that would save him if she could. "But some things can't be changed, Wes. "And she's selfish enough not to be able to resist the thought of together forever - even if it's in Hell.

"No. They can't." He sighs back into the game.

Which she won't let him win - not in reality; he can play top all he needs to if it means he fucks her. "Spike called from Peru. They escaped and he's coming home. Sydney Bristow's coming with him, since, hey, no jet." She can't help smirking at the success of that little play.

"Good job we've got more than one plane. Angel and Fred are flying back after she and her parents come home from Midnight Mass, Christmas Service, or whatever it is they call it in Texas." Lilah can hear the part of Wes that longs for nothing more than to be part of a family ritual in the name of good - probably complete with Labradors, carol singers and snow to really complete the picture.

But she can't help laughing. "They were praying for Spike's safe return?"

The aircraft should miss each other at the airport so he should be safe from Wrath of Fred - Lilah wants to orchestrate the bitch finding out about Spike and Syd herself, so she can really enjoy it. But she's made contingency plans to be called to the airport if Fred insists on seeing her boy immediately. Lilah isn't in Hell - right now - but enjoying herself instead, because she makes contingency plans.

"I didn't ask." But the touch of wistful in his tone gives him away. Fred's always going to be Wes' dream girl; sweet little Miss Innocent, someone he'll never really touch, safe on her virgin pedestal, someone who's not her - or the real Fred.

"They really are so wholesome ." Not that Lilah sees how even Wes can still see her that way when the Twig's been fucking Spike for so long.

"Quite." He can claim he's seen sense about his feelings for Fred, and come back to her all her wants, but she's learned to never underestimate her man's Whore/Madonna complex and sheer stubbornness in clinging to it.

"Unlike me." She shouldn't; she paid enough for the psychologist's report - at least to the late woman's family anyway. The money is worth it. A touch of bourbon and cigarettes in her voice triggers exactly the right response in him.

The slow deliberate sex voice. "Precisely. And you were late."

"So I should be punished." At least when she plays whore, he fucks her, gives her what she needs - his cock, his belt, his hands, that voice, those orders that make life simpler for a while, let her switch off, get off, get what's hers. It's not perfect, it hurts sometimes, but it works.

"Bend over the table." Everything he can't say to Fred, or to Angel --.

--she can take, have, want. "Lover."

"And give me a complete report." He pinches her nipple. "I'll know if it isn't."

He won't. He never gets all of it. But he does get her over the table, which is what she wants, and she's played him into demanding it - it gets her so fucking wet. "A full report."

He pushes up her skirt, caresses her inner thighs, squeezes her butt - checking out the merchandise the way he can't resist - before he brushes her thong aside and finally buries those long fingers where she's been craving them. "A very full report, Lilah."

"The Peruvian army and the Asuncion office are still holding the explosion site." The first smack of the night. "I'll call them off, and let the CIA teams out, as soon as I've confirmation from the pilot that Spike's airplane's left Peruvian airspace." A harder smack for the bad girl who does what he hates having to do, and his fingers curling onto her G-spot just the way she likes it for the same girl and reason.

"And what will we owe the Paraguay branch?" Disapproval means plumping up her ass before the smack, so the slap feels even hotter across her too cool skin.

"They want the Diadem of Cassandra, which we could get from the Moscow office. They won't get it; they aren't worth it, too small. And they know it; they'll accept cash. Champion Tightwad will just have to close his eyes and think of Spike when he signs the checks." Earns her a slap where her leg meets her ass, and a third finger.

"Where does Russia come in on this?" The bastard's using 'come' deliberately. It's working. But she's stronger, and he's going to break first.

"Jack Bristow contacted the girl's mother before going into the Congressional hearing." Lilah loves a challenging opponent, but Bristow might prove too smart for his own good, and there is room in the assassination budget if it becomes necessary. Angel never really sees what he's signing.

"Clever." But, like all men - including hers - with a potentially fatal weakness for the women he loves, even the evil ones.

"Irina Derevko's an important client of the Moscow office." And likely to remain that way while there's any chance that she and not her daughter is prophecy girl.

Derevko's also the reason she might not get to cap Jack Bristow if he interferes with her plans for his daughter and her vampire - she's kept her husband alive so far, despite his multiple offences against the interests of the Washington branch. Then again, Lilah's way more in the favour of the Senior Partners than they are. The infinite variety of power plays with life, death and sex - there's nothing to beat the thrill coursing through her dead veins.

"You can offset that favour with the one we owe the Washington branch?" He can claim to be whiter than white all he wants; she's painting him grey.

"You're learning, lover. I'm so proud." And it's enough of a victory that she can take her first orgasm of the night.

He lets her ride it, and tries to be sneaky and catch her out in the afterglow. "It strikes me that Washington now owes us, since one of our team saving a top client's daughter is serious currency."

He'd find out anyway, so it's not afterglow talking, it really isn't. "You'd be right. But Washington won't be happy. They had sole responsibility for the girl before, now they're sharing with us, well, me."

"Why?" His voice has that tell-tale hint of his need to believe her, believe in her, in his own ability to save her so he can save himself.

"There's a prophecy." He can't, even if she'd let him.

"There's always a prophecy." And he knows it so well. It's in the rasp of his voice, it's etched on his skin, worn into his soul and the sword calluses on the fingers teasing the welts he inflicts on her ass.

"You'll like this one." Lilah loves it. It's going to bring her everything she wants, hurt everyone she hates, and most of all they'll all dance to her tune while it's happening. She could melt into the table with pleasure at the thought.

"Death, doom, destruction? The usual?" She can hear Wes unbuckling and pulling out the Mulberry belt she bought him. But she's so warm and fuzzy from thinking how she's playing her chess pieces that it's like he's miles away.

"Oh, yeah." Unlike his teasing fingers squeezing her butt. "Right there."

"Pay attention, Lilah." The crack of the belt on her skin snaps her back to him.

"Unseen marks, unless prevented, vulgar cost, bring forth works, render the greatest power unto utter desolation, yadda yadda." She deliberately stops to breathe between clauses, so he'll give her another stroke every time. He needs it. She needs it. It makes him despise himself for needing to do it, for enjoying it. Every crack of the belt brings him closer to her, to being what she needs him to be, not just for her, but for the Senior Partners.

"Really?" If she were the sentimental sort, she'd think it tragic the way that underneath all that denial, all the putting her in her place, he knows it.

"Oh yeah." It's hardly a secret, a few days in the library and he'd find the prophecy himself, so she's nothing to lose by playing him with the truth.

"You'll send me a copy." He thinks he's always so on board for signs of her treachery.

"Always do." And he only ever catches the first and second layers of it - of the prophecies too. Still too good to see third, fourth, and fifth; she'd feel sorry for him if she didn't love him too much.

"Hardly. You're hiding something."

"That warm, wet feeling from my Xmas present to me of fucking over the Washington branch, improving my standing with the Senior Partners? My overwhelming joy in having my partner in making Angel miserable back? The Manolo Spring collection with my name on the boxes, the Milan office FedEx'd me as a thank you for the Miami Vice product placement deal? The joy of seeing Fred's face when she sees her boy again? No - hiding nothing from you, lover."

"You're such a beautiful liar." He sounds so sad.

"You called me beautiful!" She never can contain her glee any time he lets slip how he feels about her.

"I'm not the liar." And so deliciously cold.

Time to distract him from thinking too hard about what she's not telling him. "You love me really, you know you do."

It works. He leans against the boardroom table. "On your knees, Lilah."

She does, with the grace that kills him. "You love it when I take it out for you, don't you, Wes?"

"It passes the time." But he groans none the less when she swallows him.

She groans with the pleasure she's going to take in pulling the trigger on Spike's latest fuck-up in fucking. Fred's face will be priceless and Spike's guilt will keep him exactly where she needs him to be. He's the important piece in the game; Fred's the pawn - but Lilah's going to enjoy destroying that pawn.

Wes savours her groans round his cock.

She savours, luxuriates in the beautiful betrayal she'll see on the Twig's face as much as she does Wes' ultimate vulnerability, this ultimate trust that she might scratch, but she won't bite - much. It's all pure self-indulgence, but there's no one she'd rather indulge.

"I never had to teach you how to suck, did I, Lilah." He tries to be ice in her mouth, but he's molten.

She'll teach the bitch not to touch what belongs to Lilah, not to even think about it, let alone do it. Teach Wes the lesson he knows - he might hate everything she is, but he can't resist it, her. Not her tongue tracing the vein, not her lips on the head, pulling at his soul right through his dick.

He pulls her closer by her hair, just hard enough to hurt. "No more playing."

So she pulls back to drive him mad, break him out of his protective shell, toy with the nerve endings of his body and mind. She can do that. He's hers, she's his, and their game will be eternal. No one else gets to play Wes, keep him dangling, even while Lilah was dead. Not Fred, not Angel, no one but her - not taste his skin, feel him tremble under their fingers - only her.

He pushes his cock back down her always receptive throat. "Harder."

She might be the one on her knees, but he's the one losing himself in her. His every moan, every whimper of pleasure - they belong to her. Like the children she never wanted when she was alive and can't have now she's dead - but which should have been hers, theirs, and which he offered to Fred and Spike.

Payback is such a beautiful word - almost as delicious as Wes' come in her mouth.

It takes him a while to talk again, but even after that blow-job, he never stops thinking. Never stops playing either. "The Senior Partners like to cover their bets. Its why Spike's kept around."

She stands up and wipes her mouth. "It's not a secret. What do you call him? The heir, or the spare."

"And now the spare souled vampire's met prophecy girl." He unbuttons her shirt.

"Washington will continue covering her career. I'm to ensure that our spare doesn't start that pesky apocalypse we're all counting on at the wrong time, or help Sydney Bristow to do it herself. Now they've like, met." She's thought hard on whether or not to tell him all this, but he'd work out for himself that she's spending time on the girl, and the best way to deceive Wes is always with the truth.

The first layer of it anyway. She can see that great big brain working to find the second. "Spike is... impulsive. But why would he do that?" Wes ties her hands behind her back with her shirt.

"For someone who hates being a 'bloody plaything of the gods and other assorted dick-heads', he tends to be in the right - or wrong - place at the right time way too often not to be kept an eye on, even if it's fatal for him. It's my job to make sure he only does it if it suits us. You know that, Wes." She gets her nipples twisted just on the pain side of pleasure for her jab - but it's worth it.

And she gets his very slow, "Yes," to enjoy, and her skirt unzipped.

"I love the way you smooth it out before you hang it over Angel's chair." She does adore it - and on so many levels.

"Can't let it crease." Little boy lost under the ice. "They haven't already started the apocalypse? Because if they have, we need to call the staff back in, and get dressed."

"Not from the psychic's report, though it was rather... incomplete." Though not as incomplete as the psychic should be in about another half hour. "I'll debrief Spike myself though. You're busy and he'll talk to me, rather than you or Angel." She can time the explosion over Spike's infidelity to the Sacred Shrine of Fred best this way.

"I know... I dislike that." He pulls her thong down, and she perches on the edge of the table so he can kneel at her feet to take them off.

She purrs, "I know." Spike is fun company, especially compared to the terminally earnest Team Angel, and he's essential to keep under control as a souled vampire, but their getting on sending Wes off-balance is such a beautiful bonus. "Why do you think I do it?"

"You like to be punished." He pushes her down on the table. He's so predictable.

She pulls him into her. "It's why I've got you." They all are. Wes, Spike, Angel, and the Heaven-bitch Slayer - one call and she comes running to fuck up Angel, Cordy, Spike and Fred, to isolate them from each other, just like Lilah knew she would. She shimmies round Wes' cock in pleasure.

Making him groan, "No, I have you."

"Only because I let you." It's true, but so is the fact that Spike and guilt means Spike stays and tries to make it up to his women. Torturing the lunatic from the wine cellar. Getting tortured himself. Hell, the idiot stayed around babysitting a slayer's kid sister when the bitch got killed, even before he had a soul. Then when he fucked up, he got a soul and immolated sealing a Hellmouth. She'd know from the files, even if he hadn't told her incessantly over far too many drinks before he got together with Fred.

"No one else would have you." He belies his words with the need in his thrusts.

"You are so wrong." She could have Angel, Spike, any of them, if she wanted to or if she had to, to get the job done. She doesn't have to; she doesn't need to.

Spike is exactly where she wants him. He'll be torn between both women - she'll push her friend towards Prophecy Girl Syd, if only for the personal satisfaction of seeing a miserable dumped Fred, oh, and getting one over on the Washington Branch. But if guilt over hurting Fred means he goes back to her, it still means he stays in LA, where he'll jump to Lilah's tune.

And the office Dawson's Creek - will distract Angel perfectly and isolate him from Spike.

Which leaves keeping Wes where she wants and needs him so badly she could scream. And time to bring out the big guns on the-man-who-would-be-top. "I decapitated Linwood on this table."

He pinches her butt hard enough to bruise the dead. "Evil -"

"His head landed, oh yeah, just there."

"Bitch." And thrusts even harder. It's perfect.

The End