The man doesn’t even look the same. None of that yielding need that made Gunn want to keep him safe. Nah, this man looks like the sort mommas warn you about.
Lilah looked at the address she’d written down. She could make it there in fifteen minutes, ten if she didn’t miss any lights. That left her plenty of time to get ready.
Oh yes, he will be mine…
“But, whatever. Yeah. You look nice. For you.”
Doyle grins at the almost compliment. “Think I should bill Angel?”
The sharpened pieces of wood inside his coat sleeves weigh his arms down like lead or guilt.
Wesley confesses about four girly drinks into the night, and Gunn’s glad they left Cordelia behind this time, because one mopey woman giving off the just-been-dumped vibe’s enough for him.
One shape’s kinda tall, kinda skinny, kinda Wesley. The other one has his back to her, but she figures it’s Angel.
He can taste his blood mixed with rain water mixed with sweat.
It’s not like he planned this, not like he expected it when he parked the car at the outskirts of the darkness and told her to change her clothes. But older, calmer, and tempered by her confinement, she’s still Faith.
Peering up surreptitiously from the 17th century demonology tome he was translating, he braced himself as a slightly tubby form he’d not seen for a couple of years barreled towards him like a Saint Bernard with two left feet. He stifled a sigh and forced his features into something that resembled a smile.