Chapter I

The cold had long ago ceased to register as a simple sensation.  It had taken on life, blossomed into a relentless tormentor, a cruel constant companion.  His entire being ached from the uncontrollable shivering, the endless contracting of his muscles in a vain attempt to generate body heat.

His hand, though not large, was curled around her much smaller one.  He couldn't have released it if he tried, but he did not try.  He had to hold onto her, to keep her near.  Her sightless blue eyes stared up at the threatening gray sky visible through the canopy.  The still orbs were no longer the piercing blue, but cloudy and dull, almost milky.  The stiffness had receded from her body, leaving her limp across him.  Her skin was ashen, the same pale gray as the sky.  The bruise that ran the length of her face was no longer as prominent.

He curled his fingers tighter, watching her long golden tresses flutter around him in the chilling wind.  He would protect her.  But the sky eventually darkened and the already punishing winds became even less forgiving.  Thunder rumbled in the distance again.

His teeth chattered so loudly he could hear nothing else.  He tried to huddle deeper into his thin t-shirt, still damp from last night’s pounding deluge.  It was no use ...  The storms would find them again.

Angel woke with the tortured, silent scream of an eight-year-old boy caught in his throat.  Sitting bolt upright in bed, he panted harshly, dragging in deep, ragged gulps of air.  He held himself stock still, trying to absorb all of his surroundings, orient himself despite the adrenaline racing through his veins.  Slowly, he began to calm.  He knew where he was.  He knew he was safe.  But still, he had trouble shaking off the clinging terror.

Uneven flashes of light illuminated his bedroom and the house shuddered with the distant, low rumble of thunder.  With badly shaking hands, it took him three tries to flip on the light next to his bed.  He was tangled in the covers, burrowed into them though his body was soaked with sweat.  Slowly, he freed himself, throwing his feet over the edge of the bed.  Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands.  "Not again," he whispered hoarsely, "not again."  As if to mock him, thunder rumbled.

Raising his head, he pushed himself to his feet and walked stiffly down the hall to the bathroom.  He blinked against the glare of the light.  His reflection was that of a haunted man, his eyes standing out harshly against his pale skin.  He ran a shaky hand over his stubble sprinkled jaw.

Reluctantly, he opened the medicine cabinet.  He stared at the rows of little orangey-brown bottles.  So much for man being powerless over nature.  He was helpless against the storms, but he had the assistance of the pharmaceutical industry to mitigate his reaction to them.  With a deep breath, he picked up the bottle on the far right.  Leaning a hip against the counter, he braced himself as he read the label.  He unscrewed the lid and reaching in, extracted one small pill.  He held it up and looked at it.

"It's only the storms," he said to himself.  "As soon as they stop, I can quit taking the meds again.  I won't need them to keep the dreams away."  Even as he said the words, he was filled with self-loathing.  He had gotten through twenty years without needing these pills to keep the dreams at bay, twenty years where he seemed to be as normal as anyone else, twenty years where a simple thunderstorm wouldn’t turn him into a nervous wreck.

"But that was before," he said wryly, his voice echoing harshly in the small space.  One night changed everything.  In the wake of that stormy February night, he needed enough tranquilizers to bring down a horse just so he could get through the day.  He stopped being a highly trained professional and was now a pitiable company joke.  His past caught up with him and overtook his life.

"Fuck!" Angel bellowed.  He dropped the pill, pulling his hand back even as he curled it into a fist.  With the fluidity of a trained athlete he twisted his upper body forward, punching the glass with all of his considerable strength.  The glass cracked, shattering outward like ripples across a pond.  He stood there, his arm still outstretched, panting hard.  Several shards of glass fell, tinkling into the sink.  His reflection was obliterated by the network of fissures.  Slowly, Angel pulled his hand back.  Looking down at his bloodied knuckles, he felt oddly more sane, more in control.  Grabbing a nearby washcloth, he wrapped it around his bleeding fist and absently flicked the medicine cabinet closed.  The storm wasn’t going to win this time.

Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly and headed for his kitchen.  Coffee would be good.  It was hard to have nightmares if you didn’t sleep.

******

“You’re being funny, right?  Ha, ha,” Buffy said, desperately trying to elicit some sort of response from the overly serious clerk.  He couldn’t honestly mean that this was her office.  Surely this had to be some joke they played on the newbies.

He stared back at her blankly.  “This is your desk, Ms. Summers,” he said dryly.  “All complaints must be taken up with Dr. Walsh.  Good day.”

Buffy watched as the clerk walked out the door and down the institutional green hallway.  She slumped back against her heavy, old, wooden desk, frowning.  “He’s a lot of laughs,” she said to her officemate.

Once again she received no response.  Crossing her arms over her chest, Buffy glared at the back of the man’s head.  He had short, nondescript brown hair kept in place with painful precision, as if ordered to stay there.  He sat ramrod straight, his back to her and acted like she wasn’t even there.  Buffy guessed he would probably be on the tall side, once standing.  Her glaring got her nowhere.

“So ... “ she peeked out into the hallway and read the nameplate on the door, “Liam,” she said.  “Looks like we’re going to be working pretty close together.”

Nothing.

“What is it with this place?” Buffy muttered under her breath.  “That’s fine,” she continued, talking to herself because no one else would, “it doesn’t matter that no one seems to need the human comforts like talking or light.”  She glared at the tiny basement windows placed high in the walls.  No light shone through them and heavy iron bars that covered them.  Of course, it was still raining outside.  This place had the ambience of a turn of the century sanatorium – only quieter and without all the drool.

When she agreed to take the government job, Buffy envisioned something glamorous.  She imagined huddling in a trench coat under the glow of a streetlight, or crouched inside a van, listening to a wiretap, waiting for the moment to rush in and rescue the damsel in distress.  Or guy in distress.  Guys got distressed too, right?  And in need of rescuing?  She glanced once more at the back of the large, uncommunicative form across the room and sighed deeply.  Not a lot of rescuing needed around here.  Who knew the FBI was so freakin’ boring?

With a college degree and her experience, Buffy could have gotten a job with any number of private companies, but no, she settled for cause over cash.  With a sigh, she pulled her chair out and sat down at her desk.  At least the job did pay reasonably well, not the six figures she would be making in the private industry, but definitely more than what the average college grad brought home.  At the moment it made her feel better to put everything on Willow’s head than blame herself for where she’d landed.

In spite of trying to make all this her fault, Buffy was comforted thinking about her best friend.  She could see Willow’s perky face surrounded by a wealth of red hair.  When they had first met, after Buffy arrived new in the town and at the school, she felt an instant kinship to the brainiac.  Willow was like a breath of fresh air in Buffy’s life, something she sorely needed after the one she left behind.  She could use a little visit from Willow right now, Buffy thought, at least she would talk to her, which is more than she could extract from the man behind her.

 “Nice to meet you Liam Angelus,” she said, fairly sure he wouldn’t bother responding.  “My name is Buffy Summers and I will be your officemate for the duration of my stay.”

She waited for him to say something, but once again he remained silent.  With a sigh of defeat, she pulled open her satchel and started arranging things on her desk.  She shot a quick glance at Liam’s desk and noticed it was achingly ordered.  Everything seemed to be arranged on a grid and nothing was the tiniest bit out of place.  Paper, pens, calculator.  With a start, she realized he didn’t have a computer.  Who didn’t have a computer in this day and age?  She shuddered.  Wonderful, her officemate was a Luddite who had taken a vow of silence.  Years spent with overly intelligent males who had little or no contact with women had given Buffy an appreciation for how truly strange some men could be.  Most of her male colleagues settled for treating her like the secretary while they openly ogled her chest.  As far as it went, being ignored wasn’t the most awful experience she’d ever had.

Buffy sighed and looked at the things she brought to decorate her workspace.  She wasn’t much on order.  She got things done in her own way in her own time and with her own style.  She pulled several picture frames out of the satchel and arranged them on her desk.  Familiar faces soon stared back at her.  Dawn laughing with the remnants of a food fight dripping off her face, her mother and Giles on their wedding day, her high school graduation picture with Willow.

She smiled back at Willow’s jubilant face thinking, ‘This is all thanks to you.’ She wondered at the moment about her gratitude.

Willow had been so proud to tell Buffy about officially joining the ranks of the FBI. ‘Miss Supergenius’ not only finished her college credits needed for her degree, by the time she was twenty, but had been actively sought by the FBI upon her graduation.  She had already been working for them for almost two years in forensics, her field of choice, when she saw a job opening she thought would be perfect for Buffy.

When she’d gotten the job in the same building as Willow, Buffy couldn’t believe it. She knew Willow had put in a good word for her, but she had thought the chances of actually getting the job where her best friend worked were slim.  She would enjoy it while it lasted.  She didn’t plan on staying long, but it was somewhere to start.

Eventually, she pulled out her new laptop, a graduation present from Giles and Dawn and her beloved collection of pencils also from her sister.  The pencils wrote in every color imaginable and most of them were topped with some sort of cartoon character.  Buffy wasn’t a Cartoon Network
junkie like her sister, but since they were from Dawn, she loved them.  Glancing over her shoulder, Buffy looked at Liam’s desk.  He had a neat cup of perfectly sharpened pencils.  She rolled her eyes.  Most days she would have been a little more forgiving, but the excitement of being shown to her dank basement quarters had made her somewhat irritable.

With her desk decorated, Buffy slumped back in her chair and studied the room.  It was a good size, much larger than the tiny places she’d been shoved into in her former jobs.  Still, it wasn’t much on character.  The walls were the same institutional green as the hallway and looked like they hadn’t been painted in decades.  There were tape marks and sticky tack goo stuck in what looked like the outline of an old frame or maybe a calendar.  Buffy was betting that it had been hung there when smoking was still allowed in the building because the surface that had been under the frame was much brighter than the rest of the wall.  Buffy shuddered.  She wasn’t a clean freak, but she did have her limits.

Idly, Buffy drummed her fingers on her desktop.  Her meeting with Dr. Walsh was still hours away and until she met with her boss, she really didn’t have anything to do.  Before long, the silence was more than she could take.  Turning, Buffy looked at her co-worker who was still staring intently at the papers in front of him.  Apparently small talk was not in the cards on this job.

With a yawn, Buffy stood up, stretching like a cat.  She needed to do something or she was going to fall asleep.  As she started towards the doorway, Liam swiveled his chair absently towards the motion, having forgotten she was in the room.  Suddenly, they were face to face for the first time.

Buffy's gaze glanced quickly across his pleasant facial features, drawn inexorably to the haphazard dressing on his right hand.  His knuckles were bandaged, giving the unmistakable impression that he injured himself by punching something.  She stared at the untidy gauze wrapping.  He had dressed the wound himself, she knew that simply by looking at it.  The FBI hadn’t hired her for her sparkling personality.  Buffy knew with bone deep certainty that he was right-handed.  He bandaged the injury by himself, resulting in the cumbersome mess that encompassed his hand.

She felt, rather than saw, him start as he pulled his injured hand protectively against his chest.  She immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, blushing in embarrassment.  She opened her mouth and snapped it shut deciding that discretion was the better part of valor.  Mutely, she turned and headed into the hallway without a backward glance.

Buffy locked the door to the ladies' room and leaned back against it, giving herself a moment to regain her composure.  What had possessed her to stare at her officemate like he was some sort of circus freak?  She couldn't have been much less suave if she had actually been trying.  Her face still burned with shame.

But despite the shame, there was a nagging curiosity.  What had happened to Liam Angelus' hand?  It wasn't like her to get involved in situations like this.  She didn't pry into other people's business, especially co-workers'.  But there was something so vulnerable about the way he had looked, the clumsy mess of gauze and tape.  It pulled at something inside of her.  She had this absurd desire to get out a bottle of Bactine and a bunch of Dawn's favorite Scooby Doo band aids.

Shaking her head, Buffy walked to the sink where she ran water and splashed some on her face.  Using an overly rough paper towel, she dried her face, looking at herself in the mirror.  "This job might be a little more interesting than I had anticipated," she said dryly.

Minutes later, Buffy was in the break room, avoiding her office and by definition, her officemate.  She had just removed the Diet Coke from the vending machine when a young man entered the room.  His tie was loosened around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.  Buffy smiled.  This guy looked like he had some potential.

“Hey,” Buffy said.

He waggled his eyebrows at her.  “Hey,” he replied.  “You must be new.  I’m Xander, Xander Harris.”

Buffy gladly took his hand, relieved that someone in the building was capable of conversing normally.  “Buffy Summers,” she said.  “I was beginning to worry that everyone in this department must be a librarian in training.”

He frowned at her.  “You’re in Analysis?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “just started today.”

His eyes went wide.  “Oh, you’re Kendra’s replacement,” he said and then added, “I’m sorry.”

Buffy frowned uneasily.  “Why are you sorry?  Is there something I need to know?  Am I breaking the code of silence?”

Xander smiled and shook his head.  “No code of silence, honest,” he said.  “There’s no policy against making noise it’s just that most of us tend to get lost in our work.  Not quite as lost as Angelus.  You’re officemate is just a little ... “

“Yes?” Buffy prompted, hoping she didn’t sound nervous.  Of course she was nervous.  She had just experienced one of the oddest exchanges of her life and was curious to find out more about her officemate.

Xander shrugged,  “Angelus is ... different.  Quiet.  Strange.  He doesn’t really joke around.  Okay, he doesn’t really even talk most of the time.  To my knowledge, he’s not exactly disrespectful ... he just tends to make people really nervous.  He goes through officemates faster than Spinal Tap went through drummers.”

Buffy laughed and then groaned.  “Wonderful,” she said.  “I feel so lucky.  Hopefully I won’t be another spontaneous combustion.”

“Not to worry,” Xander assured her.  “We may be sick with the institutional green and the lack of daylight, but we have a very modern sprinkler system.”

The comment caused them both to laugh for several moments.

Finally, Xander sighed.  “My deepest sympathy,” he said, “but not much can be done about who you room with.  They’re still looking for that ‘special someone’ who can make it past a month with Angelus.”

Buffy sobered slightly.  “He can’t honestly be that bad, can he?” she asked.  “I mean, he doesn’t like eat people or listen to the Spice Girls or keep a really neat collection of scabs in a jar?”

Xander laughed and shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “He’s just ... one of a kind.  He’s a total genius, the best of the best, but he’s also weirdest of the weird.  Angelus sits at his desk for eight hours straight.  He never talks, never gets up and walks around, unless it’s for more coffee.  We’re all a fairly social group around here, but he never comes to any of our after hours get-togethers or Christmas parties or anything.”

A mischievous grin slid over Buffy’s features.

“What?” Xander asked warily.  “I don’t even know you, but I’m sure that look isn’t a good sign.”

“Nothing,” she said, “I just love a good challenge.”

“Leave him alone, Buffy,” Xander said seriously.  “Angelus is a loner.  He doesn’t like people talking to him or messing with his stuff.”

“I’m not going to do anything drastic,” she assured him.

*****

Later that night, Angel carefully pulled at the bandages, making sure they weren’t tearing the newly healed flesh as he removed them.  Idly, he dropped the fouled gauze into the sink.  His skin was still raw and red.  He fought the urge to flex his fist, knowing it might re-open the wounds.

He took a deep breath and realized he had no idea how long he had been standing at the sink.  Looking up, his still shattered reflection proved no help either.  It wasn't like him to get lost in his thoughts – nightmares, yes – but thoughts, no.  Still, he couldn't seem to stop replaying the day in his mind.  He usually paid no attention at all to whoever was sitting at the desk behind him.  It was almost always a different face.  Male, female – it made no difference as long as they supplied the little information he asked for infrequently.

But the slip of a girl, no, he corrected himself – woman, who had silently appraised him, had caught him off guard.  He had been drawn into those gray-green pools reflecting the light before she hurried away.  The strange connection had been almost tangible until she ran from the room.  He hadn’t missed how beautiful she was in that quick glimpse.  He remembered the huge eyes in such a small, expressive face, surrounded by burnished blonde hair.  Blonde hair … something that usually cast a shadow over his thoughts, hadn’t had that effect with her.

Angel shook his head at the empty room and absently rubbed his injured hand over his eyes.  He was just tired from the storm stealing his sleep the previous night.

In the days that followed he found himself oddly aware of the new occupant sharing his space.  It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

*****

Willow thought about Buffy as she put her things away in her desk after she returned from having lunch with her.  Willow’s workload had been exceptionally heavy for several days.  She planned on meeting Buffy the very first day her best friend started work right there in the same building.  But she hadn’t been able to get away until Buffy had been there for a couple days.

Willow hadn’t been able to contain herself when Buffy had called her after she got the job.  She had gleefully bounced up and down when Buffy asked if she’d help her find an apartment.  Two weeks hadn’t been a lot of time to move and be ready for her first day on the job, but they’d managed.

Now that Buffy had started work, Willow was glad she’d been brave enough to help her get the position.  Willow had heard they were looking for a replacement for a vacancy in Analysis … again.  Despite the rumors about the man who worked there, Willow had gotten up the courage to see Dr. Walsh to ask her to consider Buffy for the job.

Willow had been there long enough to watch the long line of men and women leave, requesting a transfer after working with Liam Angelus.  She had seen him many times, silently slipping through the hallway, trying to become part of the background, as if he didn’t exist.  He reminded her of a wounded animal that would start and run at any movement.  He never let her near enough to get a close up look at him.  She only knew the gossip she heard around the office.  Until a couple years ago he’d been in the field. The details on how he ended up in Analysis were vague, undoubtedly by design.  Everyone else ignored him, but Willow had a very tender heart, hating to see anyone shunned or alone.  She knew Buffy well enough to know she’d find working with him a challenge.  She smiled to herself, feeling more fear for Liam Angelus than for Buffy.

The thoughtful redhead had been concerned about Buffy for quite some time.  She’d watched her date any number of guys, but never forming a serious attachment with any of them.  Buffy had always been a ball of energy, even with everything she packed into her life.  She helped raise her sister after her mother died, taking care of Dawn and Giles and the house while she continued her classes.  She worked on ‘Teen Beat’ all through high school and college.  It was something she’d heard about when she helped out at the local teen center while keeping an eye on Dawn.  Buffy loved to patrol, giving the delinquents a run for their money.  A small cyclone, they were never prepared when she struck.

That Buffy loved a challenge was something that had never been lost on Willow, though she wasn’t sure her friend was aware of it herself.  Time and time again, Willow watched Buffy take on situations that daunted everyone else.  It didn’t matter if it was work or people.  She’d dig in until she solved the riddle to her latest puzzle and wouldn’t let go until she did.  Willow had known her long enough to know she was searching for something that was lacking.  She didn’t think there was much left in their small town that her friend hadn’t already met head on. Yet, Buffy was still restless.

She thought of how energized and alive Buffy had been during the hour she had just spent with her.  She looked excited about moving and starting somewhere new.  Willow hoped the different environment would be what Buffy needed.  In the meantime, she was ecstatic about being reunited with her best friend.  She had missed her and was glad to have her back in her life.

*****

“Good morning, Liam,” Buffy said as she did every morning.  It was five after nine and she was running a little late.  She was betting her officemate sat down at his desk at nine a.m. sharp, just like he had every morning for the last two weeks.  She took a seat at her desk and looked at the back of his head.  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Angelus is an odd last name, don’t you think?” she asked.  “Where’s it from?”

He acted like he hadn’t heard her.

“It’s an interesting name.”  With a suddenly intuitive thought, she continued, “Way more interesting than plain old Liam.  I think I’ll start calling you Angel.  You don’t mind, do you, Angel?”

No response.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, pulling her bright pink Power Puff Girls pencil out of her desk.

*****

Angel couldn’t concentrate, something that rarely happened.  He had kept himself from turning around to look at her.  Pretending to work, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she walked out the door, plastic coffee cup in hand, in the direction of the break room.  After she was gone he leaned back in his chair and let out a long, harsh breath.

He had been startled when she called him Angel, although he showed no outward sign.  ‘How did she know that?’  He calmed himself thinking the nickname really wasn’t such a stretch. Liam was an old family name, passed down through generations, but his immediate family had called him Angel since he was born.  Even after all these years he unconsciously thought of himself by that name.  But he hadn’t felt like such an ‘angel’ once he’d come back home as a child.  Being leery of anything at that time that might cause him pain, they had quietly dropped the term of endearment.  Except for Cordy, she had never called him anything else.

It astounded Angel that Buffy’s voice saying his name hadn't bothered him.  Had it been anyone else who tried to address him in such a manner, he would have been hard pressed to retain his composure.  He actually liked the way it sounded on her lips, soft and intimate.  Unwittingly, he stirred at the notion of being intimate with her.  He pondered again what it was about her that his thoughts kept wandering to her too many times during the day and night.  Just hearing her call him that had him thinking of her again.  He sternly reminded himself she was just trying to make the most of their working arrangement and he should do the same.

*****

Spike purposely clicked the heels of his boots over the tiled floors, hoping the small echo was irritating.  He smirked as his eyes passed the dingy walls and beat up wooden doors that lined the hall.  All that came to mind, surveying the view was the sarcastic line a bad guy said in an action movie, “I give you the F…B...I!”  He snickered softly, agreeing with him, certain they’d killed the wrong guy off at the end of the flick.  He reached his destination, a single door like any of the others except for the nameplate.  Knocking, he didn’t wait for a reply but turned the handle to the door, then helped himself inside.

His eyes swept the room, unconcerned by the absence of its owner.  Spike shrugged, knowing that he would return sooner or later.  He started towards the desk, planning to make the most of his time alone.  With a careless hand he opened and half closed drawers, searching for whatever he could find.  Finally spying something of interest, he dropped into the swivel chair behind the desk and rotated it, throwing his booted feet on the widow sill behind.  He was still in a deep study of the contents of the bland manila folder titled, ‘Angelus, Liam’ when the door opened behind him.

Not bothering to even turn his head Spike sneered, "Watching over your 'golden child', Father?  Be careful he doesn't see you. He'll break even more."

The man made no attempt to answer as he circled behind the desk.  He caught the back of the chair and pitched the occupant out in one quick movement.  As Spike fell forward, trying to regain his balance, he felt the file he was holding slip out of his grasp.  Catching himself before he hit the floor, he straightened out, took a few steps to the opposite chair and nonchalantly sprawled into it.

“Not even a hello for your dear son, Dad?” he threw across the desk.  “Or hasn’t three years been long enough?”

Holtz sat heavily in his seat, silently putting the papers away, straightening the others Spike had disturbed in his earlier search.  Spike waited, snaring a pencil out of the holder in front of him, rolling it between his fingers.

“I’ve missed you, William.” Holtz said quietly, raising his head to look straight into his son’s eyes.

Breaking the pencil and hurling the pieces to the floor, he bit out, “It’s not ‘William’, it hasn’t been ‘William’ for a long time.  The name is ‘Spike’!”

Holtz closed his eyes for a moment trying to calm himself, as he heard the same voice say those words long ago.  A tough little five-year-old telling his parents, “The name is Spike.”  The little boy had picked up the name from the villain in his favorite cartoon show.  He had insisted everyone call him that and refused to answer to anything else.  Regrettably, the moniker stuck.

He knew he shouldn’t have baited him.  He hadn’t seen Spike for so long, but he was irritated that his son had taken advantage of his absence from the office.  As usual, the one thing he wished to hide from his son had been the first thing William had found.  There was no way of knowing how much information Spike had gotten about Angelus or, more to the point, what he would do with it.

Spike eased back in his chair, bothered that he let his father get a reaction out of him.  “Just because Angel didn’t like his nickname, I suppose no one else can have one,” he shot back.

Ignoring the barb, Holtz asked, “Where have you been all this time?  You haven’t kept in touch.  I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Oh, what’s the matter?  Didn’t the boys at the gate warn you I was here?  Tsk, tsk, not much for security, are they?  Oh, wait … that’s right.  I’m family.  Maybe you should update their log sheets, wouldn’t want the wrong people to get in.”

Refusing to give into his taunts, Holtz asked, “Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“Would it make any difference where as long as I wasn’t here?” Spike returned.

“Would it do me any good to try to convince you it did?” Holtz asked tiredly.  At the closed look on his son’s face he sighed deeply.  “Is there something you need?  Is that why you finally showed up?”

“Do I have to need something to visit my dear old father?” Spike questioned, the contempt evident in his tone.

“No,” Holtz shook his head, using his hands to push himself back from the desk, “but you never do.”

“I need money, that shouldn’t surprise you. Why else would I be here?” Spike said levelly.

“We’ve talked about this before.  I’ve told you, let me help you find a …” Holtz started.

“A job ... and a nice girl, settle down and have kids?  Like you did?”  Spike interrupted.  He stood up and stalked towards the door.  “I don’t even know why I bothered.  I should know by now who matters to you.”  He swung the door open, turning to face his father.  “The only one who ever mattered to me has been dead and gone for a long time.  Do you even remember her or has Angel taken her place too?” he spat out angrily as he slammed the door behind himself.

Holtz put his head in his hands leaning over the surface of his desk.  Even for Spike that had been cruel.  Daniel Holtz saw the sweet, quiet face of his youngest daughter, round blue eyes which beheld things beyond what others saw.  The cutting words triggered sudden tears, falling silently down his face, as he remembered the picture of her that was burned in his memory forever…Dru’s and Angel’s.

Taking a deep breath, Holtz wiped away the tears with the back of his hand.  Crying wouldn’t help matters.  These wounds were old and deep.  Silently, he ruminated on Liam Angelus.  Holtz knew the troubled young man well, having lived next door to him as Liam grew from boy to man.  Angel, Holtz knew only too well, had never been comfortable around people after that short eight years since his birth.  He lost whatever that connection was and never regained it. He no longer knew how to relate to others, nor did he attempt to learn.

Holtz privately believed Angel to be caught in a prison of his own making – suffering from loneliness so acute it rendered him unable to relate to humanity.  That loneliness and the unapproachable demeanor it wrought had been a stumbling block all through his adolescent and adult years.  It wasn’t a façade, unfortunately, but an inescapable part of his character.  His own gentle nature had been stunted, a fact for which Holtz held himself responsible.  Angel lost the ability to trust anyone on a personal level.  Even his sister, the only one who still tried to make inroads in his life, was helpless to coax him out of his self-imposed exile.  Instead of daring to believe in the goodness in humanity, Angel created an invisible wall not keeping others out, but locked out himself.  Like looking in a window while starving, watching others eat their fill, with no knowledge of how to enter their door.

But for all he kept hidden inside, Angel still had a considerable impact on those around him.  His manner was harsh and abrupt, not mincing words or wasting them.  He spoke only when necessary, to the point, regardless of how or what he said might be taken.  But it was his behavior, more than his conversation or lack of it, that made people find themselves tiptoeing around him.  He ignored people if they weren’t important to his objective.  His dark, brooding expression prohibited anyone from approaching.  When they did dare, his eyes stared straight through them as if they didn’t exist.  The somber air quashed any attempts at lightness or humor around him.

Most of all though, it was the unavoidable feeling of suppressed power that emanated from him that caused people to steer clear.  Like a sleek, dangerous cat, tensed and ready to strike, his movements were akin to a panther swiftly and gracefully stalking its prey.  Holtz was one of the very few not intimidated by Liam Angelus.  He knew the simmering rage always just below the surface of Angel’s stony mask was directed inward.  That fury though had been instrumental many times when a criminal had come face to face with him and wisely decided to back down.

His skills as an agent had been exemplary.  His ability to be objective, to never personally involve himself in the task at hand had set him ahead of so many of his colleagues.  Holtz had lost count of the number of times Angel had cracked a case, seemingly by instinct, that stymied men with much more experience and working knowledge than he possessed.  Angel had found a career where his ability to disassociate himself from humanity proved a boon, rather than a hindrance.

If he lacked anything, it was finesse with the more social aspects that were needed on occasion in the field.  Isolating himself for most of his life, he didn’t understand, let alone see the necessity of polite mannerisms.  He was at a distinct disadvantage when pressed into playing a part in any kind of social setting.  Whenever possible those assignments were given to agents who could play the roles much more convincingly.  But it was a negligible duty when compared to his other capabilities.

Just when Holtz feared that Angel had become nothing more than a cold automaton, he found himself reevaluating the young man yet again.  In the course of his duties, it became apparent that Angel was an incredibly accomplished artist.  He had a natural gift for drawing, often penciling a quick sketch, needing few strokes to show a clear likeness of a suspect or missing victim.  His discovery of that creative sensitivity gave Holtz hope that Angel's savaged heart could yet be healed.

Liam Angelus had been promoted in a very short time due to his ruthless prowess in tracking and apprehending the subjects in any case assigned.  As the head of the team, there wasn’t a man in it who didn’t owe him his life.  He had saved quite a few outside of it as well.  He might have appeared cold and uncaring, but he was known to never put anyone in jeopardy within his authority if there was an alternative.  It was apparent that although his own life seemed to mean little to him, anyone else’s was paramount.

Holtz frowned to himself thinking of the botched training exercise that had led to the revocation of Angel’s field agent status.  Losing him had been devastating to the team and the agency, not to mention what it had done to Angelus.  He seemed to have folded in on himself, regressing even further into his own small lonely sphere of existence.  Any gains he had made in his difficult life seemed lost, as if they’d never been.  For the last two years he sat at a desk, his brilliant mind still clicking, making connections, but only in relation to his tedious, mundane tasks.  He was little more than a robot, taking in facts and figures, processing them and spitting them back out as needed.  The heart within, which had never shown itself very much since he was a boy, now seemed hidden from sight completely.

[end chapter 1]

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