*****

Angel had, in his own estimation, done an absolutely admirable job of not being a hyperactive dork all day. Not that, in his own estimation, he was *ever* a hyperactive dork, but other people whose names rhymed with Spordelia had offered other opinions, when he'd not-bounced down the stairs and not-bounced into the office today. Vampires, after all, did not bounce. Except maybe Spike, when you threw him off a second story railing.

Despite his inner non-dork-ness, Angel had tried to curb his... whatever wasn't bouncing... so that nobody who knew it was *his* date-night tonight, would snicker at him to his face; behind his back, he'd long since given up on. Now that the clock was inching towards 'Time to head upstairs and slip into the tux and pretend you aren't watching over your shoulder in the mirror at Wes putting his on, even though it's kind of obvious, since you can't *see* yourself in the mirror' it was getting a bit harder. The part he'd been trying to ignore, but which was proving more and more difficult to do, was the fact that *Wesley* seemed unaware that tonight was Angel's date night.

He hadn't said a word about it all day, hadn't met Angel's gaze from across the room and communicated his awareness that tonight was Angel's night. He hadn't seemed at all eager, or bouncy, or hyper -- even if Wesley almost never got hyper. Not like Cordelia seemed to think Angel got. Certainly nothing like the way Spike or Xander got, which was the epitome of hyper, in Angel's opinion and therefore probably not a good comparison. But even for Wesley, he wasn't hyper, and Angel was beginning to wonder if he had the days mixed up.

Fretting over it did manage to distract him for five minutes, though, and it was now legitimately almost time to actually go upstairs and get ready. He checked the calendar again. Yep. Friday night. One week after the *last* date night, just like they'd agreed. Unless somebody who might soon be a dead human and an undead undead person had changed the calendar page, of course. He couldn't ask anybody if the calendar was right, though, without looking like an idiot.

Angel counted, very quietly, on his fingers. Saturday, long leisurely lie-in, followed by wandering down to breakfast to find Spike had eaten all the English Muffins. Sunday, the guy with the possessed car had come in. Monday, bill-paying. Tuesday, zombie goldfish in the park, and Spike complaining that he didn't have enough prospective adoptive parents lined up for Gomer's soon-to-hatch fry. Angel remembered that day clearly -- his voice had been hoarse for hours from shouting "NO! I told you, No!"

Wednesday, West Wing night. Thursday, last night, he'd let Wes convince him to try double-fudge ripple ice cream at quarter to midnight, and dreamed about chasing Spike down the hall with an axe, only Spike was wearing a large yellow duck-suit, and dropping coupons for Morrie's Video Rental and Sex Emporium behind him as he ran. Yep. Definitely Friday.

Which meant it was date night. Which meant it was 'Angel gets to dress up in a tux and take Wesley-dressed-up-in-a-tux out of the hotel where Gunn can't rip anything off Wesley' night. Gunn had already asked, a few days ago, if they could plan to get ready a few hours early, so Gun could tear Wes' shirt off. Since then, whenever Gunn looked like he was going to ask again, Angel growled at him. Angel knew Gunn didn't really mind, because he'd taken to hitting Angel with whatever he had in his hand at the time. Cordelia had taken to calling them Spike and Xander, but Angel didn't care because -- it was time to go upstairs!

He whirled around, trying for casual, and looked at Wesley. Wesley was bent over the desk, writing something, and saying something that sounded an awful lot like work-related stuff to Spike. Angel scowled and cleared his throat.

Wes turned around. "Yes?"

What was he supposed to say? 'It's time to go upstairs and change clothes now or we're going to be late?' That would make him look like a hyper-active dork, right? Wait -- that *was* a perfectly reasonable thing to say -- he'd let Cordy make him paranoid, on top of everything else. "It's time to go upstairs and change clothes now," he said, very, very casually. "If you want to get a decent parking spot at the opera house."

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "*I* am driving?"

"Er, no," Angel stammered quickly. "I am, but--" He narrowed his eyes. "You remembered. You knew all along, and you've been...."

"Waiting to see if you exploded from the wait?" Wesley grinned, and it made him look like a boy.

Angel didn't let it distract him. Too much. He enjoyed the sight for a moment, maybe two, before he pouted.

"I'm sorry," Wesley said, not sounding at all sorry. But then his voice grew serious as he said, "It's just...been nice, seeing you act so excited merely at going out with me for the evening."

"I'm not excited,' Angel was about to protest. He was perfectly calm and relaxed and... He took one look at Wesley's face, and realized that his lover thought hyper-active dorks were pretty danged neat. Why else would Wes put up with him in the first place? "If you don't hurry, *I* won't be able to get a decent parking spot," he said, instead. "And then I'd have to carry you to the opera house, just so you don't miss the opening solo."

Wesley was trying to control another wide grin. "How exactly is that bad, again?" he asked in a thoughtful tone.

"Because then *everyone* will know you're dating a dork?" Cordelia suggested.

Spike scoffed. "Like they can't tell just by looking?"

"Spike, don't make me ruin my date by slaying you. Wait, what am I saying? That'd be a perfect way to start off. Come here, Spike." Angel took a step towards him. Spike just stood his ground, and pouted. Angel pointedly did not notice that Spike was still better at it than he was. It wasn't fair - who was the Sire, around here? Didn't the term 'alpha vampire' mean anything to anyone?

"Angel, if you're concerned with being ready on time, why don't you go on up and change? I've only a few last things I *have* to get finished, here, before the weekend." Wesley gave him such a reasonable look, combined with a hint of a threat of a pout if Angel said no, that Angel just sighed.

"Fine. I'll do that. Just don't be too long; I might need help tying my tie so I don't strangle myself," he said, heading for the elevator, not wanting to waste time on the stairs.

"So, what's my incentive for not keeping him down here, again?" Spike called after him.

Angel flipped him the bird without even looking back, and stepped into the open elevator. He concentrated on all the things he had to do before he could get dressed, figuring how much time it might take that might just happen to coincide with how much time it would take Wesley to get upstairs.

He didn't need a shower, even if that would give Wesley more time to get upstairs. And if he showered his hair would be wet and they'd have to wait for it to dry and then they really would be late. He couldn't even really dither over what shirt to wear, because his tux had been laid out all day, and he knew that if he tried to swap the shirt out for another one, someone would turn him to ash. But that was all right -- the shirt set out was the one he looked best in, so he didn't really want to wear another one. But, he realized as he reached their floor and headed out of the elevator, he could pretend to be considering another shirt.

Or he could just look for clean underwear. *That* might take half an hour, tops. He certainly couldn't stretch it out any longer than that, given that he'd long ago started letting Wes take care of his bureau drawers. Ever since the incident with the French fries, in fact -- neither of his idiot grandspawn-in-law-whatever were likely to try that trick again, with Wes in charge of Angel's drawers. Angel thought, looked down, and grinned. Well, it was true enough.

He entered their suite, and headed for the bathroom. If nothing else, he could brush his teeth -- something he didn't dare do *after* he'd got his tux on. You'd think after a hundred years of wearing mostly black, he'd have figured out a way not to get toothpaste spots on a tuxedo, but no. It never failed.

But he managed to complete all his pre-dressing rituals, until he was clean and squeaky and would pass the most rigorous of tests -- preferably conducted by Wesley's tongue. But in case that didn't happen, Angel was willing to demonstrate the technique on Wesley. Later. After the date, because the date wasn't about having sex. Er, at least not primarily.

Even though *Gunn's* date had ended in sex, that didn't mean the dates were *supposed* to. Maybe Gunn would even lose points because of it, Angel told himself. He, on the other hand, could be virtuous and trustworthy and not have to have sex. He thought about being with Wesley wearing a tux, all evening. OK, not really a chance of there not being sex. But maybe he could at least make *his* date last the allotted time, instead of ending three hours early.

Angel glanced at the clock on the bedside. Pushing six. Where *was* Wesley? At this rate, Angel would have to get dressed himself, just so he'd be free to not-watch Wes doing it, because there wouldn't be any time to spare for subtlety. He considered calling downstairs and threatening Spike with dire bodily injury if he didn't send Wes up straightaway, but Angel suspected his own ego wouldn't stand up under the sound of Spike's laughter.

He settled on pacing, back and forth through the living area. He was careful not to glance at the clock too often, because if he looked too much it would stop moving completely. When the clock said six fifteen, he sighed, and went to the bed to get his clothes. Spike was going to pay dearly for interfering with Angel's Wesley-watching time. Maybe he could convince Cordelia to help him come up with something that Spike would *notice*. Only he didn't like to admit he needed her help to torment his own grandspawn, even if, any more, anything *he* did rarely worked. Or maybe Spike was just a better actor, now.

Angel got dressed as quickly as he could, then he sat on the bed to wait. He didn't moved, not wanting to wrinkle, and tried very very hard not to brood. He sat very, very patiently. For at least thirty seconds. Maybe forty-five. Since he wasn't allowing himself to look at the clock, he couldn't be sure. Finally, though, he couldn't take it any longer. Angel stalked out of the suite, to the top of the stairs. He was just correcting the overeager expression on his face to one that simply -- he hoped -- looked concerned, when he heard a familiar voice echoing up the stairwell.

"Oi, get a move on! Stop fussing with your hair. You're gonna be late!" Unfortunately, not the *right* familiar voice.

"What are you talking about?" he shouted down to Spike.

"You! Hurry up. Wesley says if you don't get down here soon, you'll miss the fat lady singing."

"But--" Angel started down the stairs. "But he isn't dressed--"

Only he was. He was standing near the center of the lobby, talking to Gunn and smiling. Fully dressed to the nines. And Angel had missed it. Angel continued down the stairs, trying to keep the dismay off his face, and not really caring when Spike saw it and smirked. He'd smack Spike around, later. Throw him off the roof, or tip red food dye into the fish tank. He paused, and realized that was a *very* good idea. Angel filed it away, then went down and looked at Wesley. He looked delicious.

And Angel had missed him getting dressed. To hell with it. He pouted. "You're dressed. When did you get dressed -- how did you get your tux down here when it was supposed to be upstairs?"

Wesley looked confused. "I got dressed several minutes ago. Angel, what on earth is wrong?"

"I wanted... I mean... I just thought..." Angel growled inwardly. He was going to end up looking stupid, no matter what he did. "Nothing. Just thought you were coming upstairs. I would've come down earlier if I realized I wasn't supposed to be waiting for you. I thought your tux was up there?"

Wesley smiled, not quite sheepishly enough for Angel to believe he was entirely innocent. "Ah, I'm sorry. I hadn't realized you were waiting for me. I had my tuxedo sent out to be cleaned last week, and it was still hanging down here. I didn't see any reason to carry it upstairs to dress."

"Oh." Angel couldn't think of anything to say, other than confessing that he'd wanted to start off the date by watching Wesley get dressed. Especially with everyone standing around watching them. "Well, then, we should get going," he finally stammered, and he held out his arm.

Wesley looked at it, surprised for a second, before he smiled and took Angel's arm. Angel heard Cordelia making an 'aww' sound, and tried not to look smug.

"You two be careful," Gunn was saying. "And you *call* if anything freaky happens."

"What could possibly happen?" Wesley asked. "We're going to the opera."

"Uh-huh. And you remember what happened when we all went to the ballet?" Gunn gave them a look.

"Charles, really. We're seeing la Cosi Fan Tutti. Even if it *were* haunted, it would be a comedy, not a tragedy."

Angel wasn't sure Wesley's logic made any sense -- but he wasn't arguing.

*****
Part 2:

Wesley glanced sideways at Angel, and hid a smirk. It wasn't *his* fault that the LA Metropolitan Opera House had started serving buttered popcorn. It wasn't as if he'd known that when he'd chosen Gunn's dating plan last week, over Angel's. Well, it wasn't as if Angel could have *known* he'd known that. He tapped Angel on the shoulder, and held out his hand for the small, discreet paper bag.

Angel handed it over, with a distinct I'm-not-Pouting pout. Wesley smiled his thanks for the popcorn, and returned his attention to the stage. The seats Angel had gotten were, he had to admit, much better than the balcony seats they'd had at their first formal, cultural outing. He wasn't surprised -- they had been to the opera and ballet several times in the last few years, and when they didn't have box seats they at least had good, front section seats.

But in this instance, Wesley would have preferred being in the balcony. The conductor had apparently forgotten that there was such a thing as pianissimo -- or even piano. The orchestra was playing loud, and hard -- to the point that from their seats just five rows back, Wesley could barely hear the singers. He didn't know if Angel was having more of a problem, or less, but he didn't want to bring it up.

Angel had been so eager for him to enjoy the evening -- and despite ruining his fun by not letting Angel watch him get dressed, Wesley wanted to let this date go as Angel had planned. The only reason he hadn't got dressed in their room, other than the chance to bedevil Angel because it was fun, was that he knew it would have led to their never leaving the suite.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Angel frown. Perhaps the noise *was* getting to him; he certainly had more sensitive hearing. But his attention didn't seem to be directed towards the orchestra; it was more as if he was trying to avoid looking *behind* him. Angel's head kept starting to turn in that direction, then he'd force his attention back to the stage.

Perhaps he was bored? La Cosi Fan Tutti wasn't just one of Wesley's favourites; as far as he knew, it was one of Angel's, as well -- but this wasn't, from what Wesley could hear over the orchestra, an especially inspired performance of it. Wesley put a hand on the back of Angel's seat, intending to get his attention and mime "We can leave at intermission, if you'd like." The minute he touched the chairback, though, he could tell what was bothering Angel, and it wasn't the performance of the mezzo soprano, or lack thereof.

There was a rhythmic, not-at-all-gentle, thumping, coming from the lower part of the chair, and vibrating through the entire seat. Wesley glanced back to the row behind them, to see a small boy, perhaps eight or nine, sullenly kicking at the seat in front of him. Wesley stifled a sigh, and turned back around. It was unfortunate Angel couldn't frighten the child into behaving -- the boy would either scream, or ignore the vampire explaining that he'd eat him if he didn't stop kicking his chair. Wesley did reach over and place his hand on Angel's leg, palm up in case Angel wanted to hold his hand. If they couldn't enjoy the performance, they could at least express some solidarity in suffering through it.

Angel had just taken his hand and given it a squeeze, when one of the flats forming the backdrop fell forward onto the stage, barely missing one of the singers. Wesley blinked, and stared as the curtain fell. "I don't remember that being part of the usual direction."

"Maybe it's an experimental version." Angel didn't sound as though he believed himself.

"If so, I rather suspect the experiment has failed," Wesley replied.

Angel looked over at him, obviously concerned. "This is awful, isn't it?"

"Oh, no. Not completely so. I believe the bassoonist has been playing at least one correct note in five."

Angel frowned. "Wes...do you want to go?"

Wesley was tempted -- very, very briefly -- to say no. He knew Angel would stay, and even not complain for the duration of the opera. But if he said no, *he* would have to stay as well. "I'm not sure I could handle staying if we were working a case, and getting paid to endure this." He stood up, and Angel jumped to his feet with a grateful expression.

"Don't say that!" Angel said, however. "After the way Gunn's date turned out -- don't jinx us. There'll be ghosts selling the popcorn or something."

"If there are, I assume they're benevolent ones. The popcorn is actually quite good."

"It'd better be, for ten bucks a bag."

"There's always the cinema, if this is too expensive a date for you," Wesley said, ultra-casually. They were moving towards the door now, along with the rest of the crowd. Wesley wondered how many of them were, like himself and Angel, heading not for the restrooms and the wetbar, but the exit sign and the parking garage. Would the audience be a sea of empty seats after intermission? He was rather thankful his curiosity was purely academic and he wasn't going to be here to find out.

"No! No, I just...meant...." Angel's voice trailed off as he realized there was probably no graceful way out of his blunder.

Wesley didn't let him off the hook, even if he wasn't exactly annoyed. No doubt the pleasure of leaving the theatre was enough that Angel could be as big a dork as he were capable of, and Wesley would simply be amused. Not that he wasn't, normally. But there were times when it was more interesting not to let Angel know he was being entertaining and cute, rather than exasperating.

Now was one of those times. Wesley looked over his shoulder at Angel, who hadn't offered anything in replacement for the comment about the cost of the popcorn. Angel caught his eye, and half-grinned. "So, er, where would you like to go instead?"

Wesley considered. They couldn't move their dinner reservations up. Not at Maison Jacques. Nor was there anything near the restaurant that one could visit and enjoy in the hour or so before dinner. There was, however, a club within walking distance of the Opera House, that he'd heard good things about, though they'd never been.

"We could walk over to Distractions," he suggested as they made it to the main lobby exit -- surrounded by fellow opera-lovers fleeing the carnage.

"Dis-- Oh! The club. Yeah, that sounds good." Angel smiled at him, obviously relieved that the date wasn't going to be ruined completely. He hurried forward a step, held the door for Wesley, then followed him outside.

Wesley gave him an encouraging smile, and was rewarded with an adorably dorky preen. He considered pointing out that when Angel did that, he looked like Spike -- but decided not to. There was no point in deflating the vampire when he was only trying to take Wesley on a nice date.

As they walked away from the Opera House, Wesley reached over and took Angel's hand. Angel gave him a very brief startled look, then he grinned. He looked, to Wesley, like a twelve year old who was walking his object of affection home from school, and would blush furiously if offered a kiss on the cheek. Wesley hid a smirk, looked around for anyone who might be likely to object and force Angel to go all cave-vamp on them, and seeing none, leaned over and did just that. Kissed Angel on the cheek, then kept walking.

He'd made it at least twenty feet down the sidewalk before the urge to look back at Angel's expression overcame him. When he did, he was unsurprised to see Angel standing twenty feet behind him, looking pleasantly gobsmacked.

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "Are you coming? Or were you hoping I'd meet a nice young gentleman--" was as far as he got before someone used his vampiric speed to hurry to Wesley's side and take his hand, very possessively. That was more like it.

They talked casually, as they walked down the block. It was much more pleasant than sitting through the remainder of the opera, and Wesley was glad they'd made their escape. Angel seemed to have stopped worrying about the success of his date, as well. Until they rounded the corner and saw the front door to Distractions half a block down -- and the line that stretched nearly to the corner.

"That's not good," Angel remarked.

"Well, it might be an indication of how good the club is," Wesley offered. Or, of course, of just how many people had joined in the exodus from La Cosi Fan Tutti. About every third couple in line was wearing matching tuxedos.

He glanced at Angel's double-breasted, built-for-a-Neanderthal model, then down at his own. Well, at least no one would accuse them of being one of those gay couples who probably wore matching cardigans to racquetball games. Picked out the same frames for their glasses on opposite sides of the store...

"You think we should go ask how long the line will be?" Angel asked, craning his neck to see the door to the club. "Nobody's going in."

"I think..." Wesley frowned. Even if they got in line now, there was no chance they'd get inside to do much more than look around before heading out to dinner. "I think perhaps we should go ahead to the restaurant. We can sit at the bar, there, until our table's ready."

Angel nodded, frowning. "I guess." They turned to walk back to the opera house parking garage, but Angel looked back over his shoulder. "Did you want to try here after dinner, maybe? The line might be shorter."

"Rather a drive back, though, considering how close Maison Jacques is to the Hyperion." Wesley shrugged. It wasn't as if he'd been planning to visit the club tonight, anyway. Angel still looked a bit disgruntled, though. Or worried. Wesley gave him a reassuring smile. "It doesn't matter. We can go clubbing another night -- when we're more suitably dressed for it."

Angel nodded slowly, then seemed to shake off the worry. As they walked back to the parking garage, they resumed their discussion of field techniques for slaying demonic rodentia. Wesley was still determined to make Angel see the necessity of killing them at a distance, with a method whereby one could kill many at one time. Without touching them. Angel was holding out for a more inefficient technique of wading in and swinging a weed whacker. Wesley suspected Angel liked that method because it was more fun.

The debate kept them occupied until they reached the garage and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. As they exited, Wesley saw several spaces empty that hadn't been when they'd arrived. Was there anyone at all, still watching the performance? Not that it mattered - *they* were not watching it, and that was the important thing. They walked over to Angel's car, and Wesley went around to the passenger side.

"Angel?"

"I see it," he heard, obviously hissed through gritted teeth.

"How can you possibly..."

"The car's sagging on your side."

"There could be an invisible giant sitting on the hood," Wesley offered, just to be contrary. When Angel looked at him, he looked right back. "Don't try to say that it hasn't happened before."

"Not at the opera house," Angel said grimly. "Monster truck rally, yes." He folded his arms. "Punctured or slashed?"

"Mysteriously flat," Wesley answered. He removed his tuxedo jacket, and set it on the front seat.

"Myst-- What are you doing?" Angel asked, coming around the front of the car. he looked down at the tire which was, as Wesley had indicated, mysteriously flat. "How can it just go flat?"

"The nail must be there somewhere," Wesley told him, heading back towards the trunk. Angel glanced up, then started.

"Hey! Nothing doing. Go sit in the car or... stand over there and wait or something."

Wesley raised one eyebrow. "Why, exactly?"

But Angel didn't back down this time. "Because it's my car, my flat tire, and I don't want you getting your tuxedo dirty when you just got it back from the cleaners. Besides, this way you can watch me manhandle tires and car tools."

"Vamphandle, you mean."

"As long as you're staring appreciatively at my rippling muscles, you can call it anything you want."

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "Much as I might enjoy watching you ripple, I'd much prefer it if you didn't get grease all over your formal shirt before dinner at Maison Jacques. Why don't we call Triple-A, and then a taxi?"

"I was going to take my shirt off," Angel explained. "And I never get grease on myself when I change tires."

Wesley shook his head. "I can't believe you just said that. How old are you, again? Have you never learned the meaning of the word 'jinx'?"

"I can change the tire, Wes," Angel said patiently.

Wesley pulled his cell phone out of the glove compartment, and held it out. Angel pouted at him, and didn't take it. "Unless you'd rather I called Gunn?"

"How about I call Triple A, and then we can take a taxi?" Angel held out his hand for the phone. Pressed the on button. Listened closely. Looked back at Wesley. "Um..."

"I just charged it this morning."

"No, it's not that. I'm just trying to remember if Cordy won that argument about whether we should renew our Triple-A membership or not."

"Was the argument with you?"

Angel blinked at him. "Yeah?"

"She won. Call."

"She...she might *not* have," Angel said.

Wesley couldn't believe Angel was arguing -- did he have some dread of talking to Triple A agents? Angel knew as well as any of them that he never won any sort of discussion with Cordelia. "Do you want *me* to call them?" Wesley asked. What could a vampire possibly have to fear from an automatic assistance agent?

"No, I can call." Angel looked offended at the suggestion -- and Wesley had to stifle a laugh at his expression. "I just think everyone's got this idea that I never win an argument with Cordelia, when I've won lots of them."

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "When?"

Angel stared at the phone, focusing on dialing the 800 number.

"Angel? When?" Wesley asked again, just to see if he could get Angel to fidget.

"A while. Maybe. The first couple of years she worked for me, I won lots of arguments."

"By making a pronouncement, then disappearing into your office and closing the door, after hanging up the 'Do Not Disturb, Brooding In Progress' sign?"

Angel put up a hand, then spoke earnestly into the phone. "Hel--" Sigh. "Yes, I'll hold." He looked back at Wesley. "You're saying that wasn't winning?"

"It might have been, if she hadn't waited until you closed the door, then done just as she pleased, anyway."

Angel frowned at him, then turned his attention back to the phone. "Yes I-" He stopped again and listened. Then he held the phone away and pressed a number. He brought the phone back to his ear quickly, and listened again.

Wesley waited patiently. Angel brought the phone away, hit another number, and quickly listened again. Wesley went to sit on the hood of the car. He couldn't look at Angel -- if he did, he might... well, there was no telling what he might do. Laugh loudly, was at the top of the list. Not that such a reaction would be unusual for Angel to experience, but... it was his date, after all. It would be rude to laugh at him. Unless it were completely unavoidable, of course.

"No, I don't want a rental car. I want you to..." Angel muttered into the phone, then Wesley heard the faint beep of another button being pressed.

"I'd be careful about telling them what I suspect you want them to do, Angel. Cordelia says she believes those automated menus actually have human operators listening in. Judging how soon you get to speak to a live person based on your verbal responses to the menu." He didn't turn round to look at Angel's expression, much as he wanted to.

"I just want a flat tire fixed," Angel said in a tone that was almost whining -- if Angel ever did such a thing as whine. He did, but never when Spike or Xander could overheard him. There was another button pushed, and Angel said, "Finally! I--" Wesley glanced over and saw the most adorable expression of dismay on his lover's face. Angel saw him looking, and said, "I'm on hold."

"Waiting for an operator?"

Angel nodded. "It's saying... they're playing an ad. Saying they're glad I called...would I like to buy more services....my call is important to them...." Angel pouted. "This is why I think about being evil, again."

"You can't be evil again," Wesley pointed out. "That was rather the whole point of the painting blue and the nude chanting."

"But I can think about it," Angel insisted. "Or... or I could hire Spike to be evil for me." Wesley didn't manage to smother his bark of laughter. "What?" Angel asked, then frowned, and pressed a button.

"Spike... isn't exactly the five star choice when it comes to evil for hire," Wesley said as delicately as possible. "If you wanted to hire someone to be naughty for you, then perhaps..."

Angel grimaced, his lips compressing to a straight line as he glared at the phone. "I could hire him to be annoying for me," he said finally, gripping the cell-phone dangerously tightly.

Wesley sighed. "Why don't we catch a cab, and deal with the car later?" If Angel got seriously...vexed, the remainder of their date would be spent listening to Angel vent about the stupidities of modern life and how they never would have had such a thing two hundred years ago.

"I don't want to leave the car. There's no security in this garage."

Wesley folded his arms. "You could ask someone to cast a spell on it, to prevent theft and vandalism."

"You can do that?" Angel's eyebrows went up.

"If I were feeling amiable, I might."

Angel gave him a look that said he'd just mentally stripped Wesley out of half of his clothes. "I could help you feel amiable."

"And just how were you planning to do that?" Wesley asked it as if he hadn't a clue that Angel's pupils were contracting, brown eyes holding a shimmer of gold in the half darkness of the parking garage. He asked it as if Angel might be thinking of, perhaps, buying him a somewhat more expensive vintage of champagne with dinner than he'd planned.

"I could -- hi! Yes, I was-- policy number?" Angel looked frantically at Wesley. Wesley dug out his wallet while Angel made frantic reassurances to the agent that he had it right there, just a moment, please don't hang up.

"Hmm." Wesley leafed through his wallet again, then went over and pulled Angel's wallet out of his trousers pocket. He ignored the briefly bulged-eyes that action got him, and began flipping through it. "How did you get the number to call, if not from the policy card?"

"There's a sticker on the window," Angel said, pointing.

"I don't see the card. Didn't you put it in your wallet?"

"Didn't *you*?" Wesley simply raised an eyebrow. And waited. Angel looked at him, expectantly. Then nervously. Then... "Um, could you hold on a second?" he said into the phone. "I sort of just pissed off my boyfriend, and frankly I'm more afraid of that than I am of you putting me back on hold." He blinked and looked at Wesley. "She hung up."

"Did I what?" Wesley asked mildly. He wasn't actually pissed off -- a bit annoyed, perhaps, and that was at least in part due to the fact that he hadn't yet started enjoying his date, this evening and they'd been on it for two and a half hours.

"I don't think it matters now. Maybe I should just change the tire."

"And be covered in grease when we go to dinner?"

"I'll take my clothes off. Change the tire in my underwear."

Wesley blinked. Tried very hard to explain why that was a bad idea. Tried very hard to figure out why that was a bad idea. "That..." he began, then stopped. Looked back across the car to Angel, in his tuxedo. "That would..." There was something...

Angel started to pull at his tie. Wesley swallowed hard. In the silence, a car's engine growled smoothly to life. Wesley looked around, to see a small black sports car pulling around the corner and driving towards them.

"That would be bad. Because people would see you." He pointed. "People who aren't me."

"You could stand between me and them," Angel said in what really seemed to be a reasonable tone.

"I...think it would be illegal," Wesley pointed out as the car slowed down. He tensed, and saw Angel turn to face the car -- standing neatly in between Wesley and it, he noticed with some amusement.

The window rolled down and Greg Williams stuck his head out. "You guys need a lift?"

Wesley gave the man a grin. Greg was an old friend, initially a client whom they'd run into a few times after solving his 'possessed kitchen' problem. The contacts had lead to friendly acquaintance, until Greg and Charles had discovered a common passion in ballet. Gunn heartily *denied* his passion, but was sometimes known to go to Greg's place and watch the A&E channel. Or so Greg claimed. According to Gunn, they were watching basketball. Since Wesley had stopped by to pick him up one night, and noted that the basketball players in question looked very good in tutus, Gunn hadn't said much on the subject.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps we just need the assistance of someone who's better than Angel at romancing the Triple-A operator," Wesley answered, nodding towards Angel's now-closed phone.

"If I'd known I had permission to romance her, this would've been over a lot quicker," Angel muttered.

Greg didn't seem to have heard him, but Wesley certainly had. "I'm not sure how her hanging up on you sooner would have helped us."

"Triple A?" Greg asked. "Why -- oh." He caught sight of the tire, and looked over at the driver's side of the car. "Michael, be a love and pop out and give them a hand?"

"Oh, that's not necessary," Angel began. "I can do it, I just--" He glanced back at Wesley. "Can't get dirty."

"Of course, sugar," Michael said as he walked towards the trunk of Angel's car. The large, well-muscled black man stripped off his jacket before holding out his hands for the keys. Wesley told himself it was impolite to stare at someone else's date, while out on his own. But he'd never met Michael before, and felt it was only fair he get a chance to look.

"If I were wearing jeans, I could do it," Angel said, almost petulantly as he indicated Michael's more appropriate attire. Wesley simply gave him that raised eyebrow again, though not so high as before. He wasn't even pretending to be potentially offended -- just amused.

"Well, I could. What's wrong with wearing jeans to the opera? He did!"

Greg grinned and leaned out his car window, watching appreciatively as his date set to work. "Michael's part of the stage crew."

Angel frowned, lips settling into a familiar pattern that belied his claim that Spike and Drusilla hadn't learned their deadly pouts from him.

Michael looked back at them as he lowered the trunk lid halfway. "I'm not sure I want to admit that right about now."

Wesley tried his best to be... diplomatic. "I thought it went rather well, for..." For what? A complete disaster?

"For everything going wrong that possibly could without the theatre bursting into flames?" Michael suggested. He pulled the tire wrench out, and said, "Your jack's not in here."

"What?" Angel went over and peered into the trunk. "We had... Wes? Didn't we have a jack in here?"

"Why are you asking me? When was the last time I changed the tire?" Wesley watched with some mischievous delight as Angel tried to figure out which was the wrong answer. Wesley went over to stand beside Greg, to watch the ensuing activity.

"Well, that's OK," Angel shrugged. "I can hold it."

"Without getting dirty?" Greg teased.

Angel shot him a look that indicated just what he could do with his offer of help. Or rather, of his date's help. "The bumper isn't dirty." He walked around to the front of the car, and crossed his arms, waiting for Michael to pull out the spare tire.

Wesley thought about arguing with him, then thought about watching Angel reaching down to lift up the front of a several hundred pound hunk of metal, muscles clearly visible through his thin white formal shirt -- and kept his mouth firmly shut. Besides, if it made Angel feel like he was contributing to the tire-changing endeavor, who was he to argue? A glance at Greg showed him watching Michael with equal interest.

Wesley nudged him, and said quietly, "It's lovely having such butch boyfriends, isn't it?"

"Except when it comes to getting breakfast in bed, yes," Greg agreed.

Wesley gave him a look of mild surprise, and teased, "Yours doesn't cook?"

"Yours does? I thought vampires didn't eat. Or - do you mean Gunn? Where is he, by the way or shouldn't I ask?"

"He's at home, as far as I know. Unless he went off demon-hunting by himself, in which case he's in serious trouble."

Greg glanced at him. "You don't think he can handle it himself? I thought he did that for a while, before you guys all hooked up."

"I mean he's in serious trouble when he gets home."

That bought him a chuckle. "I guess it's not a shouldn't-ask deal, then, if you're still willing to kill him for risking his neck."

Wesley raised his eyebrow. "It's not as though Angel and I are never seen out, without Gunn."

Greg gave him a 'you've got to be kidding' look.

"Well, that' s what tonight is for," Wesley said firmly. "Unless Gunn demonstrates he can't be left without a chaperone."

Greg laughed. They chatted while Michael and Angel worked, and soon the tired was changed. Angel let the car down and changed back to his human visage. Michael looked at him for a moment -- actually, he'd been glancing at the vampiric face nervously but silently, during the entire tire-changing procedure -- then nodded slowly. "Thanks."

Wesley assumed Greg had told his date what Angel was, but knowing and seeing were two completely different things. Angel nodded back at him. "Hey, I should be thanking you. You're the one helping with *my* car." He glanced back at Wesley. "Not that I actually *needed* help, but, you know..."

Wesley folded his arms. "You were going to lift the car *and* change the tire, by yourself?"

"You could have--" Angel began, then stopped. "I think we have time to make our dinner reservations."

"We're an hour early. I should hope so." Wesley hesitated, then gave Angel a grin to let him know he wasn't -- currently -- in any trouble. Angel responded with one of his more adorable smiles, which made tormenting him all the more worthwhile.

*****