Angel scoffs at her dismissively. "Obsession. Please, you flatter yourself. My obsessions are shorter, quieter, and less of a pain in my ass. And that tequila line is crap." He turned his back on her, pulling his own pants on one leg at a time.

"And you can't take advantage of the willing. This is obviously your fault. I went a hundred and fifty years without a wench in my bed, you're not good enough to make me break a streak without a little work." Because they don't talk about Buffy. She was different. But morning headache Angel didn't have any patience to be Mr. Nice guy.