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But that had all changed in one horrible instant. The worst part was, he had done Fred an enormous favor, or at least that was the way he saw it. He had allowed her the peace of knowing that the weasel who had been responsible for her five years of torment in Pylea could never hurt her, or anyone else on Earth, again. He had spared her from the cost - which he knew, from hard experience, was almost too high to bear - of taking her own revenge. He had added one more life to his own pile of burdens in order to keep her from having to carry it.

He hadn't really expected her to be grateful - that just wasn't Fred. But her reaction had been even more severe than he could have guessed. She had turned Arctic, as if he had betrayed her in some awful way. If he had betrayed her, at least he would understand her reaction. And because honor was important to him, he would agree that he deserved the punishment. He hadn't betrayed her, though. He had done her a solid, and her punishment was way out of proportion to the crime.

They moved around each other in the Hyperion Hotel like eggshell-walkers, Gunn especially cautious because the slightest wrong word or phrasing could earn him a cutting glare or a frown guaranteed to spoil his day. They had hardly touched since the incident; although they still slept in the same bed, Fred pulled herself into a tight ball and gave off porcupine vibes that kept him at bay. He felt an overwhelming urge to hit something, to batter some demon or vamp until his knuckles were raw and bloody. But for the past several days the supernatural world had been quiet. Too quiet, Lorne had opined, dusting off the old cliché about the calm before the storm. So Gunn stayed close to the hotel, and therefore to Fred, and stewed, and the anxiety within him stayed there with no outlet.

That was why, when the front door scraped open and a little old lady who could only be a potential client walked in, blinking uncertainly at the big lobby, he practically jumped from his chair. She was a tiny white woman, probably little more than five feet tall and a hundred pounds, dressed in a purple jacket and pants with a neat white blouse. A small round locket hung around her neck on a fine gold chain, and she gripped a little white leather purse. If it hadn't been for the purple she'd have looked like a snow-woman.

"Something I can help you with, ma'am?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment before she answered, and he worried that she actually was looking for a hotel room instead of an investigative agency. That, he couldn't help her with. But she glanced down at a card in her free hand and said, "Is this... is this Angel Investigations?"

He allowed himself a smile. At last, something to do. He guessed the card in her hand was one of the second generation of their business cards-the first version had only contained Cordy's angel drawing and a phone number, but when they had moved to the hotel they'd added the name because too many people misinterpreted the sketch. "You bet," he told her. "What's your problem? Ghouls? Hellbeasts?"

Before the woman could answer, he felt Fred coming up behind him: her movement stirring the air ever so slightly, her footfall soft as the beat of a butterfly's wing, her scent rising around him like fog. "He's always joking around like that," Fred said, her faint Texas accent almost imperceptibly drawing out her words. "How can we help you, ma'am?"

"This is a detective agency?" the woman asked, still sounding uncertain and maybe a little nervous now.

"That it is," Gunn assured her. "Detecting is what we do. We can detect like crazy. Just turn us loose and watch us detect."

The old woman returned his smile now. Or maybe it was Fred's smile she was returning. Part of him wanted to check and see if Fred was, in fact, smiling, but the other part of him knew that her smile, right now, had the power to break his heart all over again. So he didn't look at her, but kept his eyes instead focused on the woman. "I don't really need any detecting done, thank you," she told them. "My name is Mildred Finster. I would like to work here."

"Work?" Gunn echoed, not quite sure he'd actually heard her correctly. "What... kind of work, exactly?"

"I want to be an apprentice detective," she explained. "I want to work for an agency until I have enough hours to get licensed as a private investigator."

Licensed? Gunn thought. Is this some kind of trap? He was pretty sure that Angel Investigations wasn't licensed by anyone. California required licenses to drive, to carry concealed weapons, and to hunt or fish, but he wasn't sure they had a demon-whomping licensing department.

"I don't think we're exactly hiring right now," he told her, sorry that he'd jumped up to greet her in the first place. Fred was better with loonies than he was. She'd been half loony herself when they'd met her in Pylea, so she had that natural sympathy for them.

"No, we're not," Fred interjected. "And our cases aren't very typical, either. I'm sure there are lots of other agencies that would be better suited to your requirements."

Mildred Finster looked crestfallen. "But this one is so convenient to home," she insisted. "I'm just a couple of blocks from the 110, and then it's an easy transition onto the 101 and right into Hollywood. And I love angels - you'd be surprised if you saw my house; I have at least a hundred of the little china ones, you know, with the rosy cheeks. I looked in the phone book but the other ones all have such grim-sounding names. California Investigative Services; Moore and Fitch, Investigators; Affiliated Security Systems, Inc. I'd be bored to tears just answering the phone. Angel Investigations sounds so welcoming, so pleasant and cheerful, like you really are peoples' guardian angels, watching over them and helping with their problems. And you're both such nice young people. I promise I wouldn't be a bother, and I'm really very good at solving puzzles. Go ahead, try me."

"Try you?"

"Give me a puzzle to solve. One of your cases, anything."

"We don't really work that way, ma'am," Fred told her. Gunn figured Fred had a handle on the situation and he moved back, letting her take care of things. If she needed him he'd be within earshot.

"But you do solve cases, right? Mysteries?"

"Well, yes, but -," Fred began.

The older woman cut her off. "Well, then, that's what I'm looking for. Someplace where I can put my skills to use helping people."

How are your staking skills? Gunn wondered. Dusted any bloodsuckers lately? Decapitated any slime demons? He was sure that Mildred Finster meant well, but equally certain that she had no idea what kind of investigations they actually did here.

As if to put her to the ultimate test, Gunn heard a booming voice coming from one of the back offices, and getting closer. "Oh, Fred," Lorne's singsong tones called. "Have you been using the Ankhnaten Grimoire, peanut, because I need to look -"

Gunn moved quickly to intercept Lorne at the doorway before he stepped out and revealed himself to Mildred Finster in all his green-skinned, red-eyed, Italian-silk-suited glory. He put a hand out and pressed it against Lorne's chest, driving him back into the office he was coming out of.

"It's in here," he said. "I'm sure I saw it."

"No, darlin', I've looked," Lorne argued. "It's not -"

Gunn jerked his head toward the lobby. "Civilian," he hissed. "Of the way elderly persuasion. You might give her a heart attack or somethin'."

Lorne's eyes lit up as he got the message. "Got it, Mr. Clean," he said, making his daily reference to Gunn's smooth pate. "What's the case? Demonic possession? Blood running from the faucets? I love that one."

"No case," Gunn told him. "One of the Golden Girls wants a job here."

"Is it Bea Arthur?" Lorne asked, sounding hopeful. "Because I've always admired her work so much." He chuckled softly. "That Maude... "

"Look, just stay in here till she leaves," Gunn suggested. "Fred's tryin' to get rid of her, and then she won't run away all freaked out because she saw the jolly green giant in here. I want to stay close in case she turns out to be a shapeshifter in disguise or something, but I'm thinkin' that's not likely. Looks like the genuine article to me."

Lorne looked despondent, although Gunn suspected he was faking it. "Sure, lock me away like the insane aunt in the attic," he said. "I'll be okay in here. I'm sure there are vermin to eat."

Gunn chuckled. "It's only for a minute, dog. Just hang tight."

"Hanging," Lorne assured him. Gunn went back into the lobby just in time to hear Fred dismissing the woman once and for all.

"I'm sorry we couldn't be more helpful to you, ma'am. Good luck finding a position somewhere else."

"Well, thank you for your time, young lady," Mildred Finster replied. "You're just as sweet and cute as a gumdrop."

"Or one of those plastic bears with the honey inside," Gunn offered. "That's what I always tell her."

Mildred laughed, and he noticed that the lines on her face seemed to melt away when she did so. That was one fine-looking woman in her time, he thought. Fred will look that good when she's that age. Or better.

But when he turned to catch Fred's eye, he realized that he might not be part of her life by then. The honey bear comment, instead of endearing him to her, had been taken in entirely the wrong way and she was staring daggers at him. Without saying a word, Fred turned away from him and went back to whatever she had been doing before. Mildred Finster left the hotel, and Gunn felt like he was alone on a glacier.

© 2003 Jeff Mariotte. Taken from Solitary Man, published in the UK by Pocket Books December 2003. Reproduced with kind permission of Pocket Books.