Every breath he takes drags nausea into his gut - his glamoured face is going an impressive shade of queasy green with hints of bloodless pallor - and all he can hear is Lindsey's voice echoing in his head. The smokiest, most soulful voice he's ever heard, and isn't that ironic too; the voice and face of an angel, working for Wolfram & Hart.

Lorne stumbles backwards. He can't talk right now, or he'll throw up all over someone's shoes. He shakes his head, stumbling away.