Gunn: Okay, first, the parasite she allegedly sicked on you wasn't meant to be fatal.
Fred: No, just send you into a permanent hallucinogenic coma.
Angel: And what's with the "alleged"? You don't believe I know it was her?
Gunn: It's not about what I believe. It's about the evidence.
Gunn: Move against her without solid proof and it could end in a long, bloody fight.
Angel: Okay, fine. I think I liked you better when you just wanted to hit people.
Gunn: Rational thought - it's an acquired taste.
Spike: Well, fancy this. Bitty slug I saved you from scramble your brains after all? Come to check yourself in?
Angel: What are you doing here, Spike?
Spike: Didn't get the memo? Hero of the people now.
Angel: Oh. Then go and annoy them.
Dr. Rabinaw: A lawyer? I already told the police everything I know.
Angel: Well, let's go over it again, just in case you left out any details.
Spike: What he said. But with a bit more of a threat at the end.
Angel: Sorry. He's . . . is pathological idiot an actual condition?
Dr. Rabinaw: May I suggest that you stop your friend? If he finds Dana, he's gonna end up dead like the others.
Angel: Yeah, but he'll just end up comin' back.
Angel: She was yelling about being "chosen." She's not a demon, Wes. She's a vampire slayer.
Wesley: The dreams of slayers are usually just that—dreams. But Dana's mental instability may be making them seem more real.
Andrew: My hypothesis exactly, Pryce. I see Mr. Giles may have been wrong about you.
Spike: What do you want me to do? Go all boo-hoo 'cause she got tortured and driven out of her gourd? Not like we haven't done worse back in the day.
Angel: Yeah, and it's somethin' I'm still payin' for.
Spike: And you should let it go, mate. It's startin' to make you look old.
Spike: We can play cat and mouse all night . . . Or I could wedgie you unconscious and be done with it.
Andrew: Brav-o. I see your senses seem to be as well-honed as your Viggo Mortensen pectorals.
Andrew: You're not the only one who's changed: Mr. Giles has been training me. I'm faster, stronger, and eighty-two percent more manly than the last time we-- (He trips, sees a dead body and screams like a girl.)
Angel: Lorne, any luck with the psychics on this place?
Lorne: No. Nothin' new. It's still cold, creepy, and smells like molasses.
Wesley: What about . . . I almost said the words "molasses factory" out loud.
Fred: Whiskey!
Lorne: Oh, God bless you, kitten. I was just about to suggest the same thing.
Dana: You killed her.
Spike: Yes. But--
Dana: You killed them both.
Spike (quietly): That and worse. But I was never here.
Andrew: Check the view screen, Uhura. I got twelve Vampyre Slayers behind me, and not one of them has ever dated you. She's coming with us, one way or another.
Angel: You're way outta your league. I'll just clear this with Buffy.
Andrew: Where do you think my orders came from? News flash: nobody in our camp trusts you anymore. Nobody.
Spike: Andrew double-crossed us? That's a good move - hope for the little ponce yet. Though the tingling in my forearms tells me she's too far gone to help. She's one of us now. She's a monster.
Angel: She's an innocent victim.
Spike: So were we . . . once upon a time.
Angel: Once upon a time.
