November 02, 2005
Curses
Her lips are as soft and warm as the memory of sunlight on his skin. He wants this moment, this kiss, to go on forever. (And they lived happily ever after to the end of their days.) Maybe, if he closes his eyes and wishes with all his heart, maybe this time it will.
The phone rings.
He feels a momentary disquiet, but he pushes it away. "I don't have to get that," he says.
She looks at him sadly. (Sad? Why is she sad, when he is so happy?) "That, you have to get," she says.
And so he goes to answer it, because he always does what she tells him to do; she has always had that power over him.
"Oh..." she says behind him, "and you're welcome."
He freezes, spins around, but it's too late, she is already gone. (Gone... gone... gone away and left me all alone.)
The phone rings. And rings. And rings.
Angel bolted upright in bed. His skin was unpleasantly clammy and a dull throbbing echoed inside his skull.
The phone beside his bed was ringing.
He reached over and grabbed it, more from a desire to stop the noise than to speak to whomever might be calling.
It was an effort to concentrate on Wesley's voice. Angel felt strangely detached, as if a part of him were still caught in the dreamworld.
"Okay," he replied finally. "I'm on my way."
He dropped the phone onto the bed beside him. For a moment he lay still, eyes closed, trying to will himself into action.
“Cordelia.” He said it out loud, trying to draw strength from the familiar feel of the word in his mouth.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when he'd said her name often. Now, he spoke it only rarely, and only when he was alone.
He would have liked to crawl back into bed and claim the rest of his night's sleep, but had to do this instead. The work was all he had left now.
"You scratch my back," purred Lorne into the cell phone, "and there's a part in the next Joel Schumacher movie with your name on it."
He strode through the abandoned sound stage, deftly avoiding the puddles of blood and the white coats from Wolfram & Hart swarming over the crime scene.
"No, that's not a threat!" said Lorne. "Okay, I guess a lot of people were scarred by those nipples. Forget about Schumacher, how do you feel about Soderbergh?" He listened to the voice on the other end.
"That's my girl!" he said when she had told him what he wanted to know. "And you're sure?" Lorne walked over to where Wes, Fred and Gunn were waiting for him. "You're a peach! I'll be in touch soon."
He snapped his cell phone shut and addressed the others. "Gates' maid says he's at a fat farm in Arizona."
"Maybe we shouldn't have called Angel about this one," said Fred. "We can probably handle--"
"And face his unholy vampire wrath when he finds out about this and we didn't call him?" said Gunn. "No, thank you."
"He has been rather short-tempered of late," said Wes.
"I don't think he's been sleeping well since Cordelia... you know," said Fred.
There was a momentary, uncomfortable silence.
Wes adjusted his glasses. "Yes, well, it was... difficult. For all of us, of course, but for Angel in particular."
"I just wish he'd talk to us about it," said Fred.
"Angelheart doesn't talk," said Lorne. "He broods."
"And occasionally yells, or, alternatively, dismembers," added Gunn.
"But did you see him this afternoon?" asked Fred. "He looked awful, like he was getting sick or something."
"Vampires don't get sick," said Wes.
A door slammed loudly at the far end of the sound stage, announcing Angel's arrival. Several members of the Wolfram & Hart forensics team paled visibly and buried their noses even further in their gory work.
"I thought we told Gates in no uncertain terms that he was not to traffic in human remains anymore!" Angel bellowed.
"We did," said Gunn.
"And yet, here we are in one of his sound stages and it's full of mutilated bodies!" Angel gestured at the ceiling.
The others cast an uneasy glance at the row of corpses hanging from the lighting grid above their heads.
"He has to do something with the place over summer hiatus," offered Lorne.
Wes cleared his throat. "He does seem to have altered his business model somewhat--"
"I don't care!" Angel snapped. "Gates was warned. And now he's finished."
Wes and Gunn shared a look. Fred was right, Angel did not look well. Not even for someone who had been dead for over two hundred years. His eyes were dark and hollow, his cheeks sunken, and, if possible, he was even paler than usual.
"Will you keep it down?" said Spike, who had wandered up behind Angel. "All that shouting is upsetting the minions." He looked over at Angel. "Geez, mate, you look like hell."
"Spike, what are you even doing here?" asked Angel.
He shrugged. "Nothing but reruns on the telly tonight."
"Angel, are you all right?" asked Wes carefully.
Angel grunted in irritation. "I'm fine."
He was quite obviously not fine, but no one dared to push him on the subject.
Lorne peered up at the bodies. "Does it seem strange to anyone that only the right hands were cut off?"
"I imagine they were harvesting hands of glory," said Wes.
"What's a hand of glory?" asked Gunn.
"Traditionally, the right hand of a murderer, severed while the corpse is still hanging from the gallows and pickled for two weeks in an earthenware jar with long peppers and saltpeter."
Gunn rolled his eyes. "As long as it's not anything really stupid and obscure."
"They're a common ingredient in many magic spells and voodoo rituals."
Fred was still staring up at the bodies. "So all of those people were murderers?"
"Yes," said Wes, "which makes this something of a--"
"Don't say it," Angel warned.
"--gray area," finished Wes.
Angel groaned. "Why do I feel like we've had this conversation before?"
Gunn shook his head. "So Gates gave up killing innocent people and decided to start going after bad guys."
"For a profit," added Wes.
"Kinda like we used to do," said Fred.
"I helped people," said Angel. "I didn't sell their body parts." He frowned, and then put a hand to his head as if he were in pain.
Fred took a step toward him. "Angel?"
Angel waved her away. "I'm fine," he said. Just before his eyes rolled back in his head and he began to collapse towards the floor.
Wes and Gunn grabbed Angel before he could hit the floor and hauled him upright.
"He's burning up," said Wes.
Gunn cast a nervous eye around them to see if anyone else had noticed Angel's predicament. But the rest of the Wolfram & Hart team continued about their gruesome business, seemingly oblivious to their boss' distress.
Wes gestured to an office off to one side of the sound stage. "Over there."
Wes and Gunn hauled Angel, sagging between them, into the office and eased him down onto the couch.
Angel's eyes fluttered open and he looked around him in surprise.
"What happened?" asked Wes.
Angel shook his head weakly. "I don't know. I just felt dizzy and then I started to black out."
"Have you experienced any other symptoms?" asked Fred.
"I've been feeling kind of tired."
"For how long?"
"The last few days, I guess. I haven't been sleeping much."
Fred abruptly ripped open Angel's shirt.
"Hey!" Angel protested.
"Just checking for bugs," she said.
"That was a new shirt."
Fred examined Angel's torso carefully. "You're clean."
"I'm fine," Angel said again.
Wes frowned. "Angel, I don't think we should underestimate--"
"I just need some sleep." Angel tried to stand, teetered and fell back onto the couch.
"The last time you felt under the weather it was because Eve was trying to kill you," Wes reminded him.
"And there is that little matter of her swearing vengeance on you," said Lorne.
"Have you been experiencing any usual dreams?" asked Fred.
"What do my dreams have to do with anything?" said Angel.
"It might give us a clue what's wrong with you."
"No," said Angel.
"We need to get him back to the lab," said Fred, "so I can run some--
"No," said Angel.
"Angel--"
"If someone's out to get me what makes you think Wolfram & Hart's not behind it?"
"You think the senior partners did this?" asked Gunn.
"The giant monster in the basement revelation doesn't exactly make them appear more trustworthy," added Wesley.
"I think the senior partners are behind a lot of things we don't know about," said Angel. "Not to mention the fact that for all we know Eve still has allies there."
"Okay," said Gunn. "So if we don't go back to the office--where do we go?"
"All my equipment is there," said Fred.
"And all of my books," said Wes.
"If Wolfram & Hart is behind this, they'll be watching our apartments," said Gunn. "And the Hyperion, too."
"So we need somewhere safe we can hide Angel while we figure what's going on and who's responsible," said Wes. "Somewhere Wolfram & Hart doesn't know about."
"We don't even know what's wrong with him," said Gunn. "For all we know it's just some kind of vamp flu."
"No such thing," said Spike.
Wes shook his head. "No, I'm almost certain it's magical. It'd have to be, to weaken Angel to this extent."
"Could we not talk about me like I'm not here?" said Angel.
"Sorry," said Wes.
"There has to be somewhere we could go for help," said Fred. "A friend maybe?"
There was a silence.
Spike snorted. "Do you people even have friends?"
"Errr," said Wes.
"Uh," said Gunn.
"Hmmmm," said Fred.
Lorne raised his hand meekly. "I might know someone," he said. "But she's not gonna like it."
Agnes Belfleur was awake and she was annoyed about it. A bleary glance at the bedside clock told her it was just after 3:00 a.m.
Who could possibly be knocking on her front door at three o'clock in the morning? She lay still and waited, hoping whomever it was would lose interest and go away.
After a few minutes the knocking blessedly ceased. Aggie breathed a sigh of relief and rolled back over.
Knock knock knock knock KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...
With a groan, Aggie tossed back the covers and wandered sleepily into the living room. On her way to the door she stubbed her toe on the coffee table and paused to issue a few choice curses.
"Somebody better be dead," she grumbled as she fumbled with the multiple deadbolts and threw the door open.
"Aggie!" cried the green-skinned demon standing before her in a burgundy leisure suit.
"Lorne," said Aggie, somewhat less warmly. She hadn't seen horn nor tail of him in over a year--not since he'd left the nightclub business and joined that evil law firm.
And now here he was, standing on her doorstep with an aura that positively screamed needy.
"I know, it's tres gauche to drop in like this," he said, "but I need just the eensiest of favors."
Aggie's gaze drifted to the people standing just behind him. She'd been right--someone was dead. Two someones, in fact.
"I'm sorry, I didn't order any vampires," she said.
Lorne laughed nervously. "I know what you're thinking, but these are friends of mine, the ones you sent on that illuminating little sojourn to home crap home with me. This is Fred, and Gunn, and that's Wesley, and this--" he gestured to the dark-haired vampire "--is Angel, the guy--"
"I know who he is," said Aggie. Who hadn't heard of the vampire with a soul? The other one was a bit of a surprise, though. She hadn't known there were two of them.
"Right, of course you do," said Lorne. "And our over-peroxided friend there is Spike."
Aggie pursed her lips impatiently. "Why did you bring them here, Lorne?"
"We need your help," said the woman Lorne had introduced as Fred. "Angel's sick."
"Vampires don't get sick," said Aggie. "Not even the ones with souls."
"Which is why we think it must be something magical," piped up Wesley in a prim British accent. "Some kind of curse."
"Then get one of the evil geniuses at your new place of employment to help the big boss man and let me get back to my beauty sleep."
"Great idea," said Lorne. "And we would, except there's just the smallest chance they're the ones behind this."
Aggie shrugged. "Hey, you lie down with dogs..."
Lorne's red eyes flashed angrily. "Swell, lambchop, lesson well learned. In the meantime, my friend Angel needs help."
"Please," added Fred.
Aggie was tempted to say no. The last thing she wanted to do was get mixed up with this circus, especially if Wolfram & Hart was involved. And she didn't want anything to do with vampires--ensouled or not, she didn't want them anywhere near her, much less inside her house.
But Lorne was a good guy, and her empathy wasn't picking up anything untrustworthy about any of them. All she was sensing was how scared they were, and how much they all seemed to care about this sick vampire they'd brought to her house. Except Spike, who mostly just seemed to want a cigarette.
Angel's eyes met Aggie's unflinchingly. His aura told her he was scared as hell and in a dozen kinds of pain, but outwardly he betrayed none of it. "Angel can come in," she said finally.
Wesley and Gunn helped Angel, who seemed to be having difficulty walking. Fred and Lorne followed, leaving only Spike. "You stay outside," Aggie said.
"Bloody nice to meet you, too," he said.
She smiled sweetly and closed the door on him.
Gunn and Wesley helped Angel onto the couch, where he settled back weakly.
"What exactly do you want me to do?" said Aggie.
"Are you getting anything off of Angel?" asked Lorne. "Can you tell what's wrong with him?"
Aggie gave Angel a quick psychic once-over. "Well, for starters, he's got some serious intimacy issues and a raging martyr complex."
"Hey," Angel protested weakly.
"Yes, of course, but has he been cursed?" asked Wesley.
Aggie cocked an eyebrow. "He didn't come by that soul at a rummage sale."
"We were looking for something slightly more recently acquired," Lorne prompted. "Whatever's making him sick, for instance."
Aggie studied Angel's aura a little more closely. It was messy, to say the least. "There's definitely something ugly going on in there. Some kind of magical mojo, but whatever it is it's way out of my league."
"Hmmm," said Wesley. "If we knew precisely what was afflicting him we might be able to counter it."
"How about you take a closer look and try to identify it for us?" said Lorne.
Aggie shook her head. "No. Also? Hell no."
"Yes," said Lorne.
"You're not seriously asking me to read a vampire?"
"I am seriously standing here asking you to do exactly that." Lorne wore a no-nonsense expression that gave Aggie the sinking feeling she wasn't going to win this one.
"You're the devil," she said.
"You know this is way more up your alley than mine," he said. "And you also know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
"I'm changing my address book right now--scratching out Lorne and writing Beelzebub."
"Come on, peaches. For old times sake and all that sentimental hooey. For bad Mexican food and one too many whiskey sours. For me."
He was really fighting dirty, now. "Fine," she said grudgingly. "But I want to make it clear that I hate you."
She looked down at Angel. "Hold out your hands. And try to relax, okay?" She knelt on the floor in front of him and tried to take her own advice about relaxing. She'd never touched a vampire before, much less tried to read one.
Aggie grasped Angel's wrists firmly and suppressed the urge to shudder at the odd coolness of his skin and the notable absence of a pulse where a pulse should have been.
It wasn't quite as bad as she'd expected, though. She'd thought it would be like touching a corpse, but it wasn't quite like that. It wasn't quite like touching a human, either, though.
She closed her eyes and concentrated, felt Angel's body tense in response. These kind of readings were no picnic--not for the subject and not for her. She needed to be careful, especially if someone had already been mucking around with Angel's subconscious. Wouldn't do to go stumbling into some kind of psychic booby trap.
It took her a moment to get her bearings. A couple hundred years of stored-up vampire angst was not a pretty thing to navigate. But after a little effort she finally found the traces of corruption she was looking for and followed them until she had identified the source.
She released Angel and he slumped back on the couch, weak and drained.
"What did you do to him?" asked Fred.
Wesley leaned over. "Angel, are you all right?"
Angel nodded weakly. "Fine."
"You keep saying that," said Gunn, "as if that's gonna make it true."
Lorne helped Aggie to her feet. She was still reeling a bit--it was definitely not the easiest reading she'd ever done. If she never saw the inside of a vampire's mind again it'd be way too soon.
She spared a sympathetic look at Angel. "Sorry 'bout that."
"Well?" asked Wesley. "Did you learn anything?"
She went to the bookcase and pulled down an old leather-bound volume. She knew what the curse was doing, and she knew it was... not Greek, but those other guys. Etruscan, that was it. She handed the book to Wesley and pointed to the appropriate passage.
"The Kiss of Ancaru," he read aloud.
"That doesn't sound so bad," said Fred.
"Ancaru was the Etruscan goddess of death," said Wesley.
"Oh. That's probably not good, then," said Fred.
"The afflicted shall be eaten from the inside out," read Wesley. "The result is a gradual, exquisitely torturous death."
"A death curse won't kill a vampire," said Fred.
"No, it can't," said Wesley, frowning. "Ah! Here we are. This particular curse preys on the victim's soul, which explains why it's affecting Angel."
"You mean he's gonna turn into Angelus if we don't fix him soon?" said Gunn.
"I don't believe there's any danger of that," said Wesley. "It doesn't remove the soul, just sort of poisons it."
"But it won't kill him," said Aggie.
"No, it won't," said Wesley. "Most likely it will merely cause the eventual and painful loss of all motor and possibly cognitive function. But he'll still be alive, in a manner of speaking."
"Kind of like an immortal vegetable," said Gunn.
"I really wish people would stop cursing me," said Angel.
"Maybe you should stop pissing them off," Aggie suggested.
Angel gave her a baleful look.
"Could you tell who cast the curse on Angel, or anything about them that might be helpful to us?" asked Wesley.
"It's a magus with some heavyweight spells in his arsenal," said Aggie. "Male, definitely human. I might recognize the magical energies if I ran into them again, but other than that I've got nothing."
"It's not Eve, then," said Fred.
"She could have outsourced," suggested Gunn.
"Who's Eve?" asked Aggie.
"Someone who tried to kill Angel recently," said Fred. "And then Angel got her boyfriend in big trouble and she swore vengeance on him. It's kind of a long story, really."
"He get that a lot?" asked Aggie. "People trying to kill him?"
Fred smiled. "Oh, just about all the time."
"Can you undo it, Wes?" asked Angel.
Wesley's nose was buried in the text. "Probably," he said.
"Oh, thank god," said Angel.
"But it's not going to be easy," Wesley added.
"Of course not, because where's all the fun if it's easy?" said Angel.
Wesley looked at Aggie. "How much time do we have?"
"It's pretty advanced. A few more hours--six at most--before he starts to turn into a vampire pumpkin."
Wesley nodded. "We're going to need to gather some ingredients for the counter-spell. Some of it's pretty basic: dove blood, Dead Sea salt, hand of glory."
"Ah, the sweet smell of irony in the morning," said Gunn.
"Do ya'll hear that?" asked Fred abruptly.
"What?" said Wesley.
"Listen," said Fred.
They listened. There was a sound like the roaring of a distant waterfall, or maybe far off thunder. It was getting louder by the second. In fact, it was not so much distant, actually, but more like right outside. The hair on Aggie's arms stood up as if the air around them was charged with static electricity... or magic.
I knew I shouldn't have invited them in, Aggie thought wearily, just before something crashed into the roof with a tremendous THUD.
Angel was in the throes of some kind of seizure. His arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably and his eyes had rolled back in his head.
"Move the coffee table!" Aggie shouted over the din. "And someone get me some cornmeal from the pantry."
Fred raced into the kitchen while Lorne and Wesley moved the coffee table against the wall. Aggie rolled back the rug, revealing the voodoo vever she'd painted on the floorboards.
Gunn leaned over to Lorne. "She's psychic and a witch?"
"Not a witch," said Lorne. "Her grandmother was some kind of voodoo priestess."
"Root doctor," corrected Aggie. "But I prefer to think of myself as a practical occultist. It's just a hobby, really."
"Hey, whatever," said Gunn. "Anyone who can put the gris-gris on me gets to call themselves whatever they want."
Everyone jumped as the house shook with another loud crash. This one sounded as though someone had dropped a smallish pachyderm on the roof. The roaring sound had by now grown to an ear-piercing howl.
"Here's the cornmeal." Fred thrust the bag at Aggie.
Aggie scooped out a handful and began carefully outlining the design on the floor as she chanted the warding spell her grandmother had taught her. At least, she hoped she was chanting a warding spell. It had been so long she wasn't entirely certain she wasn't reciting her Mamaw's recipe for callaloo.
"Now what?" shouted Wesley when Aggie had completed the spell.
"We wait."
"For what?"
"To see if it worked or if my house is going to go all Poltergeist on us."
"What, you mean like the end, where it all crumples up on itself?" said Gunn. "That would be very, very bad."
Fortunately, the noise outside had already begun to die down. The next crash was somewhat quieter than the last, and the one after that was downright half-hearted. Finally, Angel stopped shaking, blinked and looked around, weak but conscious once again.
"Welcome back," said Fred. The howling had faded to a depressed-sounding whistle in the distance.
"I miss anything good?" said Angel.
"Just the usual, apocalyptic displays of magic," said Gunn. "No big."
Wesley looked approvingly at Aggie. "Nicely done."
"What did you do?" asked Angel.
"A warding spell. Combined with the sanctorum spells I've already got set around the house I think our bad guy got discouraged."
"We have to assume he'll try again, however," said Wesley.
"A display like that over distance had to use up a lot of juice," said Aggie. "My guess is he'll need time to regroup before he tries anything else."
"I hate to imagine what your neighbors must think," said Lorne.
"Oh no," said Fred. "Spike!" She ran to the front door and threw it open.
Spike lay crumpled on the doormat, looking dazed. "Bugger this for a lark," he mumbled blearily.
Fred bent to help him up. "Are you all right?"
"Sure, pet, take more'n a few bumps in the night to keep ol' Spike down." He swayed precariously as Fred tried to keep him from falling down again.
Fred gave Aggie a pitiful, pleading look. She was quite good at it, with those big brown eyes of hers.
Aggie's formally steadfast resolve was no match for Fred's earnestness. "Oh, sure," she said. "Bring that vampire in, too."
Fred gave Aggie a grateful smile and led Spike into the house.
"Maybe while we're at it, we could check the nearby dark alleys to see if there are any more vampires we could invite into my house," Aggie grumbled.
"I think I know where to find most of these ingredients," said Wesley, who'd gone back to poring over the magical text. "Except maybe the vestal ritual oil, that's usually a special order."
"I've got some in the bedroom," said Aggie.
"I see. Well, all right, then," said Wesley.
Aggie realized everyone was looking at her. "It smells nice in a bubble bath."
"The real problem is the draconian shielding stone," continued Wesley. "There's only one that I know of in L.A."
"I don't suppose it's at the Ralph's on Pico?" said Gunn.
"Unfortunately, no. It's in the private collection of a man named Bernard Havelock."
"Lemme guess," said Gunn. "Well-armed guards, high-tech security systems, impenetrable solid-steel vaults?"
"Pretty much," said Wesley.
"So what now?" asked Aggie.
"Break in and steal it, of course," said Wesley.
"Just like that?"
"No problem," said Gunn. "We do this Ocean's Eleven type stuff all the time."
Aggie was just a tad skeptical. "Is that so?"
"Okay, two or three times, now. But it's cool. I'm like George Clooney and Brad Pitt all rolled into one. And Wes here's our Elliot Gould."
Wesley looked affronted in the way that only British men can. "Elliot Gould?"
"Okay, you can be the little Chinese guy," conceded Gunn.
"Clooney was the brains," said Wesley, "and if anyone fits that bill--"
"It's me," said Fred.
"You all realize Clooney doesn't hold a candle to Frank Sinatra, right?" said Angel.
"Not to rain on your macho heist fantasy or anything," continued Fred, "but you're going to have to do all the breaking and entering without Angel's help this time."
"I'm okay," said Angel. "I can do it." He made a valiant but spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to stand.
Aggie pushed him back onto the couch. "You're not going anywhere unless you want another magic-induced seizure."
Wesley frowned. "We do have Spike, he's as useful as Angel."
"You take that back right now!" said Angel.
Spike grinned smugly. "Guess I'm up for a good old-fashioned heist. What're we stealing, then?"
"Draconian shielding stone," said Wesley. "Pay attention."
"Right."
"It's settled, then," said Wesley, "Gunn, Spike and I will steal the stone. Fred and Lorne can go pick up the other ingredients we'll need. Angel will stay here under Aggie's protection."
Of course, thought Aggie sourly, I get to babysit the sick vampire.
"We'll need some specialized equipment for this job, yeah?" said Spike. "Abseiling gear, fancy headsets, maybe some of that nifty aerosol spray they use to identify laser sensors in the movies."
"Yeah, we don't have any of that stuff," said Gunn. "And I don't know where we'd get it this time of night."
Spike shrugged. "Kicking the front door in it is."
Aggie had a strange suspicion this was not going to end well. "Do you even know where Havelock keeps the stone?"
"Yes," said Wesley. "I attended a party once at his home. It's in a special display room, behind a false wall in his study."
"See," said Gunn. "My man Wes is large and in charge."
"We should gather some supplies," said Wesley. "Do you perhaps have any flashlights or weapons?"
"Flashlights, yes. Weapons, no."
Spike reached for the sword mounted above the couch. "What about this?"
"It's decorative," said Aggie. "It's just a replica of a sword from a movie."
"Which one?"
"Highlander. Friend of mine got it in Thailand. It's not even sharp."
"Still hurt if you're hit over the head with it, I'll wager. Plus, it looks cool." Spike swung the sword in a wide arc. "There can be only one!"
"One jackass," muttered Angel.
"I'll get those flashlights," said Aggie.
She and Wesley collected a few other potentially useful items for the imminent break-in including rope, bungie cords, a crow bar, and duct tape.
She also gave Wesley a small, ancient-looking glass bottle.
He looked at it uncertainly. "What's this?"
"Black cat spirits. It'll make you--"
"Invisible," finished Wesley, sounding impressed.
"Well, not invisible, exactly, but less noticeable."
"Thank you," said Wesley, tucking it safely in his pocket. "This will definitely come in handy."
"If you get caught, don't call me to come bail you out."
"Better yet," said Angel, "don't get caught."
Wesley handed Fred the list of ingredients needed for the counter-curse. "You know where to find them?"
She nodded. "The 24-hour magic shop on Melrose."
"Only in L.A.," said Gunn.
"Okay, then, we all know what to do," said Wesley.
"Be careful," said Fred.
"What she said," said Angel. "Don't do anything stupid. I mean it."
"Not to worry," said Wesley.
"Yeah," said Spike, tucking the sword into his belt. "Anyone gets in our way I'll chop their head off with my fake sword."
Aggie watched them walk out the door, full of bluster and bravado. She couldn't quite decide if they were brave or just the three biggest fools she'd ever seen.
Fred looked miserably at Angel. "They're totally going to get caught, aren't they?"
He shrugged. "Maybe not."
"Don't worry, Freddles," said Lorne. "Our boys always come through in a pinch. Or a large vise, even. In the meantime, though, our little shopping list isn't going to buy itself."
"I guess you're right," said Fred. She fixed Aggie with a surprisingly stern look. "Take good care of Angel for us, okay?"
"I'll love him and squeeze him and call him Spooky," promised Aggie.
She shut the door behind them and turned back to Angel. It was just the two of them now. Her and a vampire, albeit one with a soul. A soul that she'd just gotten a close-up view of, which somehow didn't serve to make things less awkward. She knew things about Angel now, things that she was sure he'd prefer to keep to himself.
"So," she said.
"So," he echoed.
"Here we are."
There was a pause. They stared at one another.
"I make you uncomfortable, don't I?" asked Angel.
"Little bit," said Aggie. "Nothing personal, though."
"It's okay. I get that a lot."
"Can't imagine why." It suddenly occurred to Aggie that she was still wearing her pajamas, which did little to improve her comfort level. She cast about for something normal to say.
"Would you like something to eat?" she said, and instantly regretted it. "I mean, I don't have any blood, except, you know, mine, which you can't have, obviously, but I could make you some eggs or something."
"Thanks, but I don't really eat food."
"Of course."
"I wouldn't say no to some coffee, though."
"Okay, coffee it is. Black?"
"Black is fine."
"Coming right up." Aggie dashed into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. While the coffee was brewing she took the opportunity to change into actual clothes and tame her long hair into a ponytail. When the coffee pot was full she poured two cups, took a deep, calming breath and went back into the living room.
Angel thanked her politely as he accepted his mug. Aggie sat down with her own coffee and tried to look relaxed. She was pretty sure that she was not doing a good job of it.
"So, you're a psychic," Angel said, after a lengthy and rather awkward pause.
"More of an empath, really. I don't foretell the future or anything."
"How does that work, exactly? Lorne reads people when they sing--"
"Yeah, that's some crazy Pylean thing," said Aggie. "I just look at their auras."
"Sounds kind of new-agey."
Aggie huffed indignantly. "I'm not some crystal-waving neo-pagan. Everyone's got energies--emotional, physical, spiritual, magical, whatever--I just happen to be able to see them. Or feel them. Whatever."
"That must be incredible."
"Incredibly annoying and intrusive, sure."
"So what do you see?"
"When?"
"When you look at someone and you see these energies. What kinds of things can you tell about them? Can you read their minds?"
"Not exactly. I just get vibes, mostly. Flashes of emotion, that sort of thing."
"Oh." Angel looked uncomfortable.
"Don't worry," she said, "I'm not sitting here sifting through your innermost thoughts and feelings."
"But you could if you wanted to."
"Most people's thoughts are actually not that interesting. Usually I'm just trying to tune everyone out rather than eavesdropping. Besides, I already rifled around in your head, remember? Got a pretty good eyeful already. More than I cared to, frankly."
"I'm sorry you had to do that."
She shrugged. "It's what I do, isn't it? It's like going to the doctor's office and showing your goodies. Pretty or not, the doc's gotta look."
If Angel had had a pulse, Aggie was certain he would have blushed. "For some reason that metaphor fails to make me feel any better."
"It's not meant to." Aggie glanced at the clock. There were still a few hours before dawn.
Angel leaned forward to set his empty coffee mug down and then settled back into the couch wearily.
"You doing okay?" she asked.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Do you need me to tell you the answer to that question?"
"Not really." She already knew that he was getting worse, and even more quickly than she'd expected.
Generally, Aggie adhered to a strict policy of butting the hell out of other people's problems. There was just too much pain in the world to let yourself get worked up every time you passed someone on the street.
The problem was, thanks to Lorne--who she was still ticked at--she'd gone and spent some time inside Angel's head. And once she'd done that, well, the policy became somewhat more difficult to enforce. You get that good of a look at someone's psyche and you start to feel a connection, like you're responsible for them or something. It was a feeling that Aggie detested.
"Listen," she said, sitting up a little straighter, "about that girl..."
Angel looked at her sharply. "What girl?"
"The dead one."
"There've been a lot of dead girls," he said flatly. "You'll have to be more specific." Something in his expression sent a tendril of ice down her spine.
He was trying to scare her, she knew. It was how he protected himself. But Aggie wasn't going to have any of it, even if she had seen enough of what was inside of him to know there was good reason to be scared.
The Bellefleur women could be scary, too, when they wanted to be.
She folded her arms resolutely and matched his look with one of her own. "Cordelia. That was her name, wasn't it?"
Angel didn't say anything and his expression didn't change. But Aggie didn't need to see his expression to know what he was feeling.
"You have to let her go," she said.
He looked away. "I'm not talking about this."
"I know it, and that's the problem. You're trying to bury your grief and it's eating you up inside--just as surely as that curse is."
"Anyone ever tell you to mind your own business?"
Aggie smiled. "All the time. People don't like to hear the truth."
"People don't like sharing their private thoughts and feelings with strangers."
"Hey, you're the one who showed up in the middle of the night and dumped your problems on my doorstep."
"Not this one."
"I'm having a two-for-one sale."
Angel retreated into a sulky silence.
Sensing the conversational portion of their evening had come to an end, Aggie reached for the remote. "Mind if I turn on the TV?"
Angel made an indistinct, noncommittal kind of noise that she decided to take as assent.
The television universe, unfortunately, seemed unlikely to provide much in the way of diversion this time of night. Infomercials, religious shows, more infomercials. Finally she managed to find an old episode of "Fantasy Island."
The show had just started; Mr. Roarke and Tatoo were greeting guest stars Arte Johnson and Judy Landers. Out of the corner of her eye, Aggie caught Angel watching with somewhat more than feigned interest.
"That Mr. Roarke was one smooth guy," she said.
"Excellent taste in suits," conceded Angel. "Although white's never really been my color."
Wesley wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at the two security guards who lay unconscious on the floor.
"That wasn't so tough," said Gunn.
Getting inside Havelock's mansion had merely been a matter of scaling the fence, overpowering a guard, and then taking his access card to allow them to sneak in through the kitchen.
They'd encountered two more guards in the hallway, but thanks to the Black Cat Spirits they hadn't even been noticed by the guards before they'd clubbed them unconscious.
"Told ya it'd make a good blunt instrument," said Spike, brandishing his fake sword triumphantly.
"I doubt this is the last obstacle we'll encounter," said Wesley. "We'd better get them tied up and out of the way so we can move on."
They stowed the two guards in a broom closet, after covering their mouths and tying their hands and feet with duct tape.
Wesley led them up the stairs and, after a moment's deliberation, chose the door he thought he remembered as leading to Havelock's private study. It was locked.
"Try the access card," Gunn suggested.
Wesley swiped the card through the reader beside the doorknob and waited tensely for alarms to start going off. Instead, a small green light gave him the all clear. He turned the knob and opened the door.
Everything was dark inside the room. They shut the door behind them and switched on their flashlights.
Gunn whistled. "Donald Trump would kill for this office."
"Donald Trump hasn't a third of Bernard Havelock's money," said Wesley. "Nor his taste."
In the middle of the room was an ornately-carved mahogany desk with a polished marble top. The far wall was covered floor-to-ceiling with equally impressive carved bookcases, while the wall behind them boasted a stunning collection of oil paintings, one of which, Wesley was nearly certain, was an original Vermeer. The room did not, however, boast anything whatsoever that hinted at the occult, which was unusual only in that its owner was one of the foremost collectors of mystical artifacts in the state of California.
Wesley approached one of the bookcases on the far wall and stared at it, trying to conjure a memory.
"I know the professor here's fond of books and all," said Spike, "but perhaps now's not the best time to browse."
"I'm looking for the trigger," said Wesley. "One of these books opens the secret panel." Somewhere on the third shelf, he remembered, towards the right side. He briefly considered Rorty's Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity, but dismissed it as too thin.
"Cool," said Gunn. "What happens if you choose the wrong book?"
"I don't know," said Wesley. "Possibly nothing. Or possibly something very bad indeed."
"Do you know which one is the right one?" asked Gunn.
Wesley frowned. "I'm working on it."
Spike and Gunn watched nervously while Wesley ran his finger over the spines of the books. He stopped on M. Merlaeau-Ponty's Phenomenology of Perception and slid it out a few inches.
There was click, and then the bookcase swung open, revealing a large, elegantly-lit room filled with pedestals and museum cases containing an impressive collection of rare magical artifacts.
"Way to go, Indy!" said Gunn, slapping Wesley on the back. They stepped into the hidden room.
As soon as they were all inside, the bookcase slid back into place behind them with an ominous-sounding clank. At the same time, another panel opened in the wall across the room. Beyond it was a very dark space.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," said Spike.
"Why am I suddenly worried that a Rancor's about to come tearing out of there?" said Gunn.
"What's a Rancor?" asked Wesley.
There was a low, vaguely feline growl from the darkness.
"Oh, hell," said Spike, sniffing the air. "I bloody hate Arioch demons. All those teeth and claws. But it's the slime that really gets me."
Gunn had the crowbar so Wesley held up the only weapon he had--his flashlight--and prepared to defend himself as best he could.
"I never understood why people kept going to that island," said Aggie when Billy Mays interrupted "Fantasy Island" to talk to them about Space Bags.
She and Angel had fallen into a somewhat companionable silence as they watched Mr. Roarke battle the devil for possession of his immortal soul.
"Imagine the customer testimonials," she continued. "I just wanted to talk to my dead husband and he tried to kill me! Or, I wanted to be popular and instead I broke both my legs playing varsity football. I mean, who hears about that and says, 'Cool, where do I sign up?'"
She glanced at Angel and noted with some alarm that he'd gotten significantly weaker in the just the last twenty minutes.
"Can I get you anything?" she said.
Angel shook his head.
If his little posse didn't get back with those spell ingredients pretty damned soon there wasn't going to be much point.
Shortly before the big Mephistopheles vs. Roarke showdown came to a head, the front door banged open and Fred and Lorne bustled in carrying several paper sacks.
"Who knew brimstone smelled so bad?" complained Lorne, holding his bag away from his face. "Don't suppose you've got a hermetically-sealed safe we can put this stuff in?"
"We'll open a window," said Aggie, ushering them into the kitchen.
"Any word from the others, yet?" asked Fred.
"Not yet," said Aggie. "But I'm sure they're fine," she felt compelled to add, though she was sure of no such thing.
"Of course they are," said Fred, sounding like she was trying to convince herself. "They always manage to come through, right?"
"Think there'll be any madder root left over?" asked Lorne, rifling through the bags. "It makes a creme rinse that's just to die for."
The two women stared at him.
"What? Hair this silky doesn't come from a bottle of Pantene, you know."
"How's Angel doing?" asked Fred.
"About the same," lied Aggie. "We've been watching 'Fantasy Island.'"
"Seventies or nineties?" asked Lorne.
"Seventies," said Aggie. "The one where Mr. Roarke faces the devil."
"Talk about jumping the shark," said Lorne. "That episode jumped the whole Mariana Trench. And poor Roddy McDowell--he was cursed by a shaman, you know."
"I'm gonna go check on Angel," said Fred, and disappeared into the living room.
Lorne looked over at Aggie. "So how's our patient really doing?"
"Not well," admitted Aggie. "He's doing a decent job of hiding it, though."
"If there's one thing Angelcakes is good at, it's hiding," clucked Lorne. He gave her another appraising look. "What about you? Still wanting to scratch my eyes out?"
"Yes."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "You are not."
"I am!" Aggie tried her best to sound indignant.
"Don't even try to lie to me, sweets, I'm not having any of what you're serving. I knew you'd like him once you got to know him."
"I don't like him. He's creepy. And way too broody."
"I won't argue with that," said Lorne. "But don't pretend you can't see it. I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something about our Angel."
"Sure there is," conceded Aggie. "It's called... what's that phrase again? Oh yeah. Eternal damnation. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not one of those eyeliner-happy, Anne Rice-loving, goth head cases who finds that a turn-on."
They heard the front door open again, and went into the living room to find Spike, Wesley and Gunn newly arrived, looking tired and rather chewed on. Spike seemed to be covered with some kind of oozy yellow goo.
"What happened?" asked Angel, trying to sit up.
"For future reference, black cat spirits do not work against attack dogs," said Wesley.
"Or Arioch demons," added Spike.
"But did you get the shielding stone?" asked Fred, apparently disinterested in further details of their travails.
Wesley held up a dark crimson stone roughly the size of a baseball.
"That's great!" exclaimed Fred.
Wesley and Gunn beamed with triumph. Spike dripped demon mucus on Aggie's floor.
"I admire your dedication to looking all menacing," she said, "but that's just gross."
Spike glared at her. "Funny girl. Where's your loo so I can wash this muck off?"
Aggie pointed the way and Spike stalked off.
"That is one gorgeous bauble," said Lorne, taking the stone from Wesley and holding it up admiringly. "What it's made of?"
"It's essentially a dragon's... er, kidney stone."
Lorne curled his lip. "You mean it--"
"Was excreted through a dragon's urinary tract, yes."
Lorne gave the stone back to Wesley. "'Kay, that's something you tell a guy before he starts fondling the dragon excrement."
"Were you able to get all of the other ingredients?" asked Wesley.
"Every one," said Fred.
Wesley glanced over Angel, who had sunk back into the couch with his eyes closed. "Angel?"
"I'm okay, Wes. Just do your thing." His shirt was soaked with sweat and it was clear that even talking had become a great effort.
"Come on," said Aggie, leading them all back into the kitchen. Wesley looked over the spell ingredients while Aggie ran some cold water over a towel. She handed it to Fred. "For Angel."
Fred gave her a grateful look and disappeared back into the living room.
Under Wesley's supervision, Aggie and Lorne worked on the preparations for the counter-curse. It was a complex ritual, and there was a great deal of work that needed to happen before the actual spell could be performed.
While they did that, Wesley translated the text of the spell. It was--naturally--in ancient Etruscan and he had decided it would be best to work from a phonetic copy of the text rather than try to read aloud from the original Etruscan glyphs.
They had just about finished when Gunn popped his head into the kitchen. "Guys? Sooner would be better than later."
"Is the elixir done?" Wesley asked.
"Yep." Aggie was already pouring the hot liquid, which had filled the kitchen with a sulfurous stink, into a mug. Lorne took the mug while Aggie gathered up the other spell components and some matches. Wesley followed them into the living room with the spell book, his notes and the shielding stone.
Fred looked up when they walked in. Beside her, Angel was twisting restlessly on the couch and muttering.
"How is he?" Wesley asked.
"He's delirious." Fred looked pained. "I think he's talking to Cordelia."
Wesley frowned. "We'd best hurry."
Lorne and Fred forced the smelly elixir down Angel's throat while Aggie set the Hand of Glory on the floor and carefully tucked a Dead Man's Candle between each of the fingers. She looked up at Wesley. "Ready?"
He nodded, doing a fair job of disguising his nervousness.
Aggie lit the candles. When the last one was burning Wesley began to recite the spell.
"Ita tmia icac heramashva vtiexe... Unialastres themiasa mex thuta thefaiei vlianas sal cluvenias..."
Aggie glanced nervously at Angel, but could detect no change yet. She hoped it was working. There were only about a million ways they could have screwed up the spell and so far she wasn't feeling any juice being generated by their efforts.
"Turuce munistas thuvas tameresca ilacve ulerase. Nac ci avil xurvar teshiameitale..."
Wesley was holding the shielding stone in his right hand, arm extended towards Angel. As Aggie stared at it she realized that she could feel something after all. There was an odd prickling on the back of her neck. It was a boding, an emptiness that occurred just before something happened, like the space before a lightning strike.
The front window crashed in, sending a shower of glass spraying all over the room. A dozen dark-robed figures rushed into the house.
Aggie was knocked aside in the initial onslaught and bounced painfully into the bookcase. She crumpled to the floor and peered dazedly at the chaos that had erupted around her.
The intruders were incredibly fast-moving and wore hoods that somehow kept their faces in perpetual shadow. From the wooden stakes they carried it was obvious who the intended target was.
Fred, Gunn and Lorne were desperately trying to keep them away from Angel, who remained immobilized and seemingly oblivious to the fighting around him. Spike had emerged from the back of the house and was trying to fight his way over to the others. She saw Wesley by the door, grappling with one of the hooded figures. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead.
"Aggie!" he gasped as he dodged another blow aimed for his head. "The spell... you have to finish--" The robed figure landed a solid blow to Wesley's gut, and he doubled over.
The shielding stone had rolled into the corner not far from where Aggie crouched. She reached out and snagged it. Now she just needed the piece of paper Wesley had written the spell on. She looked around.
It had fluttered to the floor near Angel's feet. No one seemed to be paying much attention to her; she might be able to make it over there. She crawled across the floor, trying to think invisible thoughts.
No one seemed to have noticed her. Unfortunately, one of the hooded figures was now standing on the paper.
She took a deep breath. One... two... three... She grabbed the figure's ankles and heaved as hard as she could. He fell to the floor with a thud and Fred took the opportunity of his indisposition to hit him with a lamp.
Aggie grabbed the note and scanned the nonsensical words. Where the hell had Wesley left off? She picked a place more or less at random and started reading, the stone held aloft in her right hand.
"Ilacve... alshase... nac atranes..." She felt very much like a baboon attempting to recite the Gettysburg Address. "Zilacal... seleitala acnashvers... itan--"
Something hit her in the side and she flew onto her back, just barely holding onto the stone and paper.
She leaped to her feet, faced her attacker and--suddenly grateful for the Tae Bo craze that had swept L.A.--landed a solid roundhouse kick to his solar plexus. Assuming, of course, that he had a solar plexus. She wasn't entirely convinced the things were human.
She looked down at Wesley's notes again and tried to rush through the last few words. "Itanim... heramve avil--"
This time someone grabbed her from behind. Aggie struggled to hold onto the stone, which had begun to feel warm in her hand. She had to keep going.
"Eniaca--" she gasped, trying to squirm away from her attacker. "Pulumxva!" She managed to spit out the last word just before a hand closed around her throat. She dropped the stone and struggled with both hands, trying to break free, but he was so much stronger. He was cutting off her airway, choking her--
Out of the corner of her eye Aggie saw Angel came roaring off the couch, sending a trio of dark-robed figures flying as he lunged towards Aggie. With one quick motion he snapped the neck of the man choking her and moved on to someone else.
Aggie crumpled to the floor, lungs heaving, and watched Angel in amazement. So this is what he's like on his good days, she thought. She was grateful, of course, that he'd saved her, but she couldn't quell a feeling of revulsion as she watched Angel dispatch the last of their attackers with a terrifyingly feral grace.
Beside her on the floor was a heap of what should have been the body of the man who'd nearly strangled her. There was nothing there but an empty robe. She looked around the room--eleven similar piles of cloth lay on the floor where surely a moment ago there had been bodies.
Wesley prodded a robe with the toe of his shoe. "Order of Orthon," he said. "Hired assassins."
"What happened to the bodies?" asked Spike.
"They dissipate into the ether upon death," said Wesley.
"For easy clean-up post-bloodbath," said Gunn.
Angel came over and helped Aggie to her feet. "Are you all right?" He was gentlemanly, she had to give him that.
She managed an achy nod. "Fine."
"Sorry about..." Angel looked guiltily at the destruction around them "... all of this."
Aggie stared glumly at her devastated living room and the broken front window.
And then she noticed the black van parked across the street from her house. And the familiar magical aura coming from inside it. "He's in there," she said.
Angel followed her gaze to the van. Like a flash he was out the window and racing across the yard.
By the time they caught up with him, Angel was standing in front of the van, glaring menacingly at the black tinted glass of the windshield. "You've got until the count of five to come out of there," he said.
"One." Pause. "Two." Everyone waited tensely.
Angel grabbed a metal garbage can conveniently sitting by the curb and slammed it into the windshield hard enough to shatter the glass. He reached into the large hole where the windshield had been and pulled out a skinny man in a gaudy velvet cloak.
The maneuver reminded Aggie of retrieving a toy prize from a box of cereal, only in this case the prize was a greasy-haired man with thick glasses and unusually poor fashion sense.
"This is the guy?" said Angel somewhat skeptically.
"That's him," said Aggie. "I'm sure of it." He was not exactly what she'd been expecting, either.
"Do I know you?" demanded Angel. The man stared back defiantly and refused to speak.
With a look of impatience Angel lifted him by the throat and shook him like a rag doll. "Let's try that again. Do I know you?"
"No," squeaked the man.
"You work for Wolfram & Hart?"
"Wolfram & Hart? No."
"Then why are you trying to kill me? Did I outbid you on eBay or something?"
"You killed my father," said the man.
Angel rolled his eyes. "I kill a lot of people, Inigo. You'll have to be more specific."
"Magnus Hainsley."
Angel looked offended. "He was a necromancer! And he tried to kill me first!"
"You didn't just kill him, you ruined him--and me! All our family's money, our house, our reputation, all gone because of you!"
"Wait," said Fred. "This is our super-powerful sorcerer?"
"Looks more like a wanker with a wand, to me," said Spike. "'Cept he doesn't actually seem to have a wand, does he?"
Wesley, meanwhile, had been exploring the contents of the van and held up a large magical tome. "I believe he was getting his spells from here. Most likely he has little or no innate power of his own."
"And when his spells didn't finish the job fast enough he hired those Orthon guys to do it for him," said Gunn.
Angel set the man back down on the ground with a thump. "I don't have the energy for this crap."
"What'll we do with him?" asked Fred.
"Let Wolfram & Hart deal with him," said Angel. "I'm sure they can arrange suitable accommodations for the boy wizard."
"I'll call in the troops," said Gunn, pulling out his cell phone.
"And until they get here?" asked Wesley.
"He's not coming into my house," said Aggie. "That is definitely where I put my foot down."
"I've got a better idea," said Spike, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket and cuffing the man to the bumper of the van.
"Wherever did you get those?" asked Wesley.
"The witch's knickers drawer."
Wesley coughed politely. Aggie opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and snapped it shut again.
"He is a sorcerer of some sort," said Fred, tactfully steering the conversation another direction. "He might be able to magic his way out of those."
"No problem," said Angel. He grabbed Hainsley Jr.'s head and gave it a good solid slam against the hood of the van. The man crumpled to the ground in an unconscious heap.
"Spellcasters," said Angel disdainfully, "once you lay hands on them they fold like a house of cards."
"I'll stay and keep an eye on him," said Gunn. "The cleanup team should be here in a few minutes."
The notion of a Wolfram & Hart cleanup team made Aggie feel vaguely nauseated. She turned away and walked back to her house.
Standing amidst the rubble previously known as her living room, she suddenly felt very tired. She heard the others walk in behind her.
Lorne whistled. "The things she does for strangers."
Wesley began collecting the robes of the Orthon assassins while Fred knelt and tried futilely to fit the broken pieces of the coffee table back together.
"Just leave it," said Aggie.
"I'm really sorry," said Angel.
"You will be, because I'm sending the bill to your office."
"I could get my people in here this morning--"
"Uh uh. No more Wolfram & Hart people in my house. Or in my life," she added, giving Lorne a dark look.
"Independent contractors," promised Angel. "We really should get that window fixed today. It's not safe like that."
Aggie didn't bother to argue. Arguing would simply mean that Angel and his merry men remained in her house, and she was, by now, exceptionally anxious that this not be the case.
"Well, this has been fun and all," said Aggie, ushering them towards the door, "but now that Angel's better I'm sure you've got lots of places to be that aren't here."
"Thanks for all your help," said Angel. "If there's anything you ever need--"
"Just go," said Aggie.
"I owe you big for this one, sweet cheeks," said Lorne, squeezing her arm on the way out.
"Lorne?" she said.
"Yes, beautiful?"
"The next time you're in trouble? Ask someone else for help."
He smiled and blew her a kiss. "You betcha."
Aggie closed and locked the door, a futile gesture in light of the gaping hole where the window used to be. She walked straight into the bedroom, ignoring the splinters of wood and broken glass littering her path, and crawled into bed.
That'll teach me to answer the door at three o'clock in the morning, she thought as she pulled the covers over her head.
"That was fun," said Spike. "'Cept for the bit with the Arioch demon."
A shiny black Wolfram & Hart van had pulled up in front of Aggie's house and several men in uniform were attempting to detach the unconscious Hainsley from the bumper of his van.
"I don't think Aggie liked us very much," said Fred.
"Can't imagine why," said Wes. "Could it have been that we woke her up in the middle of the night, nearly got her killed, and had her house wrecked by demonic assassins?"
"I thought she was nice," said Angel. "You know, considering."
"Um, not to be the guy who always brings up work," said Gunn, "but you never decided what to do about Gates."
Angel had forgotten all about the sound stage full of mutilated bodies. It felt like years ago rather than a few hours. He looked at Gunn. "Do whatever you think is right. I leave it to your discretion."
"You sure?" said Gunn skeptically.
Angel nodded.
"I'm hungry," said Fred.
"Raise your hand if you're surprised by that," said Lorne.
"I'm thinking about waffles," continued Fred, ignoring him.
"Waffles do sound rather good," said Wesley.
Angel stopped walking. It took the others a moment to notice he'd fallen behind. They turned at looked at him.
"Angel, what is it?" said Wesley.
"Cordelia," said Angel. It was the first time he'd said her name in front of anyone since... since he'd stopped having a reason to say her name.
Everyone was staring at him. But it had felt good, saying it like that. Their expressions had changed when he said it, and for the first time he considered that maybe there was some comfort to be found in sharing your grief, in seeing it mirrored in the eyes of your friends.
"I miss Cordelia," said Angel. "And I'm pissed at her for leaving us."
Wesley smiled sadly. "Me too."
"Remember that restaurant she liked to eat breakfast at, the one with the terrible waffles?" said Fred.
"Mimi's," supplied Gunn.
"A bunch of Hollywood types eat there," said Angel, smiling faintly at the memory. "That's why she liked it."
"She was so happy when we let her drag us there," said Gunn. "It made the food go down a little easier."
"It wasn't so bad," said Fred.
Angel gazed at the eastern horizon and smiled. "We've still got an hour until the sun rises. Let's go watch Fred eat some bad waffles."
Posted by Hannasus at November 2, 2005 02:31 PM