TITLE: A Bad, Bad Day (1/?)
AUTHOR: Dannyblue
EMAIL: dannyblue2@yahoo.com
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.
ARCHIVE/DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, just drop me a note so I'll know where.
SUMMARY: Cordelia gets caught up in some dead guy's spell.
SPOILERS: Set in season one, after "Hero", before "To Shanshu In LA".
PAIRING: A/C/W friendship. (Season 1, remember.)
RATING: PG-13.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone or anything associated with "Angel" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".
NOTE: I love Gunn and Fred. But, I must admit, I look back fondly on the days when it was just Angel, Cordelia, and Wesley. So, struck by the nostalgia, bug I decided to write this.
NOTE 2: I only have 4 episodes from Season 1 on tape. I'm one of those unlucky souls who haven't seen the other 18 eps since they aired 2 years ago. So, if this doesn't feel Season one-ish to you, let me know.
PART ONE
"Jellybeans," Cordelia Chase said.
Angel paused in the doorway between the inner and outer offices. Closing the file he'd been reading, he stared at his employee.
"Think about it." Cordelia leaned eagerly across her desk. Her long, chestnut hair fell like a curtain across shoulders left bare by a tank top. "For weeks, you've been chased by the minions of hell, somehow managing to stay one step ahead of them. Your search for salvation has led you to the doors of Angel Investigations. At first, you feel uneasy in the dingy, cliché-noir offices. Then, you see something that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. At home. *Safe*."
Cordelia cast an expectant glance in Angel's direction. Since this seemed to be his cue, he said the obvious thing.
"Jellybeans."
"Exactly!" She gave him her 1000-watt smile. "A giant bowl filled with jellybeans. And not the cheap, 5-pounds-for-a-dollar kind. I'm talking *gourmet* jellybeans. With flavors like peanut butter, and marshmallow, and champagne."
"Champagne-flavored jellybeans?" Angel said, a frown creasing his intense brow. He'd heard some pretty far-fetched things in his 250-plus years. Seen things the rational mind almost couldn't believe. But champagne-flavored jellybeans were just…strange.
"These are the best," Cordelia continued. She pointed at the glossy fashion magazine that lay open on her desk. The ad depicted a very posh, stylish party. On the table, next to a glass of white whine, and a tray with caviar and all the fixings, sat a silver bowl filled with jellybeans. "They're the only kind Madonna will even *touch*."
"I'm sure they are, Cordelia," Angel said. He leaned against the wall and flipped open the file folder. "But I don't think jellybeans would make much difference to our clients."
"Spoken like someone who knows *nothing* about customer relations." Cordelia stood and rounded her desk. "Angel, it's the little touches that can make all the difference in a struggling business. What we need is…"
"To find out whether Sandra Bishop is being stalked or haunted," Angel interrupted. "Where did you put the list of human suspects?"
There was a long, broody silence. Then Cordelia, never one to keep her frustrations bottled up for long, let out an exasperated breath.
"Fine!" she huffed. Taking a single sheet of paper from her desk—which, Angel admitted, seemed to get more neat and organized every week—she handed it to him. "But you should know that an employee whose suggestions are given serious consideration is a *happy* employee."
With a decisive nod of her head, she retook her seat.
Angel felt a little bewildered as the reality of his situation closed in on him once again. Here he was, a vampire who could barely bring himself to interact with humans a year or two ago. And, now, he was a *boss*. With employees. An office. Business cards. Clients. Filing cabinets!
Doyle (thinking the name made him feel a twinge of sadness) once told him that, in order to truly help humans, he had to become more connected to humanity, to the world.
Well, for the first time in his long life, he was a taxpayer. You couldn't get more connected than that.
Suddenly, the office door flew open. Wesley Wyndom-Pryce stumbled inside, staggering under the weight of a beaten old trunk.
"I've got it!" he gasped. With a grunt, he let the trunk crash to the floor.
"Got what?" Cordelia asked. She spared Wesley the barest of glances, then turned her attention back to her magazine.
The Englishman stood with his hands on his hips, obviously winded by his efforts. Then, he graced his co-workers with a smug, self-satisfied smile. "We are now the proud owners of a very rare copy of [I]The Collected Writings of Stanley Avedon[/I]." His eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Great!" Cordelia exclaimed. Sarcasm dripped—like too-sweet honey—from her chirpy tones. "Another dusty old book."
The ex-Watcher looked personally insulted. "This isn't just any *old* book." His British accent was crisp and sharp. "Avedon was one of the 19th century's foremost authorities on obscure magical rituals. His letters and essays were published in countless, well-respected scholarly periodicals. Copies of which can rarely be found today. To find a collection of *all* of Stanley Avedon's writings in one book…" Wesley seemed too overwhelmed to speak.
Hands in his pockets, Angel approached the trunk. "Big book," he said.
"Yes, well." Chagrined, Wesley cleared his throat. "I found the book at an estate sale. To get it, I had to buy this trunk and all of its contents."
"Sort of like a giant grab bag," Cordelia quipped. As she approached the trunk, she shook her head from side to side. "Your negotiating skills must really *suck*."
"I beg your pardon." Wesley held himself so stiff, it looked like his spine might snap. He straightened his glasses in an almost haughty gesture. "I assure you, I got an excellent price."
"Oh, please." Cordelia put her hands on her hips. "Any halfway decent shopper knows you *never* buy more than you actually want. Believe me, if you'd pushed them a little, they'd have been *happy* to give you your precious book for a few bucks."
Her piece spoken, Cordelia knelt down next to the trunk.
Wesley opened his mouth. No doubt to argue in his own defense.
"Look at this! It isn't even a *good* trunk," Cordelia continued as she lifted the lid. "See? The lock is broken."
Wesley snapped his mouth shut and sighed in defeat.
"I'm sure the book is worth it," Angel said.
"Oh, most definitely!" The mention of his find seemed to lift Wesley's spirits. He plucked a huge, leather-bound book out of the trunk. "Avedon was a brilliant, dedicated man. He traveled the world, searching for, observing, and recording rituals that might have been completely lost to us otherwise. Not only does he describe those ceremonies in detail, he also wrote his thoughts and feelings on all of his experiences. I'm eager see what insights can be gleaned from his writings." Book clutched to his chest, the ex-Watcher stared, with a wistful smile, into some far-off place.
"God, Wesley!" Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Do you know how *wrong* it is that you drool over *books* the way most guys drool over, oh, I don't know, *girls*?"
Wesley didn't dignify her question with a response. Instead, he pressed his lips into a thin line, and glared at the former cheerleader.
Angel was so amused, he almost smiled. Cordelia and Wesley were as different as night and day. One firmly rooted in fashion trends, and dreams of stardom. The other with his head in the clouds of academic discovery.
And they bickered like brother and sister. Which used to annoy the vampire. But, now, he found it comforting in an odd way. Familiar.
"Ow!" Cordelia exclaimed. She snatched her hand out of the trunk, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
"What happened?" Angel asked, instantly alert.
"Oh, it's no big." She held out her hand for him to see. Before his eyes, a bead of blood formed on the tip of her thumb. "I poked my finger on the pointy end of that stupid knife."
Wesley leaned in to look inside the trunk. "That's a dagger," he said as he picked up the offending object.
"Knife. Dagger. What's the diff?" Cordelia shrugged and stuck her thumb back into her mouth. Then, she gave Angel an apologetic look. "Sorry."
"For what?" Angel asked, puzzled.
"For this." She wiggled her thumb in his face. "It must be like a guy who just gave up cigarettes, walking into a room where everyone's chain smoking, huh?"
For a moment, Angel was still puzzled. Then, he remembered Cordelia sucking on her bloody thumb. "Oh, that." He shook his head. "It's no problem. I barely notice."
"Yeah, right." She gave him a look filled with skepticism. "I'll go get a bandage."
As Cordelia returned to her desk, Angel smiled. People responded to the fact that he was a vampire in different ways. Some were afraid, uneasy. Others were hostile. Still others pretended not to care. When the subject of his…condition came up, some acted embarrassed, like they had reminded him of some terrible thing he'd managed to forget.
As if he ever *could* forget.
But Cordelia's reaction was, well, unique. She thought nothing of commenting on his liquid lunches, his aversion to sunlight, or his advanced age. Much like she once commented on Doyle's poor fashion sense. Or Kate's hard, Cop Lady attitude. Or David Nabbit's general nerdiness. To her, his being a vampire was just…another thing.
It was kind of refreshing. Even if he couldn't believe what came out of her mouth half of the time.
"Interesting," Wesley murmured. He held the dagger up to the light. "Not very old. Tempered silver, I believe. The symbol for eternity carved into the hilt."
"I'll probably need a tetanus shot," Cordelia snapped. She wrapped a Band- Aid (the clear kind which, according to her, weren't the eye-sore the originals were) around her thumb.
Eyes narrowed, Angel studied the rest of the trunks contents. "How much did you, um, pay for all this?" he asked Wesley. And was he going to charge it to the company account?
"Hmmmm?" It took a moment for Wesley to pull himself away from his thoughts and focus on his employer. "Well, I only bought the trunk because of the book. Which will be a great help in our…"
Suddenly, a crash filled the room.
It was Cordelia. She'd fallen against the desk and knocked the telephone on the floor.
((Vision!)) Angel thought. He rushed to her side. Ready to catch her when the pain struck. To catch her when she fell.
But Cordelia wasn't reacting the way she usually did to visions. She just stood there. Head down. Eyes closed. As still as a statue.
"Maybe she's ill," Wesley speculated. He stared at her the way he would an interesting artifact. "Or…"
"Cordelia," Angel said, worried by her silence. He reached for her shoulder, ready to shake her out of…whatever this was.
Suddenly, Cordelia stood erect. Stepped away from his touch.
She opened her eyes.
"Oh, dear!" Wesley exclaimed.
Angel felt the same sense of disbelief.
Cordelia's eyes had become two white orbs, devoid of color. Staring at nothing.
A mysterious breeze came from nowhere to tease her hair.
"Cordelia!" Worry morphing into alarm, Angel reached for her once again.
And his hands crashed into an invisible barrier. A wall that had sprung up, out of nowhere, between vampire and seer.
As Angel made contact with it, a small shock tickled his fingertips, pushed his hands away. Sparks of energy rippled away from where he had touched, skittering across the barrier.
"What the hell…" Angel began, a growl just beneath the surface. Gritting his teeth, he tried to reach Cordelia again. And met the same results.
"Good lord," Wesley whispered. Eyes wide, mouth agape, he took a few steps forward.
Cordelia took a deep breath. That mysterious breeze, which touched nothing else in the office, whipped her hair around her head. Combined with her wide, colorless eyes, she reminded Angel of a Medusa statue.
"The challenge has been made," she said. Her voice was deeper, bigger, than ever before. It echoed through the room, bounced off the walls. Became two voices. Then three. Then four.
"Who are you?" Angel demanded, knowing the signs of possession all too well.
"The challenge has been answered," Cordelia—or whatever was inside her—continued. "Prepare for the middle hour, when the veil is at its weakest. The Keertost will judge."
Abruptly, the strange wind vanished.
Cordelia's legs collapsed.
Again, Angel reached for her, the barrier forgotten. He just wanted to catch her before she hit the ground.
This time, there was no obstacle standing in his way.
Cordelia gasped for air as she clung to the vampire's shoulders.
"Oh, my…Cordelia!" Frantic now that the danger had passed, Wesley hurried towards them. "Are you alright?"
Cordelia didn't answer him. Instead, she looked up at Angel. Her eyes—hazel once again—were filled with fear. Panic.
"What the hell happened?" she whispered.
No one had an answer.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
AUTHOR: Dannyblue
EMAIL: dannyblue2@yahoo.com
FEEDBACK: Yes, please.
ARCHIVE/DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, just drop me a note so I'll know where.
SUMMARY: Cordelia gets caught up in some dead guy's spell.
SPOILERS: Set in season one, after "Hero", before "To Shanshu In LA".
PAIRING: A/C/W friendship. (Season 1, remember.)
RATING: PG-13.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone or anything associated with "Angel" or "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".
NOTE: I love Gunn and Fred. But, I must admit, I look back fondly on the days when it was just Angel, Cordelia, and Wesley. So, struck by the nostalgia, bug I decided to write this.
NOTE 2: I only have 4 episodes from Season 1 on tape. I'm one of those unlucky souls who haven't seen the other 18 eps since they aired 2 years ago. So, if this doesn't feel Season one-ish to you, let me know.
PART ONE
"Jellybeans," Cordelia Chase said.
Angel paused in the doorway between the inner and outer offices. Closing the file he'd been reading, he stared at his employee.
"Think about it." Cordelia leaned eagerly across her desk. Her long, chestnut hair fell like a curtain across shoulders left bare by a tank top. "For weeks, you've been chased by the minions of hell, somehow managing to stay one step ahead of them. Your search for salvation has led you to the doors of Angel Investigations. At first, you feel uneasy in the dingy, cliché-noir offices. Then, you see something that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. At home. *Safe*."
Cordelia cast an expectant glance in Angel's direction. Since this seemed to be his cue, he said the obvious thing.
"Jellybeans."
"Exactly!" She gave him her 1000-watt smile. "A giant bowl filled with jellybeans. And not the cheap, 5-pounds-for-a-dollar kind. I'm talking *gourmet* jellybeans. With flavors like peanut butter, and marshmallow, and champagne."
"Champagne-flavored jellybeans?" Angel said, a frown creasing his intense brow. He'd heard some pretty far-fetched things in his 250-plus years. Seen things the rational mind almost couldn't believe. But champagne-flavored jellybeans were just…strange.
"These are the best," Cordelia continued. She pointed at the glossy fashion magazine that lay open on her desk. The ad depicted a very posh, stylish party. On the table, next to a glass of white whine, and a tray with caviar and all the fixings, sat a silver bowl filled with jellybeans. "They're the only kind Madonna will even *touch*."
"I'm sure they are, Cordelia," Angel said. He leaned against the wall and flipped open the file folder. "But I don't think jellybeans would make much difference to our clients."
"Spoken like someone who knows *nothing* about customer relations." Cordelia stood and rounded her desk. "Angel, it's the little touches that can make all the difference in a struggling business. What we need is…"
"To find out whether Sandra Bishop is being stalked or haunted," Angel interrupted. "Where did you put the list of human suspects?"
There was a long, broody silence. Then Cordelia, never one to keep her frustrations bottled up for long, let out an exasperated breath.
"Fine!" she huffed. Taking a single sheet of paper from her desk—which, Angel admitted, seemed to get more neat and organized every week—she handed it to him. "But you should know that an employee whose suggestions are given serious consideration is a *happy* employee."
With a decisive nod of her head, she retook her seat.
Angel felt a little bewildered as the reality of his situation closed in on him once again. Here he was, a vampire who could barely bring himself to interact with humans a year or two ago. And, now, he was a *boss*. With employees. An office. Business cards. Clients. Filing cabinets!
Doyle (thinking the name made him feel a twinge of sadness) once told him that, in order to truly help humans, he had to become more connected to humanity, to the world.
Well, for the first time in his long life, he was a taxpayer. You couldn't get more connected than that.
Suddenly, the office door flew open. Wesley Wyndom-Pryce stumbled inside, staggering under the weight of a beaten old trunk.
"I've got it!" he gasped. With a grunt, he let the trunk crash to the floor.
"Got what?" Cordelia asked. She spared Wesley the barest of glances, then turned her attention back to her magazine.
The Englishman stood with his hands on his hips, obviously winded by his efforts. Then, he graced his co-workers with a smug, self-satisfied smile. "We are now the proud owners of a very rare copy of [I]The Collected Writings of Stanley Avedon[/I]." His eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Great!" Cordelia exclaimed. Sarcasm dripped—like too-sweet honey—from her chirpy tones. "Another dusty old book."
The ex-Watcher looked personally insulted. "This isn't just any *old* book." His British accent was crisp and sharp. "Avedon was one of the 19th century's foremost authorities on obscure magical rituals. His letters and essays were published in countless, well-respected scholarly periodicals. Copies of which can rarely be found today. To find a collection of *all* of Stanley Avedon's writings in one book…" Wesley seemed too overwhelmed to speak.
Hands in his pockets, Angel approached the trunk. "Big book," he said.
"Yes, well." Chagrined, Wesley cleared his throat. "I found the book at an estate sale. To get it, I had to buy this trunk and all of its contents."
"Sort of like a giant grab bag," Cordelia quipped. As she approached the trunk, she shook her head from side to side. "Your negotiating skills must really *suck*."
"I beg your pardon." Wesley held himself so stiff, it looked like his spine might snap. He straightened his glasses in an almost haughty gesture. "I assure you, I got an excellent price."
"Oh, please." Cordelia put her hands on her hips. "Any halfway decent shopper knows you *never* buy more than you actually want. Believe me, if you'd pushed them a little, they'd have been *happy* to give you your precious book for a few bucks."
Her piece spoken, Cordelia knelt down next to the trunk.
Wesley opened his mouth. No doubt to argue in his own defense.
"Look at this! It isn't even a *good* trunk," Cordelia continued as she lifted the lid. "See? The lock is broken."
Wesley snapped his mouth shut and sighed in defeat.
"I'm sure the book is worth it," Angel said.
"Oh, most definitely!" The mention of his find seemed to lift Wesley's spirits. He plucked a huge, leather-bound book out of the trunk. "Avedon was a brilliant, dedicated man. He traveled the world, searching for, observing, and recording rituals that might have been completely lost to us otherwise. Not only does he describe those ceremonies in detail, he also wrote his thoughts and feelings on all of his experiences. I'm eager see what insights can be gleaned from his writings." Book clutched to his chest, the ex-Watcher stared, with a wistful smile, into some far-off place.
"God, Wesley!" Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Do you know how *wrong* it is that you drool over *books* the way most guys drool over, oh, I don't know, *girls*?"
Wesley didn't dignify her question with a response. Instead, he pressed his lips into a thin line, and glared at the former cheerleader.
Angel was so amused, he almost smiled. Cordelia and Wesley were as different as night and day. One firmly rooted in fashion trends, and dreams of stardom. The other with his head in the clouds of academic discovery.
And they bickered like brother and sister. Which used to annoy the vampire. But, now, he found it comforting in an odd way. Familiar.
"Ow!" Cordelia exclaimed. She snatched her hand out of the trunk, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
"What happened?" Angel asked, instantly alert.
"Oh, it's no big." She held out her hand for him to see. Before his eyes, a bead of blood formed on the tip of her thumb. "I poked my finger on the pointy end of that stupid knife."
Wesley leaned in to look inside the trunk. "That's a dagger," he said as he picked up the offending object.
"Knife. Dagger. What's the diff?" Cordelia shrugged and stuck her thumb back into her mouth. Then, she gave Angel an apologetic look. "Sorry."
"For what?" Angel asked, puzzled.
"For this." She wiggled her thumb in his face. "It must be like a guy who just gave up cigarettes, walking into a room where everyone's chain smoking, huh?"
For a moment, Angel was still puzzled. Then, he remembered Cordelia sucking on her bloody thumb. "Oh, that." He shook his head. "It's no problem. I barely notice."
"Yeah, right." She gave him a look filled with skepticism. "I'll go get a bandage."
As Cordelia returned to her desk, Angel smiled. People responded to the fact that he was a vampire in different ways. Some were afraid, uneasy. Others were hostile. Still others pretended not to care. When the subject of his…condition came up, some acted embarrassed, like they had reminded him of some terrible thing he'd managed to forget.
As if he ever *could* forget.
But Cordelia's reaction was, well, unique. She thought nothing of commenting on his liquid lunches, his aversion to sunlight, or his advanced age. Much like she once commented on Doyle's poor fashion sense. Or Kate's hard, Cop Lady attitude. Or David Nabbit's general nerdiness. To her, his being a vampire was just…another thing.
It was kind of refreshing. Even if he couldn't believe what came out of her mouth half of the time.
"Interesting," Wesley murmured. He held the dagger up to the light. "Not very old. Tempered silver, I believe. The symbol for eternity carved into the hilt."
"I'll probably need a tetanus shot," Cordelia snapped. She wrapped a Band- Aid (the clear kind which, according to her, weren't the eye-sore the originals were) around her thumb.
Eyes narrowed, Angel studied the rest of the trunks contents. "How much did you, um, pay for all this?" he asked Wesley. And was he going to charge it to the company account?
"Hmmmm?" It took a moment for Wesley to pull himself away from his thoughts and focus on his employer. "Well, I only bought the trunk because of the book. Which will be a great help in our…"
Suddenly, a crash filled the room.
It was Cordelia. She'd fallen against the desk and knocked the telephone on the floor.
((Vision!)) Angel thought. He rushed to her side. Ready to catch her when the pain struck. To catch her when she fell.
But Cordelia wasn't reacting the way she usually did to visions. She just stood there. Head down. Eyes closed. As still as a statue.
"Maybe she's ill," Wesley speculated. He stared at her the way he would an interesting artifact. "Or…"
"Cordelia," Angel said, worried by her silence. He reached for her shoulder, ready to shake her out of…whatever this was.
Suddenly, Cordelia stood erect. Stepped away from his touch.
She opened her eyes.
"Oh, dear!" Wesley exclaimed.
Angel felt the same sense of disbelief.
Cordelia's eyes had become two white orbs, devoid of color. Staring at nothing.
A mysterious breeze came from nowhere to tease her hair.
"Cordelia!" Worry morphing into alarm, Angel reached for her once again.
And his hands crashed into an invisible barrier. A wall that had sprung up, out of nowhere, between vampire and seer.
As Angel made contact with it, a small shock tickled his fingertips, pushed his hands away. Sparks of energy rippled away from where he had touched, skittering across the barrier.
"What the hell…" Angel began, a growl just beneath the surface. Gritting his teeth, he tried to reach Cordelia again. And met the same results.
"Good lord," Wesley whispered. Eyes wide, mouth agape, he took a few steps forward.
Cordelia took a deep breath. That mysterious breeze, which touched nothing else in the office, whipped her hair around her head. Combined with her wide, colorless eyes, she reminded Angel of a Medusa statue.
"The challenge has been made," she said. Her voice was deeper, bigger, than ever before. It echoed through the room, bounced off the walls. Became two voices. Then three. Then four.
"Who are you?" Angel demanded, knowing the signs of possession all too well.
"The challenge has been answered," Cordelia—or whatever was inside her—continued. "Prepare for the middle hour, when the veil is at its weakest. The Keertost will judge."
Abruptly, the strange wind vanished.
Cordelia's legs collapsed.
Again, Angel reached for her, the barrier forgotten. He just wanted to catch her before she hit the ground.
This time, there was no obstacle standing in his way.
Cordelia gasped for air as she clung to the vampire's shoulders.
"Oh, my…Cordelia!" Frantic now that the danger had passed, Wesley hurried towards them. "Are you alright?"
Cordelia didn't answer him. Instead, she looked up at Angel. Her eyes—hazel once again—were filled with fear. Panic.
"What the hell happened?" she whispered.
No one had an answer.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
