Author: Doyle
Pairing: no pairing, Angel/Wes/Cordelia friendship
Rating: G
Notes: For nova25 for the family ficathon. Set between the 1st and 2nd season.
There were fields on which tremendous battles were fought. Epic conflicts that shaped the world, pitting nation against nation, soldier against soldier, in tests of loyalty, stamina and the sheer endurance of the human spirit.
Cordelia's hospital bedside, a week after the explosion that had destroyed their offices and the psychic attack by Wolfram Hart, was not one such battleground. But the possibilities for watching television and reading magazines had been exhausted, and Wesley had mentioned his days in the Academy's scrabble club, and the next night Angel had rather sheepishly brought a game, new in the box with the instructions still inside.
Twenty minutes later, it was war.
Angel's turn changed Cordelia's 'dig' into 'paradigm'. He sat back in the plastic visitor's chair, looking as pleased with himself as Wesley had ever seen him.
"Hey," Cordelia complained, "if he's allowed Irish words, I can put down Prada, Mr. Not-in-the-dictionary-doesn't-count."
"Wes's turn," was all Angel said, fixing Wesley with a competitive stare that reminded him of things he'd read about Angelus's more inventive tortures.
But a former Watcher and rogue demon hunter would not easily quail under such tactics. That trailing 'm' meant he had the perfect place to nab a triple word score for 'ojime'.
"It's a type of bead," he said smugly, before either of them could protest. "And yes, Cordelia, it's in the dictionary."
"Lemme see that." She hefted the book up the bed. Wesley and Angel scrambled to save the board. "Huh. I think I used to have a necklace made of those."
"So that's a total of one hundred and thirty six to me," he said, totting up the figures on the score sheet, "ninety-four to Angel, and, oh dear, Cordelia languishing in the doldrums with a rather poor forty-five."
"I dunno, Wes," Angel said. "She's still sick. Maybe we should let her win."
Cordelia's jaw dropped in mock outrage. "Let me win? Which one of us got 720 verbal on the SAT? I think that would be me."
"We didn't have SATs in the eighteenth century."
"Nor in England. Although there's hardly a day goes by when I don't wish that I had a spelling test and some sums to see me through life."
Cordelia stuck out her tongue and plunked down her letters. " 'Morons'," she said. "No comment necessary."
Angel, on a roll with co-opting her words, added an 'oxy' to the front.
"Is this what you do for fun in England?" Cordelia wanted to know. "The whole family sits around the roaring log fire playing wacky word games?"
"I'm not really sure," he said, keeping his eyes on his tiles. "I was an only child, and my parents were never fond of games."
It was the first time all evening that the other two had been silent at the same moment. He imagined he could hear his wristwatch ticking, or feel the look passing between Angel and Cordelia.
"I dunno," Cordy said. "This family game thing, maybe it's something we should do."
Angel said, "Wes? It's your turn."
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it is, isn't it?"