Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah . . .

Summary: Just a little bit of fluff. Gotta love this couple!

Author's Note: I wrote this before Season 1 of Angel ever aired. This was just based on the fact that Cordy was going to LA, meeting up with Angel, and eventually becoming friends with him. Why post it only now, ya ask? Cause I only thought of it now, that's why. *g*

Feedback is not only welcome, it is very much encouraged . . .

Just Another Friday Night
By Wravyn

It was a dark and stormy night.

Well it WAS, okay? I wouldn't have said so otherwise.

So anyway, it was dark and stormy, and I was pretty mad cause that meant I couldn't go clubbing tonight. When you're cooped up in a dinky office for most of the day, you want your nights to be spent somewhere, you know, FUN.

I let go of the curtain I was holding and groaned dramatically. "Did it HAVE to rain tonight? It's Friday night, for God's sake, I can't be stuck at home on a Friday night! This is so unfair. Couldn't we go out anyway?"

Ugh. Begging was so trite, I know, but I was desperate. I so wanted to go out! I could swallow my pride for now; I'd deal with the repercussions later.

Angel looked up from the magazine he was reading on the couch and smiled, used to what he calls my "little tirades." "We can't. The rain would sweep us both away. You don't want to 'sleep with the fishes' tonight, do you?" He chuckled at the weak joke and I rolled my eyes.

"That's why some genius way back when invented these useful little things called umbrellas," I told him, crossing my arms over my chest impatiently. "C'mon, Angel, you are so boring! I know you're like centuries old and all, but you can still have some fun with us hip youngsters, can't you?"

He snorted.

I batted my eyes at him, hoping to appeal to his ego. "Besides, you wouldn't let a little rain sweep me away, would you, Angel? You'd protect your Cordy, wouldn't you?" I purred, coming up to the couch and leaning over the side to face him.

"That's what I'm trying to do, honey," he drawled, not bothering to look up from the magazine. He seemed so suspiciously engrossed in its contents . . . I quickly checked the cover. Nope, not Playboy. Newsweek? He's ignoring me to read Newsweek?

I scowled. "I don't need your protection," I told him, forgetting that I had just told him I did. "I'm sure Alex wouldn't mind taking me. And if he doesn't, well then I'll go out by myself." I went to grab my car keys from my room, but Angel's hand shot out and grabbed mine before I could go any further than a step away from the couch.

Mentioning my ex always struck a chord with him.

"You're going to stay right here with me, Cordy," he said calmly, turning the page with his free hand.

I stared at him incredulously. Was he trying to tell me what to do? I tried unsuccessfully to pull away. "Let go, Angel. You're being ridiculous."

He grinned and maintained his vicelike grip around my fingers. "I'm being ridiculous? You want to go barhopping on the worst night of the year and you're telling me I'm being ridiculous?"

"Yes."

He sighed, and gave me a little tug so that I toppled over the side of the sofa and onto the seat next to him. "Oof," I said, getting a mouthful of couch cushion.

"Why don't we stay in tonight and have some quality time instead?" he asked, after helping me up from my ungraceful position.

I glared at him, my ego thoroughly bruised. "No."

I proceeded to push myself off the seat and stalk off with what little dignity I had left, but then he gave me that puppy-dog look he's perfected so well . . .

"Pretty please? Stay in with me tonight, Cordeeleeah . . ." he crooned, the corners of his mouth turning down in a pout.

I would have cringed at the insipid bastardation of my name, but he simply looked too cute. I tried not to smile instead. "And why should I do that?"

"Because . . . hmm . . . because . . . I'm afraid of the storm!" His chocolate-brown eyes grew round as a loud crash of thunder was heard outside, and he clutched my arm to his chest mock-fearfully. "It's gonna come in through my window and eat me all up so you have to stay in and take care of me!"

"Eat you all up?" I cracked, laughing at last. "What?"

"Eat me all up," he repeated seriously. "With mustard. And maybe some relish on the side. And only beautiful best friends o'mine can stop it from coming to get me . . ." It was his turn to bat his eyelashes in a horrible attempt to woo me into agreeing with him.

"Beautiful best friends, huh?" I sat down next to him again and raised an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

I was weakening. Flattery will get you everywhere.

"Only the brave and strong uniquely Cordy-ish capabilities of my loving, beautiful, warm-hearted, beautiful . . ."

"You've said that," I interjected.

". . . drop-dead gorgeous best friend with impeccable taste can protect me," he confirmed.

I laughed again. "I see." I flopped back onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "Okay . . . you win. I'm not going anywhere."

"Did my amazing wit and clever smooth talking convince you to stay in for tonight?"

"If that's what you want to believe, then okay." I didn't want to tell him that the tree-slashing winds and the highly intimidating lightning/thunder combos were starting to get to me.

'Brave and strong,' huh?

He picked up the Newsweek again and smiled knowingly to himself. "Okay." A companionable silence fell, that is, between Angel and his precious magazine. I tapped my foot incongruously in an impatient effort to keep busy.

Some time passed and still I tapped, and still he sat quietly.

I was the first to crack.

I turned my head towards him and frowned. "Well?"

He glanced up. "Well what?"

"You have been privileged with the pleasure of my company," I told him. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Enjoy it," I said huffily. "I'm bored. What can we do around here for fun?"

"Read. This Newsweek is pretty good. Do you want me to tell you all about the interesting article on Cape Town international terrorists, or maybe about that new Latino American priest who's the host of his own talk show? Or . . ."

"WHAT?"

He laughed. "I'm only joking." He put down the stupid magazine and caught my gaze. "What do people normally do when they're home on a Friday night?"

"I wouldn't know. It's never happened to me."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot who I was talking to." He gave a little mock-bow. "Cordelia Chase, Male-Magnet and Playa'-Slaya' Extraordinare."

I grinned. "That's right. And don't you forget it."

"I'm sure we can think of something. Let me see . . . I think I have a couple of board games in the back."

I blinked. Board games? Was he for real?

" Hmm . . . Pictionary?"

Apparently so.

"There are only two of us. It won't work."

"Oh . . . right. What about Operation?"

"You lost the pieces, remember?"

"That was Doyle!"

"Of course it was . . . Anything else?"

"Do you wanna play Monopoly?"

"Too time-consuming."

"How about Clue?"

"Mr. Green in the Library with the wrench," I said immediately, then laughed. "Nah . . . no real entertainment value."

He was getting impatient, I could tell, but I didn't ease up on him. Hey, he was making me stay home on a Friday night!

"Dominoes?" he asked a little desperately.

"Ugh, no."

"Scrabble?"

"Nope."

"Candyland?"

"You've got to be joking."

"Twister?"

My eyes lit up. "Okay."

"Go Fish?"

"Hello, I said okay."

"What?"

"I said, okay. To Twister."

"You did?" Relief was evident in his voice. I'll bet he was wishing he let me go out tonight. "So, Twister it is?"

"Twister it is."

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