Angela Moore
"I know Cory, Topanga and Shawn. They'll be pissed. They adore setting people up for their little schemes, but they despise being set up themselves. Shawn especially. He'll feel trapped. He'll want to flee. And that," Angela twirled to face her newest ally, "is where you come in, Private Matthews. You must stop them from leaving at any cost."
Eric Matthews had insisted that if he was going to help out, he was going to be a Private. He was even dressed for the part, and stood erect with his hand in salute at his forehead. Back straight, knees together, feet firmly planted on the ground. Angela wondered how her father would feel about Eric playing dress-up.
"Sir, yes, SIR!" Eric yelled.
Angela nodded. "Are we ready Mr. Feeny?"
Feeny emerged from the doorway to his kitchen. He nodded. "The preparations have been made; 2 guestrooms readied in the wake of Mr. Matthews, Ms. Lawrence and Mr. Hunter's arrival. I take it you're not going to be staying here?"
Angela waved a dismissive hand. "No, I'll stay at a hotel somewhere nearby."
Feeny raised an eyebrow, and Angela considered butting heads with the old man to inquire what his inquisitive look was all about, but the doorbell rang just then and her heart became too much of a distraction to think about anything else.
"Sir, the doorbell, SIR!"
"Shall I get that, Ms. Moore?"
"Sir, my hand is getting tired, SIR!"
"Angela?"
Angela shook her head free from stupor, slightly irritated at herself for losing her cool. To safely execute her plan she had to have a level head. None of these irritating, body convulsing pulses coming from her heart. Keep it cool, Angela.
"Sir, I'm becoming numb, SIR!"
"At ease, soldier," Angela announced, quite liking the feeling of ordering someone about. "No worries, Mr. Feeny, I'll get the door."
Angela righted her composure before walking down the hallway with a commanding stride hoping that some of the attitude from her walk would suffuse to her head and get her in the mindset that she needed.
Of course, no amount of attitude could have prepared her for what she saw at the door.
Shawn Patrick Hunter.
Shawn Hunter
He fiddled with the slip of paper in his pocket, his heart suddenly swelling to dangerous rib-cage-breaking sizes.
Crud.
This was just freaking peachy.
"H-hello!" Angela squeaked.
Maybe he would have taken some comfort in the fact that she seemed just as shattered as he was. He didn't, though, because nothing could stop his heavily palpitating heart.
He struggled for something to say. Should he start his speech? Crud, what was he thinking? His speech? She would see right through the lies. Probably laugh at him.
He fumbled to find something that wasn't transparent, something that wouldn't be a guide leading those dark eyes straight into depths of truth he wanted to keep away from her. She wasn't allowed there. Not anymore.
"You see the banner?" he muttered, nodding his head to the driveway where a 20 ft banner was displayed across the front of Feeny's house exclaiming about the 67th birthday party of the beloved teacher. Decorated in lavish colors with curly-cues and some fancy font, it made Shawn almost succumb to a giggling fit. And he would have if he hadn't been filled with dread.
"Yeah, well, maybe it's there to make sure that people remembered the way here. People these days seem to be in a habit of forgetting the important things."
Angela's voice hardly squeaked at her statement. She stared pointedly at Shawn. She was trying to accuse him of forgetting something. Like he was in the wrong. As though she didn't realize the wrongs that she herself had caused him over the years. He didn't like that. He butted back.
"Right," Shawn agreed with obvious hostility. "I guess there's something about the Atlantic Ocean that causes amnesia."
Angela's eyes grew wide, and her lips pressed together. She took a step back. "Come in." Her voice took on a tone that Shawn couldn't place, but that he knew he wasn't comfortable with.
Not that he could ever be comfortable in this house with her in it. And more guests on the way.
Angela Moore
Her viewpoint seemed ridiculous and childish in hindsight, but Angela had never considered the option that Shawn might arrive first. That she might have had to deal with him first—alone.
She had given no thought into what she would say. There were many things that she should have said—explanations, apologies—but she didn't. She sat across from him at Feeny's large table.
She respected a man who maintained eyesight; especially in wary situations. She thought someone who couldn't hold their own in a staring contest was a wimp and a pansy.
Angela was a pansy.
Her eyes traced patterns on the wooden table all the while trying to find a way out of this itchy situation. All of her felt exposed and vulnerable because there was a variable in the room that she could not control. Feeny would bend to what she would say after a few persuasive arguments especially because he knew how important this was. And she was sergeant to Eric's private—he had to obey her orders.
Shawn didn't.
Shawn was variable—he always had been. She'd never been able to guess where he was going next. Some of his moves seemed predictable (the way he always seemed to run, for instance. Or maybe that was only predictable because Angela experienced the same tendency herself), but sometimes she couldn't for the life of her figure out how Shawn's head worked, and she was forced to resort to guessing.
She hated guessing.
She hated Shawn being there when no one else was. She wanted to yell for Eric to go get that chloroform so that she could wait for her next guest, one who'd left less of a skid mark on her past.
But at the same time, she really wanted to talk to him.
Hypocrite. Indecisive. Wishy-washy. Flip-flopper.
She missed talking to him. She missed bouncing irrelevant hypothetical situations on him and watching him find the positive—because Shawn always managed to find the positive in everything. Except when it dealt with him. Angela wanted to reach across the table, cover his hand with hers, and with that gesture, seal all schisms between them. She wanted to laugh with him. Let's laugh, Shawn.
Let's cry, Shawn.
But no. They never cried together. Maybe that had been wrong. Maybe they should have shed a few tears in front of each other. Maybe they shouldn't have been so afraid of weakness.
Would that have solved anything?
Would that have—
"Was I early?"
His voice was like steel. Sharp enough to cut through Angela's thought stream.
Angela looked to the clock above his head. It was 5:45PM. The party was supposed to officially start at 6. "Yes," she answered.
"Then I'll leave, and I'll come back at…?"
"Six."
"Six. I'll leave and come back at six." Shawn stared her down as though waiting for something. When he received nothing, he picked up his bag from the floor, shrugged it on his shoulders and headed for the doorway.
He walked two steps before being intercepted by a man in a navy blue army uniform.
"I'm afraid, I can't let you do that, Shawnie."
"Eric?"
Shawn Hunter
"That's PRIVATE ERIC to YOU Shawn!" Eric barked at him.
Shawn was stunned into paralysis. "You're early, too?" he asked dumbly.
"Ennh," Eric grunted the nasally noise of a game show buzzer to inform Shawn that he'd gotten it wrong. "I am here to do Sir Angela's bidding. And Sir does not want you to leave."
Shawn's eyebrows met his hairline. "What?"
Angela rose to control the situation. "Eric! What did we go over in the instruction pamphlet? Rule Number One?"
"Right. We're not supposed to tell Shawn about the SECRET!"
Angela slapped her forehead.
Shawn yanked Eric's hand from his arm. "What secret?" he demanded of Eric. But Eric shook his head and held a finger to his lips.
"I'm not allowed to tell you about Angela's plan."
"Eric!" Angela shrieked. "If you shut-up right now, I'll let you play with the balloon pump later…"
Eric's eyes brightened immediately, and Angela breathed a sigh of relief that her bargaining worked well. Shawn eyed the both of them.
That would have to change.
He turned on Angela. "What secret? What are you keeping from me?"
Angela's eyes narrowed. "I—"
Ding Dong.
Face showing visible relief, Angela moved her way past Shawn. "Another guest, gotta get that!" she cried in a voice that screamed Thank God.
Shawn stood in the kitchen watching Angela move into the foyer where she would pick up the next guest. Making certain that she was fully occupied with her task, Shawn shifted gears, turning to Eric. He lifted something from his pocket and waved it tauntingly in front of Eric's face. Shawn watched with a satisfied smile as Eric's eyes followed the package back and forth.
"I'll give you this Hostess cupcake, for a little information about this secret."
"Done."
Eric snatched the snack cake from Shawn's eager hands. Eric was a Satisfaction Now kind of guy. A chocolate cake in front of his face outweighed any promise Angela had made even for five minutes from now.
"So—you going to tell me?"
"Ha! And risk the wrath of Angela? She's almost as bad as Topanga when she gets fired up, and, I still have scars from Pangers's last attack. No, Shawnie, I don't win over that easily."
Shawn was still growling when Topanga Lawrence stepped into the kitchen.
Topanga Lawrence-Matthews
"Angela!"
"Topanga!"
This reunion was easy. A hug. A kiss on the cheek. A "My gosh, you look so great. I love your hair!" Several meaningless compliments were exchanged as the two women walked into the kitchen. This was the standard greeting. It felt completely stiff and formal and card-board cut-out of a commercial, but Topanga could deal with this because she knew this was the easy part. She savored that.
"How've you been?" Angela asked, teeth showing. Maybe her smile was fake, or maybe not, but something was strained and weary about her once best friend, Topanga saw it.
"I've been fine." Standard answer. No varying from the script here. Though Angela had made a brief visit to Topanga a few weeks before, she hadn't stayed long. Topanga probably didn't seem all that inviting. She hadn't wanted to put forth the effort.
But this sort of thing required no effort. And Topanga almost figured that she could do this, she could make it through this party with sanity intact.
Until Cory arrived. But right now it was just Topanga, Angela, Eric and… Shawn.
"Hey! Look at you!" Topanga cried arms outstretched to Eric who was already engulfing Shawn in his own hug.
Eric shook his head. "I am sorry, but I must avoid any physical greetings for the time being. My mission is too important."
Topanga looked at him quizzically, but then brushed it off as just an Eric eccentricity. Some things never changed.
"Hey, Topanga," a soft greeting came from the poet bound by Eric's large arms.
And then again, some things did.
"Shawn," Topanga acknowledged.
What occurred then wasn't a stare down.
An accurate analogy would be that Shawn was a Labrador and Topanga was a German Shepherd and they were sniffing each other out.
They looked each other over mulling over in their minds who the other person was—what threat the other person was to their well being. Finally, Topanga concluded that Shawn wasn't a threat. His best friend was, but Shawn didn't look like he hated her. He wasn't a threat.
"Can you let go of him so that I can hug him, please?"
"No can do, Pangers." Eric nodded. "I am under strict orders to never let him go under penalty of death."
"Under penalty of a swift kick in the pants, Eric. Let her hug the man!" Angela said with a slight joke in her voice.
Topanga reached out for Shawn, and Shawn, however reluctantly, reached out to embrace Topanga.
She thought she heard him say into her hair, "Something's rotten in the state of Denmark," but before Topanga could figure out if it was her imagination, or if the Shakespearean quote was a message in code and what it meant, the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," Angela said, her voice suddenly stiff.
Cory Matthews
He had a gift, he had flowers and he had several conversation cards tucked into his pockets. Beside those cards were apologies tucked, but ready to be whipped out at a moment's notice.
He was ready.
He could face Topanga, Feeny, Shawn, his in-laws if he had to. He was armed with conversation cards, and a conversationally prepared Cory was not someone that anyone wanted to mess with.
Even so, it took him ten straight minutes to dredge up the courage to ring the doorbell, and all of his self-restraint not to hit the ground running as the sound resonated through Feeny's house.
He'd leave the flowers and presents on the mat and they'd never be able to find him if he checked out of his hotel and caught a train back to the city before seven.
But his planning was interrupted by Angela's voice.
"Hey, Cory."
He couldn't help it. He was excited to see her. Besides, Angela was that much closer to Topanga; and that made him pretty darn happy despite his flight reflex kicking in only seconds before.
He cupped her entire body in a hug and spun her around.
"Angela! Buddy! How ya been?"
Topanga Lawrence-Matthews
The house wasn't small, but Cory's signature good-natured voice rang clear through the doorway into Topanga's ears.
Um, wow.
She'd underestimated what he did to her. 6 months had apparently been enough to make her forget how much of an affect that he'd had on her. But once his voice and the realization that in only a few seconds Cory's warm figure would grace the kitchen hit her, everything came back to her.
She grabbed Shawn's jacket sleeve, but he was having a crisis of his own, gaping at the open archway that connected the kitchen to the hallway that connected to Cory. He couldn't help her. And what kind of pathetic was she to want to hide behind Shawn anyway? Simply because they had a small fight.
But she couldn't help it.
She was scared.
Topanga Lawrence-Matthews was scared.
Because she knew that once she saw Cory Matthews, she was going to die.
Shawn Hunter
"Upon graduating from college, Shawn Hunter…"
Screw that.
This was his best friend. Cory and Shawn, the eternal friendship. When he heard his best friend's voice, he couldn't understand why he'd distanced himself from Cory in the first place. He felt incredibly stupid and juvenile. Cory had the Tonka tractor that Shawn wanted, and to take out his revenge on his best friend, he'd stopped speaking to him.
Cory was his best friend. Shawn had never needed to lie to Cory. Had never needed to pretend to be someone else. Cory had always accepted him as he was.
Except when Shawn had been moronic.
So how would he react to Shawn's stupidest move yet?
But then, Shawn would cross that bridge when he got to it. For now, he had a hallway to cross. A hallway that led to his best friend.
Angela Moore
Shawn came bounding down the hall. Angela had to make a quick decision and slide out of the way to avoid the collision between friends.
Despite the awkward situation, Angela quirked a smile.
The two boys shouted greetings at each other and eventually their screams unraveled into randomness. It didn't matter. They were simply celebrating being together.
"So!" Cory called out, his arm slung around Shawn's shoulders. At Shawn's smile—the first smile she'd seen from him in years—Angela's chest constricted. "Where's the birthday boy?"
Oh yeah.
"He's, uh…" Cory looked at her, although Shawn looked somewhere above her left shoulder. "He's coming."
Cory nodded as though that was enough for him, but Shawn continued to look at her shoulder with suspicion. Then his gaze lifted to meet Angela's eyes with an accusation. Something was up. He knew.
Angela was quick to shake him off. "Let's go into the kitchen, shall we?" she said crisply, trying to assure Shawn that there was nothing going on.
She actually didn't need to pretend for much longer. Eventually the three friends would catch on that something was not right when they realized that no other guests would arrive.
"So, who else is already here?" Cory inquired.
Shawn looked to Angela and Angela looked to Shawn. They had no time to be embarrassed about catching each others' eyes so naturally. Even if Shawn didn't know the full extent of Angela's plans, he still knew that ex + ex did not a comfortable situation make.
"Hello, Cory."
Cory Matthews
Looking at her made him ache.
He couldn't drop his arm from around Shawn; he had to lean on his best friend just to keep himself from crumpling to the floor. He was sure he felt drool.
He was also very sure that if he didn't hold her, his arms would fall off.
Topanga Lawrence-Matthews
She was going to die.
So long, world.
And, y'know, she was okay with dying. She only wished that the process would speed up, that her heart would finally burst, that her stomach would constrict till it finally tore because staring at him, still alive, knowing that she couldn't ever have him, hurt.
Having to wonder if he was in as much pain as she was.
Having to realize that he probably wasn't, and the look on his face was just a reaction to the fully awkward situation.
Having to understand that she wasn't going to die and this aching wasn't going to end.
All produced pain.
Cory Matthews
He wanted to run. If he couldn't wrap his arms around her, if he couldn't embrace her, then he was just going to have to be someplace where she wasn't. Someplace where it didn't hurt so much.
He unwove his arm from around Shawn's neck and made to run—
but a bulky figure in a blue suit halted his escape.
"I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that," Eric announced, his palm facing Cory.
"Eric, move out of the way," Cory ordered. He didn't have time for whatever the heck was Eric's problem. He had to get away.
"I'm afraid I cannot do that, little brother."
"And why not?"
"Because Sir Angela has ordered me to not let any of you leave the premises."
Cory's eyes narrowed. "What?" He looked from Eric to Angela and back again.
Angela closed her eyes and shook her head. She walked over to Eric and kicked him lightly in the shins. Of course, Eric, being Eric, dramatized everything. He grabbed his leg and began hopping around as though in agony… leaving the doorway free.
Cory made for a mad dash, but was stopped—this time by Angela.
He turned around to look at her dark brown eyes that seared into him. She had his collar in a death grip, and yanked it back so that Cory turned to face her. Her once angry stare softened.
"Sorry, but I really can't let you go."
"Tell Feeny that his present's on the counter, that I'm sorry, but I can't be here—"
"Why can't you be here?" Though her gaze had softened, her voice still held a commanding attitude. "Why are you running away?"
Cory opened his mouth to speak, but Shawn interrupted.
"Angela, where's Feeny?"
"I'm right here, Mr. Hunter."
Feeny descended from the stairs, looking over each of his old students. Cory looked at him, then to Shawn, then to Angela, and finally voiced his reiterating thought. "All righty—what is going on?"
"Ms. Moore, I think that it's time you told them."
Cory looked to Angela. She finally dropped his collar, and he rubbed his sore neck all the while still looking at her.
Even with three curious and slightly annoyed adults staring at her, Angela's voice didn't waver.