* * *
When I open the door to our suite I bump into Wesley. Henry flies from my hand in a furry, ungraceful arch, lands in the cushioned flower vase and rolls into his fish-tank with a muffled thump. Quite the acrobat, the little fella.
Wesley's eyes are screaming murder.
"What were you doing?" he interrogates, and I feel like I'm in a closed room under a spotlight.
I stammer, "I...out for a walk... hamster needed the exercise... no leash..."
"I don't believe you. I think you were *spying* on Buffy."
"Hah! I didn't even see her." Safe ground. He's got nothing on me.
But Wesley's on a roll, "I think you thought you could outsmart us and hamsternapped Henry for your evil purposes!"
"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"
"Look at him, Angel. He looks a bit green."
"What were you doing outside the door anyway? It was almost like you were expecting me to appear. You were standing guard, weren't you? You woke up in the middle of the night to check if I'd done something to your precious hamster."
"Well, with you having killed my old pet, I think I'd almost have to!"
"Wesley, I was the one who *got* you the—"
"—cageless—"
"—hamster in the first place!"
"Angel, be serious for a minute. He's looking greenish."
"I mean, I admit it, Enrique was a blunder."
"What did you do to him when you were out? Could it have been the cold?"
"But I think I apologized enough."
"I'm starting to worry. Come take a look at him."
"And you have to give me a chance to prove to you that if I'm serious enough to buy you a hamster, then, by god, I'm going to take good care of him."
"Dear lord, he's going into spasm."
"If there isn't trust, Wesley, then there isn't anything."
When Wesley doesn't reply, it occurs to me that maybe something is wrong, and I walk over to the aquarium which he's peering into with worry. I glance down. Henry is lying on his right side making weak little noises, his tiny face undeniably green. Both front and back left legs are twitching.
"Huh," I frown. "He wasn't like that when I took him out."
I realize I've made a slight tactical error, as Wesley's decidedly homicidal gaze might as well be holy water.
"If I were you," he spews out, "I would take a step back."
"I don't really think that—"
"Step back from the cage!" he yells hotly. I obey swiftly, biting back the correction that it's actually a dried up aquarium.
"What could *possibly* be the reason you two won't let me sleep?" Cordelia is standing right inside our connecting door in a fluffy pink robe, arms folded.
I shrug dispassionately. Cordy sighs and turns expectantly to Wesley, "What did he do?"
"We're not yet certain of the extent of the damages."
The wrath of Cordelia is like a big Mr. T glowering over her shoulder at me. "Did you sleep with Buffy?"
I gasp. "No!"
"Although he bloody well would have if he could," Wesley mutters, "right in front of Henry."
"Oh, no! What did he do to Henry?" Cordy rushes over to the aquarium and frets along with Wesley.
"It could be a false alarm, it could be gas, it could be of natural causes. Doesn't anyone here think it's a bit premature to automatically blame it on me?"
"No," they respond in unison. Well, that was obvious.
"Look at him!" Cordy exclaims. "He's the color of moldy cheese!"
"Maybe it's something in the sawdust," Wesley deliberates. He lifts the convulsing hamster and puts him in Cordy's hands. "Hold him for a second."
"Ew!" she squeaks, and dumps him in my hands.
When the warm, limp body touches my palms I shudder and reflexively let him go. By sheer luck, Henry falls on a pillow.
Cordelia and Wesley stare at me. Wesley speaks. "That's, like, the second time you've dropped him today."
I decide to sit this out and let them work alone.
After a while spent poking and prodding, Wesley sighs. "I just don't get it. For the very few hours I've had him I kept him on a strict diet. There are only two things in the world that hamsters aren't allowed to eat." I stop fiddling with a loose string on the couch and suddenly dread whatever Wesley's about to say. He continues with a helpless laugh. "But, I mean, I'd have to be stupid not to notice if there was any parsley lying around."
I swear, it's as if Fate has staked a 'Kick Me!' sign to my back. How about I just dunk my head in holy water and save everyone the trouble.
* * *
How many brands of eggplants can there possibly be? I mean, this is absurd. It's absurd and it's futile. There are, like, twenty-seven different types of eggplants lined up on the shelves in front of me, and while I was under the assumption that all eggplants were supposed to be purple, apparently they're not. Some are yellow, some are green, and one brand is a very startling orange. Orange eggplants. See, that's what I have to deal with.
Why, oh why, did I volunteer for this?
Oh, that's right, I didn't. Or at least it was more like the Snyder Volunteering System than a genuine desire to go grocery shopping for tonight. But it's really the least I could do. Rob hardly even had to ask— I mean, as far as he's concerned tonight will probably be about me making goo-goo eyes at my ex while he serves the food. So having me cart around vegetables for an hour doesn't seem like an excessively over demanding request. Even if they're... eggplants.
Gyugh. I hate eggplants. I despise them. I hate them and despise them and frankly, I fear them a bit. I seriously think you could kill someone with an eggplant, on account of their... I dunno, weight. Fat bastards. And besides, what is up with their names? They're not eggs, they're hardly plants, yet the little creepers insist that we refer to them as an eccentric hybrid of both.
Well, they don't exactly insist, but you know what I mean.
And now I'm faced with the freakishly orange eggplants. Freaky Orange Eggplants. Perhaps they're mutants of some kind. I lift one up and eye it distrustfully. Oh, yeah, definitely suspicious. Maybe you put them in the oven and they, like... grow legs. Or something.
I drop the Freaky Orange Eggplant, or in short FOE (har har), and randomly choose a different brand, picking up a single fruit. Okay. Being the eggplant-hating-clueless-veggie-shopper that I am, you probably think I don't know how to test the ripeness of an eggplant. You're not wrong. Luckily, I have come equipped with Rob's carefully phrased note on How To Pick An Eggplant. Yay.
~Smaller, immature eggplants are best. Choose a firm, smooth-skinned eggplant that is heavy for its size; avoid those with soft or brown spots. Gently push with your thumb or forefinger. If the flesh gives slightly but then bounces back, it is ripe. If the indentation remains, it is overripe and the insides will be mushy. If there is no give, the eggplant was picked too early. Also, to make sure an eggplant isn't dry inside, knock on it with your knuckles. If you hear a hollow sound, don't buy it.~
Can you say 'geek'?
I feel the eggplant with my thumb and gently tap it. Oh, *gross*. I hate Rob. I am going to divorce Rob. The eggplant is distinctly squashy (pun intended) which the note, not to mention my very healthy instincts, assure me is wrong. I pick up another instead, and judge it not without bias, I admit. I'm about to squeeze it as well when I notice the other side of Rob's note is also written on.
~Due to the occasionally spongy nature of overripe eggplants, I'll tip you a tip: the best kinds have skins that resemble Hatzil demons'. So your professional opinion could be the definitive shaping element of tonight's meal. Do us proud.~
See, that I can deal with. Once you put it in familiar terms, I can be very agreeable.
Mostly. I pick up an eggplant that fits the description, hold it close to my face, and repress a shudder of disgust.
What are eggplants doing on my shopping list anyway, you ask? Interesting, I've wondered that myself. And ultimately the only plausible answer I can come up with is that my loving husband-to-be has decided to concoct me an eggplant potion just because he knows I hate them. Bastard. I should buy the Freaky Orange ones just to spite him.
Right. As if I would ever do that. No, no, until I get over this kiss I'll most likely be Rob's self appointed-slave. You know, just until I can look in the mirror without my reflection screaming "adulteress!".
And, I've just gotta say this, I'm very upset about all these inappropriate marital expressions that have wormed their way into my vocabulary since Angel stepped back into my life. Like 'vows' and 'annulment' and 'adultery' and 'secret lover' and woah!—where did *that* one come from? Secret lover?
This is all your fault, Angel. You and your hair and that incredible kiss and I did *not* just say incredible, did I? What is *wrong* with me?
You are not my secret lover.
Just to emphasize the point I mutter it aloud, staring absently at the eggplant: "You are *not* my secret lover."
"Well, I should hope not."
I spin around to catch sight of an amused figure leaning on the opposite aisle, arms folded. "Cordelia!"
"Is there anything you want to share, Buff?"
I rush to explain. "I wasn't talking about the vegetable."
"Sure."
I realize how that sounds. "Or anyone else," I clarify.
"Uh-huh."
"I was just... talking in general..."
"I believe you, Buffy." Her grin widens as she says this so I have a feeling she's just humoring me, but I'll take what I can get.
"So," I desperately attempt to change the subject, "what are you doing here?"
Her brow furrows and she pales momentarily. "There's... uh... well, there's this great big prophecy, and, um—"
"Yeah, Angel told me about that," I say, and elucidate. "I meant what are you doing here specifically, not in town."
"Oh!" A nervous laugh gives way to relief. "Here. In the grocery store. I'm just buying some stuff. For a funeral."
That silences me. "Oh," I say, trying to sound as sympathetic as I can. "I'm sorry, I had no idea."
"Henry was a good enough guy. I think Wesley's talking it a bit rough, blaming Angel."
I frown. "Blaming Angel?"
"For poisoning him."
I take a step back. Okay, now, I honestly do trust Cordelia to tell me if Angelus ever resurfaces and she really doesn't look that petrified to me, so I just have to wonder: what exactly are these people *doing* in LA?
"Angel killed Henry?"
"Unintentionally," she assures me, as if that explained everything.
"Okay, then," I answer warily. "Should I be calling the authorities, or..." I let it hang.
"The—" she starts, and then laughs. "Henry was Wesley's hamster."
"Oh."
"But Angel was attached to him too, I suppose. He looked sort of regretful when we proclaimed the time of death. Although that could have been regret over having bought Henry in the first place."
I don't think I've even seen Cordelia talk about Angel ever since her move to LA. It hits me now that their life there... it's not just 'Angel has a life with Cordelia and Wesley', it's 'Cordelia and Wesley have a life with Angel'. They see him every day, and joke with him, and comfort him, and call him on the phone, and...well, bury pets with him, apparently. It's strange. I guess I've always pictured him as living a strictly professional life in LA and not necessarily a social one. Especially not with these people whom I know.
But I've obviously moved on (if you want to comment, take it somewhere else), and it's fair that he has too. Maybe I'm a bit sad that it's one more thing between us but hey, that's just one more thing on a long list. Of things. So it hardly makes a difference.
In fact, Angel, go ahead and have a life. Or unlife—ugh, these semantics are killing me!
"So what groceries would one actually *need* to perform a funeral service?"
"Oh, the usual. Flowers. Candles. Preservation liquid."
"What?"
"We're going to have him stuffed. And put on the mantle, for Angel to remember his sins by."
I can't help but feel somewhat... upset, or offended for Angel. I mean, yeah, let's all go and remind Angel of his many sins, it's not like his conscience is tortured already or anything...
"So, you're making eggplants tonight?" She interrupts my thoughts, pointing at the FOEs.
"Actually, Rob is. Oh, you should taste some of the stuff he cooks up."
"I can't wait to meet him."
"If you stick around a couple more minutes you can. He's right across the street, buying some stuff at the hardware store."
"You're gonna go to him?"
"Nah, he'll drop by here in a few to, you know, nitpick my grocery-shopping skills and replace all my vegetables."
"Ah," she nods, just as I sense someone coming up behind me and instinctively recognize him.
"Hey," he says, and kisses my cheek.
"Hey," I reply, and as much as I want him to expand on that kiss, it would feel too high-school in front of Cordelia.
"Cordelia, this is Rob, my fiancé. Rob, Cordelia. She'll also be coming over tonight."
"Nice to meet you," he says, clasping her hand.
"You too," she says, eyes twinkling. Back off, Cordy. I take a step closer to Rob. "I've heard so much about you. Or rather, your cuisine."
He chuckles and rubs my back. "I can't take credit for everything. Buffy helped with dessert."
Ah, yes. The infamous lickerish mystery cookies. "I really didn't do much."
"Don't underestimate yo--what are these?" Rob picks up an eggplant and inspects it. "I said Hatzil demons, Buffy, not fish scales."
"Whatever." I roll my eyes as he substitutes all of my carefully chosen fruits for no doubt perfect, glossy, flawlessly spotless, Hatzil-skin-skinned specimens.
"Listen, I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Cordelia. I'll see you later?" he directs at me, and starts backing away.
"Yup. Love you." I blow him a kiss.
A soon as he leaves our line of vision Cordelia turns to me and squeals. "Oh my god!"
"I know." This comes out rather smug.
"He looks just like Mark Wahlberg!"
"I know," I grin, and can't help feeling proud. Rob is, if I may say so, a good catch. Not that I like to brag or anything, but can you say HOT?
"Lucky girl," she sighs wistfully.
I know. I am.
* * *
Damn my strikingly attractive alabaster sun-sensitive skin. It's been said to capture the mystifying gleam of fatal beauty, or reflect light to create a mirage of Greek sculptures, ancient and divine. One bedazzled dame even depicted it as "the cherry on the ice-cream sundae" that is me, although I try to block that memory out.
Point is, my skin has had its uses and advantages in the past. But what I wouldn't give right now to trade it in for a blotchy, spotted, discolored, sun-resistant hide.
Okay, that was a little gross. And my previous musings may have mildly leaned towards the egocentric. My brain doesn't operate well when overheated is my excuse, and right now one might say it's downright boiling under the thick black Amish-like hat.
And, uh, wig.
The golf sweater I've daringly donned doesn't so much bother me as it itches, and I'd try to adjust the collar if it weren't for the uncomfortable leather gloves. Which would have been trendy, except they clash with the spy-coat I borrowed from Wesley because mine currently has a cottage cheese stain on it for reasons that we'll not get in to.
All in all, my attire could have been worse. I mean, I could have been wearing a yellow sundress and I'm *not* so let's just all take comfort in that fact.
Really, just...let's.
Of course, my little outfit could have been much more flattering if only my damn skin didn't start to bubble every time it went under sun-exposure. But my latest and current mission takes place now, fresh in the morning, and what sorry vampire would be pathetic enough to walk in public with an ugly old blanket draped and wrapped around themselves?
Oh, that's right. Spike.
Hee hee. Loser.
Said the man wearing the wig. Moving on.
Fortunately, the course of my job in LA has taught me that the sun and it's effects on vampires are far more flexible than we were all taught as Irish schoolchildren and again as newly-risen fledglings. I have become quite the expert in judging when and how to dodge those burning rays, how many layers are needed as a suit of armor, what screens are thick enough to offer protection from filtering light.
As it is, I am the standing proof that any obstacle can be overcome once you set your mind to it. I am the epitome of the modernized, innovative, twenty-first-century vampire. I am a grown man with fake hair on my head peeking behind a wall at Hal's Grocery Store across the street in an attempt to stalk my ex-girlfriend and my employee.
There should be a court order against me. Seriously, this is getting twisted. Buffy should go to court and have a restraining order issued against me. Until she wises up, however, I will continue to execute the next step of my plan.
For I am Angel, brilliant strategist, Master of Tactics, flawless executor of flawless plans, despoiler of virgins—no, wait, I don't do that anymore.
Anyway, my plan is painfully simple. I have decided to go with my inspired original thought and cause Buffy to believe that my good friend Cordelia Chase and I are, if not married, romantically involved.
Cordelia herself has voiced her many valid objections, which I plan to ignore. I do not intend to inform her of my plan.
Now *that* will be a neat trick to pull off.
The mocking sun shines much too brightly overhead, in the middle of fricking FEBRUARY, for God's sake. Did I mention how random Sunnydalian weather seems lately? I'm not used to the dazzling sunlight and I squint, pulling my hat down to provide extra shade. I can barely make out the shapes moving inside Hal's. Damn. I have to get closer.
Pressing my back against the wall, I edge closer to the entrance of the side alley I've been hiding—er, concealing myself in. After looking both ways and assuring myself that no one will notice the six-foot-vampire-with-a-wig, I slip out and cross the street in a haste, ending up just around the corner from good old Hal's.
I sidle up to the outskirts of the side window and peer inside. Finally I spot them, standing between the vegetable aisle and the god-knows-what-they-are-but-JayLo's-on-the-package-so-let's-buy-them aisle. Cordelia's talking animatedly while Buffy's eyeing some freaky looking orange eggplants, and--
What the hell?
Back away from my woman, man. I'm warning you. Three steps back, or else--Hey! Hands off! Wh--I can't believe Buffy is letting him touch her like that in a public place! There are children here! And on her back, too! Good, that's it. Retract hand. Withdraw. Say buh-bye now. Cordy, you better not be drooling. If you're drooling then you so deserve me going behind your back with my plan. If you're--
Whoa, is that his car?
Hot damn.
You know, the people that say that buying American is out have obviously not seen this piece of work. An Electron Blue Metallic Chevrolet Corvette. All sleek, polished curves and mirrors and motor and beauty. This is a car people fall in love with and put in extra hours to be able to afford. This is a car that you picture speeding alongside a cliff in the sunset. This is a car that perfectly matches the light blue dress Buffy's wearing right now. They didn't color-coordinate, did they? This is starting to worry me.
As the sports car rumbles away, I decide to make my move. You want to flaunt your little Commy boy and his precious car than that's fine by me, but you're gonna get a taste of your own medicine.
I carefully peel off my right glove and whip out my mobile phone. Suddenly a passerby crosses my line of vision and I panic, cling to the wall in a desperately casual pose, and whistle innocently, trying to look as inconspicuous as a six-foot-tall-vampire-with-a-wig can be when he's bundled up in the middle of a supernatural February heat wave. That's right, buddy, just move along. Nothing to see here.
Ow. Ow. Smell smoke. Pain.
Please, please, please move faster.
When the old man finally parts with a last mistrustful peek at me I swiftly smother my burning pinkie against my coat to put out the flames and then shove it in my mouth to cool off the pain. Ow.
Lucky for me pinkies aren't required to dial.
I bite back the pain from my stinging limb and punch three on my speed dial for Cordy's cell. I can see her pick up. Here goes. Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby present to you Manipulation 101.
"Hello?"
I gotta be very careful at this stage; I can't alert her to the fact that anything isn't natural. Must be subtle.
"Cordy. Did I mention how great you looked this morning?"
"What?"
Okay, not so subtle.
"I just couldn't help noticing it. Red shades flatter you."
"Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm hurt. You don't think it's sweet and endearing that I called you just to say I think you look good?"
"*Look*?"
"--k-ked. Looked. When I saw you this morning."
"Okay, I guess."
"Come on, admit it. You think I'm sweet."
"And bordering on mental." I wait and she sighs. "Fine, you're sweet."
"With feeling, Cordy. Don't make me tell you that I sat with Wesley all night and picked the orange Alpha-Bits for him this morning. Anonymously."
This earns me a soft chuckle out of her. "Aw. That is sweet."
Will not feel guilty about lying. Will absolutely not feel guilty about lying.
"Listen, while you're at the store, could you buy some more things? You can have them simply delivered if you want--"
"Don't worry about it."
"Great. Well, I need some...honey. Special dessert I'm making."
"Sure, honey."
I try to think of anything else but my mind's a blank. "That's it."
"That's it?"
"That is indeed it. Aren't you glad I gave you higher expectations and now you find out you get to carry less?"
"You're feeling playful today."
Teasing. We need some teasing. I decide to play the macho/sensitive card.
"It's the middle of the night for me, I just woke up from this dream. Which had nothing to do with, uh, happy fishies in heaven."
"Oh?" She isn't facing me, but I can catch her smile.
"Or a better place with huge hamster wheels and rodenty Disney rides. At all. Whatsoever. Because, you know, I would never dream about that. Seeing as I am a *man* and while I do regret recent actions that have caused the demise of certain furry and scaly organisms and am saddened by how this affected our friend, Wesley Wyndham-Price, these feelings only stretch as far as expected by courtesy and would never extend to suggesting that I dream about a happy world where mice forgive my guilty conscience."
"I can tell."
"Are you impressed I managed to fit all that into one sentence?"
"Incredibly impressed, yes."
"Did you get any of it at all?"
"An occasional word."
"Thought so." And I'm glad, too. I must admit that the whole ramble might not be as fabricated as you'd imagine. Which basically means no, it was not fabricated at all.
I'm not getting very far in this conversation, am I. But it's not going too bad. I need to make her laugh.
"So, I finally managed to reprogram the radio stations in the car by myself."
You really don't have to laugh quite so strongly, Cordelia. I mean, there are things more amusing than my warped inability to program things. But having one of my radio stations permanently stuck on the CGAS local for the past three years leaves a lasting impression.
CGAS, known throughout Angel Investigations as 'See Gas', stands for the Children of Gardening Alcoholics Society.
Allow me to not comment.
"I'm also thinking of growing my old mustache back. To impress Buffy."
She laughs even harder. "You go, lover-boy."
I suppress the urge to snicker. She's eating right out of my hand.
"Say," I change the subject smoothly, "Do you remember the name of the princess bride from, uh, The Princess Bride? I caught a scene a while ago but missed the part where they say her name. It's not Raspberry, is it?"
"Of course not. Buttercup."
"Oh! That's right. Thanks," I smirk to myself.
"Listen, I've still got preservation liquid to scout for, so—"
"I'll hang up. Before I go, could you remind me the words to this song, it's been bugging me all day and the words have just...escaped me."
"All right."
"The last line goes: 'and then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like...?' And then I think it's 'I love her'?"
"'I love you.'"
"Are you sure? Because I could swear it's 'I love her.'"
"'I love you', Angel. Without a doubt."
"No, it's 'I love *her*'."
"No, 'I love *you*'!"
Buffy is mine. "I'll take your word for it. You're the greatest, Cordy. I'll see you later." I click the power button.
Oh, you know you doubted me. And I hope everyone witnessed that because that, my skeptic friends, is what we at Angel Investigations call a beautifully executed plan.
I snap the cell-phone shut.
Ow. Pinkie.
