Disclaimer: Disclaimers suck, and so, quite probably, do the people who
write them. Wait. I'm wri
Disclaimer: Disclaimers are great. And so are the people who write them. And the people who read them. And everyone but Joss. And Cordelia.
(*(* + ( = ()
Distribution: You have but to ask.
Notes: There isn't too much to say. I will tell you right now that this is a B/A fic. Don't you hate it when they leave you guessing? I'd much rather know ahead of time if the story I'm devoting a small (but nonetheless valuable) amount of my time to is gonna end up some lame-brained, Cordelia- is-God, deluded piece of trash. Then I can pass it by. And yes, I, a B/A devotee, just used the word deluded to describe the good ship Air Conditioner. That's right. It's true. Don't bother flaming.
I'd say something disparaging about Spike, but he's just so damn funny I can only tsk-tsk and look the other way. He's a good character, just not the one for Buffy.
This is set post "The Gift." Waaaaay post. But TG's the last episode that happened in my continuum. That makes Buffy dead.
I'd date this story about…2016. That makes Conner 15 — ah. Yeah. So TG is the last BtVS episode in my continuum. AtS will run on its jaunty way till "Birthday." Without the cross-over that wasn't, obviously.
1 Inheritance
By Myopic
Part I: Commonplaces
"Ahem!"
Mrs. Henderson's sixth period English class turned to face a mop of dark hair that was flopped over a desk in the back of the room. The middle-aged teacher let out a long-suffering sigh. Everyone at Hemery High knew that fifteen year-old Conner Donovan— although extremely bright and perfectly well-mannered— was all but nocturnal. She rapped her knuckles on the faux- wood by his ear.
"Mr. Donovan?"
"Five more minutes, Cordy…" Conner muttered, shrugging away and turning his head to reveal a startlingly handsome face.
The obligatory smattering of giggles and sarcastic comments hooted through the classroom. "Who's Cordy?" flew instantly in a suspicious whisper between three separate sets of best girlfriends.
"MR. DONAVAN?"
Suddenly, Conner jerked up straight, his eyes open wide and lips parted, as if gasping for consciousness. "I'm up!" he shouted, at last.
The class burst into laughter again, and Mrs. Henderson returned to the front of the room and her lecture on Romantic Poets. Conner rubbed his deep blue eyes and sighed. He'd waited up till three the night before, hoping to catch his Dad before he went to bed so he could get a permission slip for next week's field trip signed. He'd finally given up when his Aunt Cordelia came home yawning something about how Angel was going to be cutting it close. Conner assumed that meant his father would come crashing in the huge double doors of the former hotel where they lived, bone tired from a long night's work, only a minute or two before Conner left for school. Sure enough, the Donovan men had bumped into each other on the threshold, knocking Conner's books to the floor. I never got an apology, he thought.
He'd ended up forging the slip.
But he was used to such things by now. It went with the territory when your Dad was a private eye.
Shaking his head, he looked up to see a pretty brown-eyed girl watching him from across the aisle. He gave a little grin at which she smirked and looked away. Dale. One of his two best friends since kindergarten. She'd have lots to say about his exemplary study habits after class, he was sure.
"…and it took her THREE tries to get him up!" Dale Asher groaned, before biting down on a huge forkful of gluey cafeteria macaroni and cheese.
"How can you EAT that?" asked Peter Brown, fascinated. He ran a grateful finger across the white paper of the salami and cheese hero he'd bought at the deli that morning.
Dale's dark eyebrows bunched in the middle of her forehead, a sure sign that she was annoyed. "Were you even listening?"
"Hey, Pete, guess what happened in English! You'll be shocked. YOUR best friend Conner drooled his way through half the period. Even Henderson noticed, and she NEVER catches anyone slacking off. He was just lolling on his desk, probably dreaming of that slut Stacy West—Head Cheerleader my ass—when she walked right down the aisle—Henderson, not West— staring venomous dragon-daggers into the back of his head, and it took her THREE tries to get him up!" he calmly quoted.
"Okaaay. You were listening."
Peter looked down at his sandwich. Silence, except for the standard white noise of cafeteria chaos.
Finally, Dale let out a huge breath. "What?"
"Nothing." Pete bit into his salami.
"Something." Dale narrowed her eyes suspiciously at her slightly chubby friend. "Just say it."
He swallowed. "Say what?"
"Whatever you're thinking! C'mon!"
He looked at her for a moment, debating. "What do you care what Conner was dreaming about?"
Dale turned pink. With anger—of course.
"I don't! Are you nuts? What—I mean, what are you suggesting?"
"Yeah, Pete. What're you suggesting?" The two friends looked up, flustered, to see a grinning Conner. "Brown getting fresh again, Dale? You want I should rough him up a bit?"
Dale's color slowly returned to normal. Her voice was only slightly off when she laughingly pronounced Peter a low-down, no-account, heart-breaking cad.
"Yep, that's me," Pete quietly agreed. "Throwing the ladies out the window and beating them off with a stick."
"That's the price we pay for being so devastatingly handsome," Conner crowed, hopping gracefully onto the bench next to him and throwing an arm around his shoulder as he casually grabbed half of the neatly packed hero and bit into it.
Dale smiled indulgingly at him.
"Would it kill you to make your own lunch for once?" asked Peter, shrugging his friend off with uncharacteristic impatience.
"Sorry, man," Conner replied with raised eyebrows. "There wasn't any food in the fridge this morning and I was running late, so I didn't have time to grab anything."
Peter sighed. "It's alright. I shouldn't have yelled. I know your Dad's allergic to food shopping."
"And Cordelia's no better." Conner nodded. "I wish Aunt Fred still lived with us. She made the best tacos." His eyes got misty for a moment. "Well, she's making them for Uncle Gunn now."
"By making, you mean driving to Taco Bell and picking up, right?" Dale asked, glibly.
Conner leaned over and grabbed a soggy French fry off her tray, not noticing how she jerked away. "Of course. Isn't that how your Mom cooks?"
"So. Did you guys hear we're getting a new student tomorrow?" Pete suddenly enquired.
"A week before Holiday Break?" Dale said absently.
"Freaky." Conner agreed, taking another bite of his friend's hero.
Angel woke with a start, jerking straight up in his red-satin sheeted bed. Even the best of us can't resist the clichés, he thought, running a jerky hand across the smooth surface, trying to block the dream out of his thoughts.
It didn't work, of course.
Neither did any of the other handy tricks of denial that had gotten him through the last fifteen years without thinking of . . . The Dream. Because there was no use remembering The Dream. The Dream was dead. And even if — it — wasn't, he could never have… The Dream. And he'd been pretty damn good about convincing himself of that for years. So why was it coming to him now?
Frustrated, he flopped back down against his silky pillows, closing his eyes – Forget the Dream! – and trying to get some more sleep.
Not happening.
He rolled over with a mild curse and took a look at the digital clock on his nightstand. 1:30. Five Hours. He'd run on less sleep in much worse condition. And he didn't need to be at full strength. They'd wrapped up the business with those Vespa demons for good and all last night. He winced, feeling the half-healed but still sore punctures where a red-skinned, harpy- esque creature had sunk her poisoned talons into his right shoulder.
"At least she missed the tattoo," he grumbled, getting out of bed. Conner would be home in an hour and a half, and it would probably be better if he got rid of his torn duster and blood-stained shirt before his son had a chance to see them. They hadn't spoken that morning, partly because Angel was so late, but mostly because he had almost fainted when they collided.
He pulled on a white tank top, bundled the ruined clothing under his arm, and headed up to the lobby.
"Cordelia!" he shouted automatically. "Can you take this out to the trash?"
He braced himself for the indignant protests of his secretary and friend, then froze. It wasn't Cordelia who came to stand in the doorway of the main office. It was a trio men, the last three men he'd ever expected to see in one room again.
To Be Continued….
Notes: I based Conner's personality more after drunken-Irish-human Liam and catty-charming-vampire Angelus than broody- ancient-vamp + soul Angel, cause I don't think heartbroken misery is an inherited trait. No Darla, 'cept for the eyes. The kid's got enough to deal with. Donovan's a name I've seen in several other Angel fics (by sane, reliable B/Aers), and since I don't remember ever hearing a last name, I'll go with it. If there's a real one, please send it to me so I can replace it.(
Send Feedback to TheTendoDojo@aol.com. Or I might be forced to do something drastic. Like start writing A/C fics.
Alright. Ewwwwwww. So nothing that drastic. But something pretty bad!
Disclaimer: Disclaimers are great. And so are the people who write them. And the people who read them. And everyone but Joss. And Cordelia.
(*(* + ( = ()
Distribution: You have but to ask.
Notes: There isn't too much to say. I will tell you right now that this is a B/A fic. Don't you hate it when they leave you guessing? I'd much rather know ahead of time if the story I'm devoting a small (but nonetheless valuable) amount of my time to is gonna end up some lame-brained, Cordelia- is-God, deluded piece of trash. Then I can pass it by. And yes, I, a B/A devotee, just used the word deluded to describe the good ship Air Conditioner. That's right. It's true. Don't bother flaming.
I'd say something disparaging about Spike, but he's just so damn funny I can only tsk-tsk and look the other way. He's a good character, just not the one for Buffy.
This is set post "The Gift." Waaaaay post. But TG's the last episode that happened in my continuum. That makes Buffy dead.
I'd date this story about…2016. That makes Conner 15 — ah. Yeah. So TG is the last BtVS episode in my continuum. AtS will run on its jaunty way till "Birthday." Without the cross-over that wasn't, obviously.
1 Inheritance
By Myopic
Part I: Commonplaces
"Ahem!"
Mrs. Henderson's sixth period English class turned to face a mop of dark hair that was flopped over a desk in the back of the room. The middle-aged teacher let out a long-suffering sigh. Everyone at Hemery High knew that fifteen year-old Conner Donovan— although extremely bright and perfectly well-mannered— was all but nocturnal. She rapped her knuckles on the faux- wood by his ear.
"Mr. Donovan?"
"Five more minutes, Cordy…" Conner muttered, shrugging away and turning his head to reveal a startlingly handsome face.
The obligatory smattering of giggles and sarcastic comments hooted through the classroom. "Who's Cordy?" flew instantly in a suspicious whisper between three separate sets of best girlfriends.
"MR. DONAVAN?"
Suddenly, Conner jerked up straight, his eyes open wide and lips parted, as if gasping for consciousness. "I'm up!" he shouted, at last.
The class burst into laughter again, and Mrs. Henderson returned to the front of the room and her lecture on Romantic Poets. Conner rubbed his deep blue eyes and sighed. He'd waited up till three the night before, hoping to catch his Dad before he went to bed so he could get a permission slip for next week's field trip signed. He'd finally given up when his Aunt Cordelia came home yawning something about how Angel was going to be cutting it close. Conner assumed that meant his father would come crashing in the huge double doors of the former hotel where they lived, bone tired from a long night's work, only a minute or two before Conner left for school. Sure enough, the Donovan men had bumped into each other on the threshold, knocking Conner's books to the floor. I never got an apology, he thought.
He'd ended up forging the slip.
But he was used to such things by now. It went with the territory when your Dad was a private eye.
Shaking his head, he looked up to see a pretty brown-eyed girl watching him from across the aisle. He gave a little grin at which she smirked and looked away. Dale. One of his two best friends since kindergarten. She'd have lots to say about his exemplary study habits after class, he was sure.
"…and it took her THREE tries to get him up!" Dale Asher groaned, before biting down on a huge forkful of gluey cafeteria macaroni and cheese.
"How can you EAT that?" asked Peter Brown, fascinated. He ran a grateful finger across the white paper of the salami and cheese hero he'd bought at the deli that morning.
Dale's dark eyebrows bunched in the middle of her forehead, a sure sign that she was annoyed. "Were you even listening?"
"Hey, Pete, guess what happened in English! You'll be shocked. YOUR best friend Conner drooled his way through half the period. Even Henderson noticed, and she NEVER catches anyone slacking off. He was just lolling on his desk, probably dreaming of that slut Stacy West—Head Cheerleader my ass—when she walked right down the aisle—Henderson, not West— staring venomous dragon-daggers into the back of his head, and it took her THREE tries to get him up!" he calmly quoted.
"Okaaay. You were listening."
Peter looked down at his sandwich. Silence, except for the standard white noise of cafeteria chaos.
Finally, Dale let out a huge breath. "What?"
"Nothing." Pete bit into his salami.
"Something." Dale narrowed her eyes suspiciously at her slightly chubby friend. "Just say it."
He swallowed. "Say what?"
"Whatever you're thinking! C'mon!"
He looked at her for a moment, debating. "What do you care what Conner was dreaming about?"
Dale turned pink. With anger—of course.
"I don't! Are you nuts? What—I mean, what are you suggesting?"
"Yeah, Pete. What're you suggesting?" The two friends looked up, flustered, to see a grinning Conner. "Brown getting fresh again, Dale? You want I should rough him up a bit?"
Dale's color slowly returned to normal. Her voice was only slightly off when she laughingly pronounced Peter a low-down, no-account, heart-breaking cad.
"Yep, that's me," Pete quietly agreed. "Throwing the ladies out the window and beating them off with a stick."
"That's the price we pay for being so devastatingly handsome," Conner crowed, hopping gracefully onto the bench next to him and throwing an arm around his shoulder as he casually grabbed half of the neatly packed hero and bit into it.
Dale smiled indulgingly at him.
"Would it kill you to make your own lunch for once?" asked Peter, shrugging his friend off with uncharacteristic impatience.
"Sorry, man," Conner replied with raised eyebrows. "There wasn't any food in the fridge this morning and I was running late, so I didn't have time to grab anything."
Peter sighed. "It's alright. I shouldn't have yelled. I know your Dad's allergic to food shopping."
"And Cordelia's no better." Conner nodded. "I wish Aunt Fred still lived with us. She made the best tacos." His eyes got misty for a moment. "Well, she's making them for Uncle Gunn now."
"By making, you mean driving to Taco Bell and picking up, right?" Dale asked, glibly.
Conner leaned over and grabbed a soggy French fry off her tray, not noticing how she jerked away. "Of course. Isn't that how your Mom cooks?"
"So. Did you guys hear we're getting a new student tomorrow?" Pete suddenly enquired.
"A week before Holiday Break?" Dale said absently.
"Freaky." Conner agreed, taking another bite of his friend's hero.
Angel woke with a start, jerking straight up in his red-satin sheeted bed. Even the best of us can't resist the clichés, he thought, running a jerky hand across the smooth surface, trying to block the dream out of his thoughts.
It didn't work, of course.
Neither did any of the other handy tricks of denial that had gotten him through the last fifteen years without thinking of . . . The Dream. Because there was no use remembering The Dream. The Dream was dead. And even if — it — wasn't, he could never have… The Dream. And he'd been pretty damn good about convincing himself of that for years. So why was it coming to him now?
Frustrated, he flopped back down against his silky pillows, closing his eyes – Forget the Dream! – and trying to get some more sleep.
Not happening.
He rolled over with a mild curse and took a look at the digital clock on his nightstand. 1:30. Five Hours. He'd run on less sleep in much worse condition. And he didn't need to be at full strength. They'd wrapped up the business with those Vespa demons for good and all last night. He winced, feeling the half-healed but still sore punctures where a red-skinned, harpy- esque creature had sunk her poisoned talons into his right shoulder.
"At least she missed the tattoo," he grumbled, getting out of bed. Conner would be home in an hour and a half, and it would probably be better if he got rid of his torn duster and blood-stained shirt before his son had a chance to see them. They hadn't spoken that morning, partly because Angel was so late, but mostly because he had almost fainted when they collided.
He pulled on a white tank top, bundled the ruined clothing under his arm, and headed up to the lobby.
"Cordelia!" he shouted automatically. "Can you take this out to the trash?"
He braced himself for the indignant protests of his secretary and friend, then froze. It wasn't Cordelia who came to stand in the doorway of the main office. It was a trio men, the last three men he'd ever expected to see in one room again.
To Be Continued….
Notes: I based Conner's personality more after drunken-Irish-human Liam and catty-charming-vampire Angelus than broody- ancient-vamp + soul Angel, cause I don't think heartbroken misery is an inherited trait. No Darla, 'cept for the eyes. The kid's got enough to deal with. Donovan's a name I've seen in several other Angel fics (by sane, reliable B/Aers), and since I don't remember ever hearing a last name, I'll go with it. If there's a real one, please send it to me so I can replace it.(
Send Feedback to TheTendoDojo@aol.com. Or I might be forced to do something drastic. Like start writing A/C fics.
Alright. Ewwwwwww. So nothing that drastic. But something pretty bad!