Author: Eloise
Rating: PG13
Timeline: Season 5 – set after 5.12
Author's Notes: Title and quotes from 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling' and 'Whiskey in the Jar'. Huge and heartfelt thanks to my wonderful betas, janedavitt and lonelybrit.
The Challenge
Written for: Doyle
Requirements:
Character: Angel
Genre: Humour
And: Wolfram & Hart
Restrictions: No B/A and no PWP
Spoiler Max Level: Unrestricted
Rating Max Level: R
The eerie wailing floated down the corridor, a sad anguished moan that held a note of true desperation. Wesley was reminded suddenly of the ghost stories his Irish nanny used to tell. She had revelled in the tale of her grandfather's meeting with a poor keening soul at the side of the road one cruel winter's night. And the man had been thrown from his horse not a fortnight later, and those at the wake had nodded sagely and agreed that John McCrea had indeed seen the Banshee, for hadn't he ridden off in search of help for the old biddy, and when he had returned not half an hour later, wasn't the woman gone, and no sign of her to be found.
When his curiosity had finally overcome his terror, Wesley had sneaked into his father's library and read up on the legend. He had learned that even if such a thing did exist, only those whose ancestry boasted a Mc or an O prefixed surname were susceptible, so he was fairly sure that ruled him out. He remembered the source text now, as the current wailing grew louder and more heartbreaking. To see the banshee meant your own demise; to hear it meant the death of someone close to you. And considering he was now working for Wolfram and Hart, that wasn't so very unlikely.
He rounded the corner and was relieved to find that the source of the despair was decidedly less supernatural than his imaginings. Harmony was bent over her desk, her fluffy blonde hair curtaining her face, alternately howling and snivelling into an already sodden handkerchief. He frowned and wondered briefly if he could sneak back around the corner and pretend he hadn't seen her, but vampire senses alerted her to his presence before he could make his escape.
'Wah… Wa…Wesley!' she wailed, making his name into a lamentation all on its own.
Sighing under his breath, Wesley approached her cautiously, putting out a hand to pat her shoulder in a pathetically clueless gesture.
'There, there, Harmony,' he floundered helplessly. 'Come on now, this won't do. Whatever's got you in such a state can't be that bad, surely.'
Clearly this was the wrong thing to say as the bawling increased in volume, accompanied by hiccupping sobs and shudders. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his own handkerchief, handing it to Harmony with a degree of resignation. She blew her nose loudly into the crisp linen square, and then handed it back to him.
'No, really, keep it,' he said hastily. 'I insist.'
She took a couple of gulping, unnecessary breaths and scrubbed her swollen eyes with the back of her hand. 'Thank you.' Her shoulders heaved involuntarily as she tried to bring herself back under control, and he felt a real pang of sympathy for her.
'Is there something I can do for you? A glass of water, perhaps, or maybe a mug of blood? I could get one heated up for you, if you'd like.'
As Harmony threw her head onto her arms and began sobbing in earnest, Wesley belatedly realised that his suggestions had possibly been more of an aggravation than a consolation. He decided that the water suggestion was fairly innocuous, thus it was his offer of blood that had induced this current bout of weeping.
'Was it the blood? I didn't mean to embarrass you, I'm sorry.'
She shook her head, and garbled something on an intake of breath, which she seemed to be doing far too often for someone who didn't actually need to breathe. Years of practice at translating the clicks, wheezes and grunts of some of the most phonetically challenging demon languages stood him in good stead for her explanation.
Apparently she had gone into Angel's office with his morning mug of blood, and had tripped on her, and here he wasn't sure but it might have been, Jimmy Choo's, spilling the drink on the file he'd been reading. Things got a bit hazy then, what with the snorting and hiccupping, but the general gist of it was that Angel had yelled at her, threatening to fire, decapitate or stake her if she ever showed her dumb blonde airhead in his office again.
'Well, perhaps you just caught him at a bad time,' he offered weakly, giving her trembling shoulder another useless pat. 'I'm sure if you give him time to calm down, this will all blow over.'
The almighty crash and shards of flying glass that accompanied these words were less than encouraging. He shied away from the debris, and then turned to investigate the cause. Which was of course Spike.
He was lying on the floor a good ten feet from the shattered remains of Angel's office window, inventing new and interesting combinations of his standard obscenities.
Wesley dusted the fine coating of powdered glass from his shirt, and frowned slightly.
'You know, we really ought to think about getting some sort of reinforced glass for that particular window. Considering how often it gets broken.'
Spike managed to pull himself to his knees and ran his hand over his lacerated face. 'So next time the dork decides to chuck me through the window, I can just knock myself out cold instead of suffering death by a thousand cuts?'
'The downside being?' Wesley sniped caustically.
'Screw you, Percy,' Spike said, without any particular animosity, raising his hand in a lazy two-fingered salute to Wesley. He finally noticed Harmony's distress. 'What did you do to Harm?'
Wesley glanced at the still sniffling woman, who mumbled something incoherent from behind his handkerchief.
'Angel. Not in the best of moods this morning.'
Spike threw him a sardonic look. 'No? Really? Never would have guessed.'
Wesley ignored the sarcasm. 'Threatened to fire her, or it could have been set on fire, it was hard to tell.'
Spike slowly stood up, rubbing his shoulder carefully. 'Big Bad Boss man's throwing a hissy fit this morning, Harm. Don't take it personally.'
She snuffled something about mascara, and tottered off to tend to her lashes, almost bumping into Fred on her way.
'Harmony, are you alright?'
Harmony shook her head quickly, then hurried down the corridor, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle the latest bout of sobbing.
Fred approached them, waving her hand at the retreating vampire. 'What happened to Harm…' she broke off, noticing the remains of the window strewn around them. 'Oh. Okay, that happened.'
Spike sighed. 'Nah, that wasn't Harmony. That was me. Harmony was earlier.'
Fred looked enquiringly at Wesley for clarification.
'I think Harmony spilled blood on some papers Angel was working on. And this,' he waved airily at the wreckage, 'was just Spike pissing Angel off. By his existence, I should think.'
Spike gave him the fingers again, but Wesley noticed he didn't disagree.
'Oh. So should I be concerned that Angel just called me up here to discuss my department's budget overspend?'
'Run now, while you still have the chance, pet,' Spike said, adjusting his coat and brushing the last of the glass from his hair. Wesley threw him an exasperated glance and lifted his own file from Harmony's desk.
'Don't worry, Fred. I have some reports for Angel myself. I'm sure he'll be quite reasonable.'
He gave her his most encouraging smile, and led the way to Angel's office.
The vampire in question was standing behind his leather chair, arms folded across his broad chest, somewhere between glowering and brooding. The word browering popped unbidden into Wesley's mind, and he wondered if it actually existed, as it was such a perfect word for the angry frown that creased the massive forehead.
'Wesley.'
Not a happy 'Hi, good to see you, Wes, we're all friends here,' kind of Wesley. More the 'What the hell are you doing here when I asked to see Fred' kind of Wesley.
'Angel.' He kept his own tone light and conversational, which was quite tricky with only the one word.
'Did I send for you?'
Wesley felt his own temper begin to fray.
'No, you did not send for me. I was unaware I needed a summons before I could approach the inner sanctum. I could have made an appointment with your secretary, but I'm afraid she's indisposed at the moment, as you're well aware.'
Angel unfolded his arms and if possible his brow lowered even further. 'I have a meeting with the Head of my Science department now. I don't remember inviting you to attend.'
Behind Wesley, Fred made a little noise, expelling her breath in a soft squeak. She was edging slowly to the door.
'Fred, stay here.' Angel came out from behind his desk and took a step towards them.
Wesley moved in front of him. 'Go on, Fred. You and Angel can have your meeting later.' He knew the vampire could hear his heart hammering the 1812 overture in his chest, but he held his ground. Albeit with wobbling legs. When he was sure Fred had left, Wesley turned to face the CEO of Wolfram and Hart.
'I don't know what's got into you today, Angel. First you upset Harmony, and then you had the fight with Spike, not that that's anything unusual, mind you, he does tend to get on your nerves a bit, doesn't he, but we can't afford to keep replacing the window every time Spike rubs you up the wrong…er… I mean annoys you…' Wesley was aware that he was babbling incessantly.
'Shut up.'
Wesley was so shocked by the command that he obeyed it.
'I've got a very busy morning, and you are not scheduled to be part of it. When I want your opinion of my management skills I'll ask for it. Until then I'd really appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut and your ass out of my office.'
Wesley knew his mouth was hanging open, as if someone had unhinged his jawbone. Angel returned to his desk, and sat down in the black leather chair. He picked up a pen and looked up, as if noticing that Wesley was still there.
'Was there something else you wanted?'
He shook his head dumbly, unable to form a coherent sentence with his flapping jaw.
Angel turned his attention to a slightly blood-stained document in front of him.'
'Good.'
Spike was lounging casually against Harmony's desk as Wesley retreated from the office.
'So, I take it that went well, then,' he said, a nasty little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 'Head Boy in trouble with the headmaster. Did he take away your prefect badge?'
'Oh, sod off, Spike.'
'Now then, boys, no quarrelling.' A velvet suited Lorne wafted down the corridor, followed by a more conservatively dressed Gunn, who was carrying what looked like a contracts file.
'I wouldn't go in there, if I were you,' Spike observed, and Fred nodded her agreement vigorously. 'Percy here just got his backside smacked by the boss.'
'Metaphorically.' Wesley growled through gritted teeth, noticing how Lorne's gaze promptly focused on that particular part of his anatomy.
'Can't say I'm surprised,' Lorne said thoughtfully. 'This mood's been building for a while now. The responsibility of leadership weighing heavy on our captain's shoulders, and all that.'
Spike snorted. 'Responsibility my arse. The great poof's on a bloody round the world ego trip.'
Wesley nodded reluctantly. 'As much as it pains me to admit it, I think Spike may be right. I think perhaps all this power,' he waved his hand vaguely at the offices around them, 'May be going to Angel's head.'
'The ivory tower syndrome.' Fred added.
'And people who live in ivory towers,' Lorne began, but was interrupted by Spike.
'Shouldn't throw stones?' he offered.
'That's glass houses,' Wesley snapped, still smarting from Angel's dismissal. 'You're mixing your metaphors.'
'You want your metaphorical arse kicked? 'Cos I'd be happy to do it.'
Wesley reached over Harmony's desk and seized the nearest pencil. 'Would anyone here mind if I just staked him right now?'
Gunn folded his arms across his chest and smiled. 'Works for me, Wes.'
Fred laid her hand on Wesley's arm. 'Could we focus on the problem here, guys?'
He reluctantly relinquished the pencil and tried not to notice the smirk on Spike's face.
'Angel's become too removed from reality, he needs to get more in touch with the world,' Fred continued.
Gunn nodded his agreement. 'Got to get the man back to his roots.'
Lorne gave a sudden squeal of excitement. 'Oh, you've hit the nail on the head!' He was already fumbling inside his jacket pocket for his cell phone. 'And tomorrow of all days would be perfect!' He pressed speed dial and within moments was in earnest conversation.
'Mike, sweetie! Lorne here, over at WH. Loved that party you did for me at Christmas. The elves were a hoot. Now I know it's short notice and all, but I'm desperate… tomorrow, sweetcheeks. I know, I know, you've probably a million and one things on, but as a favour? For me?'
The smile on Lorne's face grew broader and broader.
And somewhere far above them a pair of hazel green eyes creased with impish delight as their owner set about weaving a spell, humming softly to himself.
Angel stomped morosely into the office, trying to avoid eye contact with an evidently still chagrined Harmony. She was being especially polite and oh so helpful, carrying her justified hurt in the stiff set of her shoulders. He wasn't going to apologize; it wasn't his fault if the stupid woman couldn't choose more appropriate office footwear.
And he didn't even want to think about the other confrontations he'd had yesterday. He sat down heavily and rested his elbows on the desk, covering his face with his palms. He wondered if it was possible for vampires to suffer from migraines. He'd have to ask Wesley to look into that. If the Englishman ever spoke to him again.
His guilt trip was interrupted by an unrelentingly cheery warbling outside his office. A greener than usual Lorne poked his head around the door, still half-humming.
'We'd go roving in Kilkenny
He would treat me fairer
Than my darling sporting Jenny…'
'Oh, top of the morning to you, my bold deceiver,' he chirruped.
Angel massaged his aching temples very slowly and deliberately.
'I am so not in the mood, Lorne,' he whispered through tightly clenched teeth.
The demon perched himself on the arm of a leather armchair, totally ignoring his warning.
'Oh, you've been in a mood for days now, angel eyes. As Spike so colourfully put it, you're so uptight we could shove a piece of coal up your ass and get a diamond.'
Angel kneaded his forehead with his knuckles and growled softy. Lorne continued on obliviously.
'You need to relax, unwind from the tensions and worries of senior management.'
That part actually seemed to make sense. He looked at Lorne, who flashed him a convincingly sympathetic grin.
'Relaxing sounds okay. Wha…what did you have in mind?'
'See, I knew you'd love it, what with it being today and all.'
Not for the first time, Angel wondered if he was indeed in hell, and therefore condemned to suffer this sort of nonsensical conversation over and over for the rest of eternity. He'd take hot pokers over this any day.
'What did you do, Lorne?' His voice was weary with resignation.
For the first time he heard a hint of nerves in the demon's voice.
'Just a little get together for the staff this evening. Drinks and live music. To celebrate the occasion.'
A party. Must be confirmation of his arrival in hell, then. And what exactly did he mean by the occasion? He looked down at his desk calendar.
'Oh, no, Lorne, tell me you didn't do this. Please.'
'It'll be tasteful. No dye in the beer, I swear.'
Angel lowered his head onto his desk and groaned once, very softly.
'Oh, come on, you'll enjoy it once it starts.' Lorne stood up. 'It's all about reconnecting with people. Making amends? Any of this sounding familiar?' He folded his arms across his chest and gave him a surprisingly stern look.
Angel lifted his head a fraction. 'Okay, okay. As long as we're clear. It'll be a casual get together, a few drinks after work, nothing elaborate, right?'
'That's what I had planned,' Lorne trilled, clearly lying through his teeth. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust from emerald crushed velvet, and floated out of the office.
'Is this on tap?' Wesley held up his half drunk pint with undisguised admiration, a telltale smudge of cream on his upper lip.
'Shipped in specially for the party. Cost me and an arm and a leg. Luckily not my own.' At the look of unconcealed horror, Lorne relented. 'Just kidding, muffin.'
Angel took a sip from his own glass, and relaxed a little. This wasn't so bad. The folk group Lorne had hired were actually quite good, and it was all he could do to keep his foot from tapping in time with the bodhran.
Spike, of course, was the first to notice this.
'Going to give us a jig, then?'
Angel stilled his leg with some difficulty. 'If you think I'm going to make a fool of myself in front of the staff, you're soft in the head, so you are.'
Spike, Wesley and Lorne all turned to look at him.
'What did you just say?' Wesley's brow was furrowed, as if he were trying to remember something.
'What?'
Spike grinned evilly. 'You said 'so you are'.'
'I never did.' He was sure of it.
'Did too.'
'I did not.' He appealed to the linguist. 'Wes, sure I didn't?'
'You're doing it now, Angel. Tagging colloquially.'
'Reverting to type, Liam m' boy!' Spike licked his lips wickedly.
'Getting back to your roots.' Lorne put his hand over his mouth, failing to smother a snigger. 'Somebody up there heard us.'
Angel opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get a word out, Spike was over with the band, grabbing a microphone.
'Well, folks, looks like the big guy wants to give us a song in honour of the day.'
Even as he tried to shake his head, Angel's feet were carrying him over to the microphone, as Spike conferred with the group. He winced as he recognized the first strains of the trite melody, but couldn't prevent himself from singing.
'When Irish eyes are smiling
Sure it's like a morning spring
In the lilt of Irish laughter
You can hear the angels sing
When Irish hearts are happy
All the world seems bright and gay
And when Irish eyes are smiling
Sure they steal your heart away.'
Angel continued to sing off key, acutely aware of the looks of horrified fascination on the faces of his staff. As if they were watching a train wreck in progress, but couldn't quite bring themselves to turn away.
He was in hell.
'You know what I love most about Heaven?'
She flopped into the armchair beside him and took a sip of champagne that was deliciously cool, despite the comfortable warmth from the real peat fire.
'Getting to preview the new Manolo Blahnik collection pre season?' He swallowed a mouthful of Black Bush and grinned at her.
She eyed the beaded threads of silk that ran over the top of her foot and sighed appreciatively. 'Well, that. Obviously. But this,' she gestured to the TV screen in the corner of the room and giggled wildly, 'is just so much fun.'
On screen, a mortified Angel was now stripped to the waist, his hands stiff by his sides, his legs flailing wildly in what appeared to be a very poor approximation of Riverdance. Cordelia snorted softly and wiped her eyes.
'Oh, Doyle, that was just mean. How could you!' She didn't sound particularly mad.
'Well, can you think of a better way to celebrate the day than watching Angel making a complete eejit of himself in public.'
She reached over and touched the back of his hand lightly.
'Missed you, Doyle.'
He smiled tenderly, and returned the gentle touch.
'Happy St. Patrick's Day, Princess.'