Feedback: It makes me happy. Don't you want to make me happy?
Summary: AU. Angel O'Brien is trying his best to live a normal, safe life in L.A. But when his brother Angelus, CEO of Wolfram and Hart, forces him to return to the past he'd thought he'd escaped, Angel will have to deal with both his own inner demons and those of his friends if he wants to survive.
Author's Note: Everybody is human, and while most of the characters will stay in character, they will be different nonetheless. The timeline is obviously completely different from on BTVS and AtS. Most of this will be from Angel's point of view, but not all of it. Italics indicate thought.
A/N 2: Apologies to the readers for the time it's been taking me to post these last couple chapters. I've had a killer case of the flu, and instead of using my time wisely, I've been watching TV and drifting in and out of consciousness. shame
Dedicated to: Alvin, the chipmunk whose been hanging around outside my kitchen window.
June 14, 2005
4:45 AM
1212 Whedon Street
Angel was still exhausted. That in itself was strange, because he had slept at least a few solid hours on the way to Redgrass. Maybe his body just refused to feel rested when it had needed to curl nearly into a fetal position to be able to lay out on the seat. After yelling down to Wesley that he was going to catch a nap, Angel stretched out on the bed in his room.
It was not the most luxurious place he had ever slept in. The room was a small space, not very good for pacing. Seven steps left, seven steps right. There was a desk in the far-left corner and a bed across from it. The door opened nearly into a chest of drawers. A bare lightbulb and a lamp on the desk were the only sources of light. The walls were an off-white color that Angel couldn't identify, and there were no windows. That was it. If he had to define 'spartan', it would look like this. Still, the detective had slept in a Dumpster once, so this room really wasn't so bad. Besides, the sheets smelled dryer-fresh. Bliss.
But despite the fact that he felt the weariness in his bones and the bed was quite comfortable, Angel couldn't sleep. In fact, he was still practically humming. It was a strange contrast and Angel did not like it at all. After tossing and turning for a while, the detective sighed and pulled out his incredibly cool Nextel Walkie-talkie. Angelus had given it to him before he'd left L.A. The CEO's number was the first and only one on it, and Angel hit the button with relish. Oh, he might hate the game, but Angel loved the toys that came with it.
The phone rang twice before Angelus' voice came on, sounding grouchy. "Do you know what time it is?"
Angel snorted. "You put me on the red-eye flight. I have no sympathy for you."
The CEO sighed and Angel could hear the creak of bedsprings in the background. "I had logical reasons for putting you on a late flight. What's your excuse?"
"Revenge."
"Ah." In Angel's experience, Angelus did not get into Asshole Mode until he'd had his coffee. Logically, this would be the reverse, but Angelus O'Brien was a study in paradoxes. So in the meantime, the detective could look forward to a mostly insult-free conversation with his brother.
"Is there any particular reason why you didn't tell me it was Spike that I was partnered with?" The sheets were becoming warmer as Angel lay on them in only his pants, studying the spots on the ceiling. He felt nearly as peaceful as he had in the car.
"Yeah, I figured you would bitch and moan about it, and I didn't feel like dealing with that," Angelus responded. The detective could imagine his brother moving through his penthouse apartment, turning on lights as he went. He'd slept on the couch there enough times to have the layout memorized.
"Okay, but why am I needed at all? Spike has almost as much experience as I do, and he hasn't been out of the game for two years." Angel wasn't really trying to back out of the job, not when he was already in position to start doing some damage. It was more a point of curiosity than anything else.
"First of all, you haven't been out of the game, you've just been sitting on the sidelines like a sissy girl." There were beeps in the background, probably the coffee machine. "Secondly, on occasion, I will need you to pretend to be me, visiting Hamilton."
"Why?"
"Because while 'I' am there, no one will be looking for me."
"And that's when you can do all your sneaky business. No wonder the Senior Partners don't trust you."
Angelus laughed harshly. "The Senior Partners don't trust any of their employees, boyo. That's what makes Wolfram and Hart such an interesting and competitive place."
"But you could have just had me do your errands while you were in Redgrass," Angel pointed out. Birds were chirping somewhere outside. He didn't hear birds that much in L.A. The smog drove many of them off.
"The 'errands' would have made you squeamish."
"Also, being in Redgrass would make you a much easier target if Hamilton wanted to take you out. So better me than you."
"Well if you have to put a pessimistic spin on things, then yes, you are now the easier target." Angelus took a sip of something, doubtlessly coffee, and Angel mentally cursed. Great, now he'll have his caffeine hit and become a creep again. "Also, Spike is no longer allowed to command missions."
"Why?" What had the blonde menace done now?
"Last time he was on his own, he approached the man we were trying to get money out of in his own office." Another sip. "He was armed with a semi-automatic and an unopened bag of Fritos. He walked up to the target's desk, held up his bag of chips, and said 'This is you.' He then put the bag on the desk and slammed a law book down onto the chips, making them explode everywhere, and said 'This is you if you screw with us.' The resulting firefight caused $600,000 in damage to building, the street outside, and an emu."
"Ah." Spike really is crazy. "Wait, an emu?"
"It's hard to explain. Have you met the group yet?"
"Um, no, I'm in the room they gave me. The only person I've seen besides Spike is Wesley Windham-Pryce."
"Hmmm," Angelus muttered thoughtfully. "Watch out for him. He'll try and get inside your head."
Angel actually laughed at that one. "I've had to live with you all my life, Angelus. I really don't think some British guy who doesn't shave much is going to crack me."
"Excellent point. I'll talk with you later." Another sip, and silence. "Judging by the fact that you won't hang up the phone as I so clearly want you to, there's still something you want?"
"Am I only on this mission because I look like you and that's something you need?" Angel hadn't even been planning to say that. Apparently, his mouth was no longer connected to his brain.
The CEO sighed loudly over the phone before grating out, "If I give you some kind of pep talk, will you leave me alone?"
"Possibly."
"All right, fine. You are the best, Angel. You see the possibilities that others don't. That's what we're good at, you and I. Seeing the angles and finding ways to get in and out of a situation. If this plan is going to work, you have to be in it. Are you happy now?"
What a fascinating and multi-layered question that was. Was he happy? Had he ever really been happy? Angel remembered moments of happiness, of peace and contentment and joy, but that's all they were. Moments. So of course he wasn't happy. He wasn't made for being happy.
"It'll do," the detective told his brother solemnly.
"Good. Don't ever call me this early in the morning again unless there is a nuke heading straight for L.A." The click of disconnection echoed in Angel's ear. He felt tired now. Like the weight of the world had settled back onto his shoulders. But the detective was busy loosing himself in the warm sheets that smelled so clean that it made him shiver. Angel's eyes felt heavy and he drifted into sleep. He dreamed of mirrors that talked back.
Wesley's POVAs Angel made his phone call, Wesley was making a call of his own. Looking up and seeing someone who looked exactly like Angelus had nearly given the Englishman a stroke. But Angel was clearly different from his brother. Wesley was glad for this. Angel surely didn't have his brother's capacity for evil, and that would make things much easier.
"Yeah?" Spike answered when he finally picked up his phone.
"Have you collected the man from L.A.?" Wesley asked, leaning back in his chair. His spine had what felt like a permanent kink in it from leaning over his papers for so long.
"I have. Damn good thing the airport he arrived at was closer than Lansing." There was the noise of someone talking in the background and Spike hissed in annoyance. "This git keeps trying to change my radio station. No, no I will not turn on 'real music'! This is real music!"
"Are you having trouble, Spike?" Wesley asked, falsely sympathetic.
"No, it's just-get your hands off the bloody radio or I'm going to shoot you between the eyes!" Wesley could hear Spike sigh. "All right, maybe I am having some trouble. This guy is a much bigger pain in the arse than Peaches, 'least when it comes to the radio. Also, he keeps calling me Blondie. 'E's as bad as Harmony."
"Angelus' secretary?"
"Yeah, that's the one. No, we are not stopping to get a drink. 'Specially not some poncey seabreeze. They probably don't even make seabreezes in Michigan."
"I'm sure they do, somewhere," Wesley offered.
"Look, Percy, I'm trying to drive and keep this poof from changing my radio station. Is there something you wanted?"
"Actually, I wanted to yell at you," said Wesley calmly.
"Huh. Never reckoned you actually could yell at someone. Wanna try?"
"No thank you, I'm quite fine now. I only wish you had called before you actually arrived at our building. I'd have had the chance to tidy the place up." Wesley glanced around at the paper explosion that was the back portion of the warehouse. There wasn't a chance in hell that he would ever volunteer to clean it up. Clearing the floor alone would take days.
Spike laughed. "Lousy excuse, Head Boy. You wanted to be all prepared to 'evaluate him'." The blonde chuckled again.
Wesley was irritated that Spike had figured that out. The blonde was much more intelligent than his appearance would suggest, and Wesley would have to remember that. "Be that as it may, Spike, you should still call before you try to get into the building. If I hadn't heard your voice, I probably would've shot you." Which would have been fun, the Englishman thought wistfully.
"Sure, Percy, whatever you say. Was that all?"
"Yes." Try as he might, Wesley was unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
Spike muttered something impolite, assumedly to the person in his car, and then returned his attention to Wesley. "Can I give you some advice, four-eyes?"
Wesley scowled at the mention of his glasses. "Of course, but try not to be offended if I hang up in the middle."
"Will do. My advice, then, is to stop trying to outsmart Angelus. Don't try and beat him at his own game, because it's a game he made up and he'll always be number one at it. Figure out your own game."
The brunette could not figure out what the correct response was, so he simply said, "Goodbye, Spike."
"Be seein' ya, Percy."
Wesley turned his cell phone off and glanced at the ceiling. Up there was Liam O'Brien, brother of Angelus. Whether or not Liam knew it, he was closer to Angelus than anyone else on the planet. Wesley planned to use that to his advantage.
Things had not always been as complicated as they were for Wesley Windham-Pryce. There had been a time, admittedly long ago, when he had never needed to think about double-crossing and learning people's weaknesses. He had been a prominent member of the Watcher's Council, a semi-secret government organization designed to monitor criminal activities. He was second only to his own father in the amount of cases he had solved and arrests he had made. But that was before-
Enough, Wesley thought to himself. It was illogical to sit around thinking of all of the things that had gone wrong. Illogical, and not at all conducive to what he was trying to do. With one more upward glance, Wesley returned to his papers.
Angel POVIf Angel could have chosen one particular time to exist in, it would be the time just after waking up. When everything was warm, and soft, and quiet. The brunette closed his eyes, wishing he could stay beneath the covers in the comfortable darkness. But Angel's sense of responsibility was always there, and it drove him from his bed. After grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste, plus his shampoo, conditioner, and hair gel, the detective staggered from his room to the bathroom.
Fortunately for Angel, it was a clean bathroom. The white tiles had no suspicious stains on them, the toilet looked as if it was flushed regularly, and the mirror was fairly clean. A small mountain of folded towels sat in one corner, and Angel assumed that these were for everyone. Angel tended to brush his teeth for about two minutes, but this no longer made his gums bleed as it once had. Afterwards, he showered and spent a considerable amount of time making sure his hair was in order. This didn't make him vain. It didn't. He just liked to know that his hair would stay in place and not look silly. He dressed himself in a pair of loose jeans and a white T-shirt, and then went through the process of making sure none of his clothes had lint or deep wrinkles in them.
When Angel finally came down the stairs into the lower floor, it was to find Wesley in the exact same spot where he had been before. "Did you move at all?"
The man, sitting at his desk and making small notes on paper, didn't look up. "I let in Spike and the new man, but other than that, no."
"When do you sleep?" Angel wondered.
This at least caused Wesley to glance upwards. "When I can," he said, with a slight smile.
Angel smiled back and asked, "So where is Spike and this new guy?"
"Well, Angelcakes, I can't account for Spike, but I'm right here," came a voice from behind Angel. A familiar voice. A voice that most certainly should not have been in Redgrass, Michigan.
Krevlornswath Deathwok, a.k.a. Lorne, was most recognizable due to two features: his rather beak-like nose and his bizarre yellow-orange hair color. Other than those two things, Lorne was a normal-looking, extremely well dressed guy and certainly did not warrant the horrified stare that Angel was giving him now.
"Um, Angel? Muffin? Is there something on my face?" Lorne asked, looking in confusion at his friend.
"WHAT are you doing here?" Angel asked after several tries. Lorne and Angel knew each other well, being as how Angel was a frequent visitor to his nightclub, Karitas. The drinks were good enough to block out the karaoke going on in the background, and Lorne often helped the detective find new clients. But this was not L.A., and therefore Lorne should not have been standing in front of him. Unfortunately, this logic contrasted sharply with reality.
"I'll take that to mean you aren't happy to see me," Lorne said with a shrug.
"You two know each other, then?" Wesley asked redundantly.
"Me and Angelwings here? We go way back."
Wesley looked perplexed. "'Angelwings'?"
"Lorne, what are you doing here?" Angel asked again, going up and poking Lorne in the chest just to make sure he was real.
Lorne patiently moved the detective's hand away from him. "Twelve days ago, a friend of mine who lives in this area and also runs a club called, wondering if I'd be interested in a partnership. Being as how business has never been better, I declined." Lorne sat down in one of the chair that were scattered around the backroom. "Four days after that, your pretty yet oh-so-terrifying brother came and visited my humble establishment. He advised that it would be in my best interest to take move on up to Michigan. Even offered to pay for my traveling and expenses. And so here I am." He spread his arms and smiled, looking slightly nauseous nonetheless.
"You didn't mistake him for me at first, did you?" Angel asked, wincing. People who confused the twins often were faced with unpleasant surprises.
"Oh God no," Lorne snorted. "His clothes are much more expensive. Besides, he had his creepy turned on high. Gotta give him points for the leather pants though."
"Leather pants?" Angel and Wesley asked at the same time.
"I believe he was going clubbing and couldn't fit threatening me into any other day." Lorne shrugged. "Don't suppose you have a drink around here anywhere?"
"We got white wine in the fridge," Spike told him, emerging from the staircase. Angel decided he must have come up while the detective was showering, and made a mental note to start paying attention like the hitman he was. To have Lorne and Spike both be around without him ever noticing was unacceptably sloppy. Sloppy gets you killed, he reminded himself sternly.
"We have wine?" Wesley actually put down his pen to consider this. "Why?"
"You have a fridge?" Angel asked. "Where?"
"Food just shows up in there, Wesley, you know as well as I do that no one knows where it comes from. Peaches, there's a little room on the side of the warehouse where we have a fridge and a TV," Spike pointed to a door on the far side of the room. "Surprised you didn't see it, old man. Are you getting senile?"
"No, Spike, I was just blinded from hours of staring at your hair," Angel snapped, hiding his own annoyance that he hadn't spotted the door. I really am out of it. "Anyway, Lorne, what does a club have to do with you being here?"
"I believe I can answer this," Wesley cut in. "The club your friend called you about, was it called the Cold Front?" Lorne nodded. "Right. That's a club located just outside of Redgrass, and a good portion of the workers visit it when their shifts end. Because the Cold Front is privately owned, we haven't been able to get a decent spy in it. But it seems Angelus has taken care of this problem on his own."
"Wish he'd tell us about things like this," Spike muttered, flopping down in one of the motley assortment of chairs.
"Really? None of you had any idea why I was here?" Lorne asked. When Wesley and Spike shook their heads, Lorne looked troubled. "That's…really not encouraging. Where'd you say that wine was?"
As Lorne rummaged through the refrigerator, Angel leaned against the doorway and examined the heretofore-unknown room. It was very small, about the size of his bedroom, and there was barely space to open the door before it ran into the fridge. A medium-sized TV (connected to a very expensive looking, probably stolen, VCR) was perched on a dangerously unsteady corner table. A lawn chair was set in front of the TV, in the reclined position, and a bare lightbulb was the only source of illumination, besides the fridge light and the TV itself.
"Everything here is strange," Angel remarked to his friend, who was examining the wine with distaste.
"Yeah, especially this crappy Wal-Mart brand wine," Lorne responded, looking the bottle up and down as if deciding whether or not it was poisoned.
"Did Angelus tell you I was here?" Angel asked, following Lorne out into the main room.
"Do you have a corkscrew?" Lorne asked Wesley, who rummaged in his desk until he, miraculously, pulled one out. To Angel, the club owner said, "He did indeed tell me that you were here. If he hadn't, I would've taken my chances and run as fast as my somewhat-inebriated legs could carry me." Lorne looked at Angel for a moment. "But you aren't happy that I'm here."
"It's not that," Angel told his friend. "It's just that seeing people from L.A. here, now, is really disturbing. No offense. It's like seeing a polar bear in the Sahara Desert."
"Fair enough," said Lorne with a nod. "Blondie, I don't suppose you have actual cups as opposed to that stack of plastic ones sitting by you?" Spike shook his head and tossed Lorne a cup.
Lorne sighed in a very put-upon way, uncorked the wine, and poured it into the plastic cup. "Nothing like cheap wine from a crappy cup," he reflected cheerfully after taking a sip. "You want any, milk dud?"
"Yeah, why not?" Angel took the proffered bottle, grabbed a cup of his own, and took a sip. Wow. This really is cheap wine. He took another sip nonetheless.
"Milk dud?" Spike asked curiously. "Always knew you were a poof."
"I thought we agreed not to call me that," Angel told Lorne tersely, after shooting Spike a filthy look. Lorne simply shrugged and poured himself more wine. Angel chose a chair, cleared off some of the papers on it, and relaxed backwards into it. The four men sat in comfortable silence, broken only by Spike asking for some of the booze. When Angel looked towards Wesley to ask if he wanted to partake in the Wal-Mart wine, he was startled to find the Englishman was staring straight at him in that very unnerving way.
Brow furrowed, Angel opened his mouth to ask what was so fascinating, but at that moment came three sharp knocks on the door, followed by a voice shouting, "Yo, it's Gunn. Open up."
Spike grabbed the keys that sat on Wesley's desk and opened the door, admitting a tall black man and a short, very skinny, white woman. They both glanced curiously at Lorne, but Angel was unprepared for the way they stopped short and looked with something akin to horror at him.
Finally, hostility nearly radiating off of him, the black man asked, "What is he doing here?"
Oh. Now he knew what was going on. It had happened dozens of times before. Carefully setting the wine cup on the floor, Angel stood up. "I'm not Angelus," he said quietly. "I'm his twin brother. The name's Angel."
"Gunn," the black man said. Angel would have flinched and started looking for the weapon if he hadn't remembered Spike telling him about their 'spymaster'. "You the guy that's been sent to look over our shoulders?" Gunn looked unimpressed.
"I've been sent to take over operations, yeah," Angel responded, crossing his arms. Great. Gunn was not going to make things easy, he could tell already.
"Oh goody," Gunn sighed. To Wesley, he asked, "English, are we gonna debrief or can I go up to my room and get some shut eye?"
"I thought it best to go over the events of tonight and introduce everybody," Wesley explained, and Angel was interested to note that Gunn seemed to at least tolerate orders from Wesley. So if I can't get Gunn to do something, maybe Wesley can.
"Whatever," the spymaster responded, flopping down in one of the chairs. He glanced at Lorne. "Who are you?"
"I'm Lorne, and you're very hostile," the club owner responded, looking Gunn up and down.
Gunn paused, as if trying to decide whether or not to be offended, but in the end he merely shrugged. "Yeah, I get that sometimes."
A small movement drew Angel's attention to the woman, who had been standing unobtrusively behind Gunn. She was, as he had previously observed, extremely skinny, but very pretty. "Hi," she greeted, and her smile was the warmest one he had seen since leaving Doyle and Cordelia in L.A.
Angel smiled back, despite wondering what this woman was doing working for Wolfram and Hart. Sure, sometimes the nicest people could turn out to be serial killers, but the little brunette's kindness seemed to be real. "Hi. I, um, didn't catch your name."
"Oh," she laughed, and Angel placed her accent as classic Texas. "I'm Winifred Burkle, but that's kind of a mouthful, so most people just call me Fred."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Fred," Angel smiled.
"Nice to meet you too." She shifted her eyes towards Lorne. "I didn't forget you or anything, Lorne, wasn't it? It's really nice to meet you too. I like your hair. It's kind of strawberry colored."
Angel could tell already that Lorne was charmed by this girl, and his smile was very wide as he said, "Well thank you, sweetie. Your hair's very nice too, and it's actually natural, which gives you bonus points."
Spike cleared his throat loudly, and asked, "So everyone knows each other? Jolly good. Here's a quick rundown of what everybody does, for those who just got here." The blonde pointed as Wesley. "Percy here knows everything. He's like a walking episode of Jeopardy, so if you have any questions about random, stupid bollocks, like why the sky is blue, go to him. He also knows something about everyone, so don't tell him any deep dark secrets. Plus, he's very good with weapons and the weapons trade in general, which is impressive for someone as prissy as him." Wesley sent Spike a foul look, which his countryman ignored.
Spike pointed at Fred. "That leads us to Fred. She's our weapons expert, and works undercover in Hamilton's weapons ring. Scares the hell out of the men working there. Also, she can kill you with math, if need be." Fred rolled her eyes and tried not to smile.
"Over there, we have Charlie boy." Gunn had propped his feet up on another nearby chair and raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting to see what Spike had to say about him. "He works undercover at the docks. Anything goes down in Redgrass, he knows about it. If he doesn't, he isn't doing his job."
"And what do you do, Spike?" Angel asked.
"Me? Well, I'm just talented at everything."
Angel snorted. If he had been in a mean mood, he would have brought up poetry, but the wine had made him even mellower than usual. Plus, he actually liked Spike's poems.
Spike, seeing that Angel had no comment, continued, "For those of you who don't know, Angel is here to pretend he's in charge and make sure that everything runs smoothly. And possibly impersonate his brother once or twice. And Lorne, apparently, is going to be our man in the Cold Front."
Silence reigned for a moment as everyone digested the information. Eventually, Wesley stood up and said, "Well, I suppose we should discuss what's happened tonight."
Angel settled in for what he knew from experience was going to be a long, boring regurgitation of facts that he would have to wade through in order to find snippets of useful information. Oh joy.