There had been a time, Nate Fisher knew, when he had excelled at this kind of thing. Talking to grieving people, providing them with a shoulder to cry on, sometimes literally. These days, he mostly looked in their smug, plastic faces and wanted to slap them. He had never intended to return to this. He wouldn't have if his sister Claire hadn't point-blank blackmailed him by pointing out that David needed him.
Unfortunately, David needing him didn't translate into getting David to finally open up about what had happened to David earlier this year, no, it translated into standing around with Rico in the funeral parlour, having to listen to Rico's tales of woe about his marriage troubles and into somehow being the one who ended up giving the new arrivals the guided tour to the coffin models and questioning them about the deceased. There was something about the Texas twang of the woman he found extremely irritating. Or perhaps it was her big, brown eyes and long brown hair. He listened to her babble about some ballet she had visited with her friend Cordelia and how Cordelia had shown her how to get good dresses for this and wondered whether she was a veggie, and whether she believed in reincarnation.
Well, after having seen his late wife in a dog, this probably qualified as progress.
The man who had come with her was English, or at least pretended to be. Nate could have told him to stop bothering. Nobody in Los Angeles was impressed by accents anymore; they were cheaper than a dime a dozen here. When Nate asked about the religious affiliation of the dead girl, he cleared his throat and said:
"I'm not sure. It has not – for some reason, it never came up."
"We offer services without any particular clergy present as well," Nate said, ignoring the old, buried instinct that told him to go for a kinder response and to give the guy an opportunity to talk about his dead friend. It wasn't as if it would do any good. To pretend any of this could help anyone get over the reality of death was the worst kind of hypocrisy, he knew that now.
"Well, Angel is Catholic," the Texas girl said anxiously. "At least, he used to be, right? I mean, can't we pick…"
"He had a fondness for convents," the wannabe Brit said. "It is hardly the same thing." Then he sighed, and in a gesture that looked as if he wanted to take non-existent glasses off to rub them, raised his hand to the level of his eyes, only to let it sink again. "I'm sorry, Fred," he said in a soft voice. "I still haven't… it was so sudden."
"If you really want a Catholic service," Rico, who up to this point had mostly been staring silently into space, undoubtedly pondering whatever went on between him and Vanessa, interjected, "I can recommend Father Geraldo."
"I just think that Cordy would want – well, some opulence, you know?" Fred said miserably. "And Catholics… it was just an idea."
"Maybe you'd like to decide on a model for the coffin first," Nate said in an effort to get on with the programme. Maybe that was the secret. Just get on with the programme. He hadn't been able to, back when he still cared about the people coming to them. They stood in front of the samples, and he remembered how excited David had been when they had bought this addition. Then he wondered whether he'd ever see David happy about something again, and the pang was unexpectedly sharp. To hell with this, Nate thought. What he should do was leave those two to Rico, go downstairs, and get David drunk, drunk enough to finally talk about the carjacking and whatever else had happened then.
"This one," said the man whose name had sounded as fake and overdone as his accent, for too British to be real, so Nate had promptly forgotten it. He pointed at the Eternal Night 2B model, and sounded so utterly sure and decisive that Nate was impressed, against his will. Normally, customers needed at least two or three attempts before they made up their minds, especially if they didn't come alone. Fred didn't argue, either, she just looked at the smooth ebony and nodded. Great. This meant Nate couldn't leave after all. They had just picked the most expensive model, and if he just dumped them on Rico, they might change their minds. David wouldn't like that at all. And they could use the money.
He checked the model on his sheet and guided them back to the sofa. The girl whispered:
"How did you…"
"You learn how to choose coffins as a Watcher," her companion replied, and Rico, who had heard him, too, gave Nate a look as if he wanted to make a remark about how they had ended up with a crazy cultist again. Nate shrugged.
Once everyone had sat down again, he said: "We will of course deal with the announcements and invitations to the service, if you provide us with a guest list."
"Harmony made one," Fred said, and pulled a neat computer print out from her purse, handing it over. Nate forbade himself to remember that Lisa had flirted with the idea of calling herself Harmony for a brief while when he had first met her in Seattle. He wasn't very successful.
"We also need your authorisation so the hospital in question will release the body to us," he said, jaw clenched, and presented the necessary document. This time, both Fred and the pseudo Brit looked at each other, unsure.
"Maybe Angel should…" the girl began, then bit her lip, took the document and signed it herself. Rico asked whether they had decided on the nature of the service as well, and repeated his recommendation of Father Geraldo. They gave in.
"But it should take place after sunset," Fred said, and Nate was surprised enough to let his face show it.
"Our employer and some of Cordelia's friends are somewhat allergic to light," Mr. Fake Double-Name said, apologetically. Rico gave Nate another look that clearly said "cultists". But he remembered burying what was left of Lisa in the desert, all through the night, and nodded.
"No problem."
After setting a date and taking them to the door, he returned and found Rico studying the list.
"Hey," Rico said. "These people know David Nabbit. That explains everything. Half of them will come to the funeral in Dungeons and Dragons outfits, wanna bet?"
The only thing Nate knew about David Nabbit was that the guy had invented the cell phone or something, but he remembered the last geekish funeral they had all too clearly, and hoped Ms. Chase would not come complete with a first edition comics as well.
"We should get those invitations posted right away," Rico continued, peering at the list. "Some of these guys live in Europe, and one in Africa. And one has to be a porn star."
Against his will, Nate took a closer look, but couldn't find any name he recognized.
"I mean, why else would anyone be called Buffy?"