Posted: 09-15-2007
Email: damnskippytoo@gmail.comRating: PG-13 through
NC-17
Content: C/A, F/G, AI Gang Friendship
Category: Humor,
Fluff
Summary: A challenge by Sarah at the Fire Still Burns - Summer Beach
House forum. I will post the challenge at the end to avoid spoiling you but, in
general, the gang needs a break and go on a picnic.
Spoilers: Through S2 and first part of S3 I guess
Disclaimer: The
characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt
and are owned by Fox. No infringement is intended, no profit is made and no
enjoyment was received from asshat’s treatment of them.
Distribution: Anywhere, but please ask
Notes: I posted this a
few years ago solely at FSB where the challenge originated but only just this
week finished it. I will post the last two parts in a few days.
Enjoy!
Part
1Our English DeadCordelia wiped the remains of
the mushed Bulacka eyeball from her sword. Thumb and forefinger barely clasped
the rag as it slid against the metal, the other three fingers stretched as wide
as possible to keep from touching the icky remains.
“Ewww and did I
say…ewww?” Cordy said, her cheeks pinched against her nose and her forehead
scrunched up in the universal sign that said
God, please don’t let this be my
life.Wesley looked around the lobby of Angel Investigations and was
slapped in the face by a tsunami of fatigue and ennui.
Fred’s thin arms
cradled her head as she draped her battle-wearied body across the poof. The
strap to the vacuum cleaner/mystical power sucking device she’d invented just
for tonight’s demon was still slung across her shoulders too heavy for her to
lift off.
Gunn had given up trying to pretend he wasn’t half dead when he
had trudged down the steps and dove very ungracefully face first onto the couch,
his axe arm ending up flopping lifelessly on the floor. The missing axe had slid
from his grasp as soon as he had crossed the door’s threshold.
Cordelia –
brave and ever the cheerleader – was at least trying to maintain some semblance
of order and life by trying to scrub the remains of the demon from her katana,
but even that was slow and lackadaisical. He could see what she really wanted
was to not care enough to stay. Those once-sharp eyes were now blurry and looked
longingly at the exit and a life that never once dripped or oozed or even
smelled of anything other than roses and citrus.
But the most frightening
image was Angel. The warrior upon whose shoulders everyone’s lives and
livelihoods rested looked beaten, ready to call the mission a failure and pass
out severance checks.
He sat on the floor next to the weapons cabinet
with his knees bent. It was telling of his exhaustion that his hands - cut,
bloodied and bruised - hung from his limp wrists as they draped over his knees,
never once even twitching from the pain he must be experiencing. So much languor
consumed his body that he couldn’t summon the strength to keep his head from
tipping forward and his chin digging into his chest. But the fact that he didn’t
care that his leather coat was bunched on his back as a result of sliding down
the side of the cabinet gave Wesley cause for grave concern.
Three weeks
straight of battles with demons and vampires and Wolfram & Hart flunkies
without respite was enough. They all felt as if they’d been fighting an
apocalypse every day and it was decidedly too much.
Wesley’s mind
whirled, albeit slowly and with many skips and chugs along the way because he
was just as worn out as the others, but finally he came to a decision. They
needed a break. At this point, they were the helpless and it was his job as boss
to make sure his friends and allies were not only ready for battle physically
but mentally and spiritually as well.
He realized at that moment how lax
he’d been in that area. A tough taskmaster all his life, especially to himself,
he wasn’t familiar with how one actually
let loose as Cordelia would
probably phrase it. Comfort and fun for him was satisfied by a few ales at the
pub and a rousing round of darts, but he was not foolish enough to think that
would do more than drag even more sighs from the hearts of these, for the most
part, modern Americans.
Think, Wesley. What do Americans enjoy doing
and especially Americans with limited time, money and access to daylight?
His search for the perfect relaxing yet fun group activity was interrupted by
Cordelia’s voice.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sick of fighting
in sewers and urine and rotted-trash stinky dark alleys. Where’s the ritual
sacrifice at Tiffany’s? There’s got to be a diamond demon god, right? Heck, I’d
even be happy to risk motion sickness to cut off a few claws on the Teacups at
Disneyland. And where’s all those evil sea demons, huh? Is it too much to ask to
chop a few heads off to the sound of waves crashing and the salty tang of a sea
breeze wafting through their slimy, stringy hair? Seriously. I’m
asking.”
No one had the energy to look at her much less respond. Gunn did
manage a muffled “go girl” from his cushioned-covered mouth.
“Eureka!”
Wesley shouted and even that didn’t garner anyone’s attention except Cordelia
who seemed to think at least someone was going to answer her.
“You
figured out why we only find demons in sewers and dark alleys?” she
asked.
“No,” Wesley said. “I have no idea why that happens. No, I’ve
discovered the solution to our problem.”
“Which problem would that be,
Wes, because I can think of at least thirty-two off the top of my head and I’m
too tired to think,” Cordy said as she put the now fairly clean sword back into
the cabinet. She looked down at Angel and gave him a little nudge with her toe.
He was too tired to even growl.
“Yes, well, I’m still working on your
problem of chronic tardiness, but there seems to be no solution available in
this dimension at least.”
“Cute, but not in any way making me feel
guilty. Why anyone expects me to be here at nine in the freakin’ morning when,
hello, it’s three a.m. now and still here!”
Wesley curbed his natural
instinct to mention that she’d only been in the office since six that evening to
begin with and that their mission wasn’t exactly a 40-hour, nine to five kind of
business either. Instead he breathed once and shook out his curled fingers
before responding.
“As are we all, Cordelia, which is actually part of my
point if I may finish. As you are all aware, these last few weeks have been more
than stressful. And, barring any visions or other emergencies, I propose – no, I
insist – we take tomorrow evening off and spend the time together rejuvenating
our spirits in a completely different atmosphere.”
He tut-tutted Cordy’s
attempt to interrupt with what he feared would be either an objection to being
forced to spend time off with the group or, worse yet, a suggestion that they do
so at a fashion or celebrity function.
“I propose we take advantage of
what Los Angeles has to offer and spend the evening having a wonderfully simple
and relaxing picnic at the beach. As you pointed out, Cordelia, we’ve yet to
encounter a demon from the sea, so I believe the odds would be in our favor to
actually get through an entire evening violence free.”
Wesley smiled and
waited for the praise of his brilliant idea to commence. When no one said
anything, his smile began to fade and immediately drooped when he sensed
Cordelia about to speak.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” she said. “In
fact, I’ll even come in early – well, early as in late afternoon - and help you
plan the menu and food shop. Hey, it’s not the mall, but chips…Choos…practically
the same thing.”
“Thank you, Cordelia.” Wesley gave a mental sigh. With
Cordy on his side, the others wouldn’t dare consider not participating. “So,
what does everyone else think?”
From the round sofa, Fred yawned and
said, “Sounds fun,” before smacking her lips together and burrowing into her
arms for a longer and sounder sleep.
Gunn finally moved his face from
being buried in the cushion to just laying the side of it there and said, “Yeah,
sure, whatever,” before joining Fred in lip-wetting, saliva-swallowing
slumber.
Both Wesley and Cordy looked to the black lump in the corner to
make it one-hundred percent approval. When no sound or movement came from that
area, Cordy stepped forward and kicked him again and shouted in his
ear.
“Hey, Champion of the People, do you wanna go on a picnic or
not?”
Angel jerked awake with enough energy to make his head lift and
pound backward into the cabinet. “Huh, wha…ow!”
Cordy just snorted and
mumbled, “Dork.”
“I think that’s a yes on his part, Wes. Okay, I’ve done
my duty and this Girl Scout is heading home to get my merit badge in bubble
bath." She yawned through her, "Night all,” and the heavy fall of her feet on
the steps echoed in the morgue-like hall.
Outside the double doors, her
slow and rhythmic gait lulled Wesley. The dimming sound of her soles scraping on
concrete harkened a disturbing vision of a decidedly Quasimodo-esque Cordelia
lumbering home.
Shaking off the bizarre image and swearing to himself
never to mention the fleeting thought to anyone - ever - Wesley finally
surrendered to his sapped body’s demand and lowered himself slowly onto the
counter stool. Resting his chin in the palm of his propped up hand, he closed
his eyes and sighed as he allowed the tension in his muscles to depart on the
wave of that expelled lung-full of air.
“Wes?” Angel’s tired voice said.
“Did you just say we’re going to eat demons in teacups on the beach in Tiffany’s
tomorrow?”
“Yes, Angel, now go to sleep.”
“Oh.
Okay.”
Wesley couldn’t help but think
dork just before he
succumbed to the gentle hum of snores around him and floated into that peaceful
darkness with his friends.
Part
2
Greyhounds in the Slips
Angel’s nose twitched and
then the back of his hand swiped at the irritated membrane trying to make the
tang of mid-afternoon go away. It smelled hot and bright and he had no interest
in opening his eyes to any of it.
Unfortunately, the day wasn’t going
away and his sleep wasn’t coming back. This much he knew despite the fog that
was his brain, just as he knew he was still in the same clothes he’d been in the
night before.
The threads of his sleeve were coated with leftover Bulacka
slime, gasoline fumes from the incendiary Gunn had used to take out most of the
nest and strongest of all, Cordy. The sweet pungent spice of Cordy’s palm, the
one that had grabbed his arm to pull him from the encroaching flames,
overpowered even the constant stench of danger that the afternoon sun filled his
nostrils with.
He slid his nose further up his arm and found the exact
spot – breast shaped – where she’d pressed herself against his side when they’d
caught their first glimpse of the demons. He’d wanted to push her behind him.
No. He’d wanted her not there at all, but he’d never been able to keep her from
the fight, and if he’d been able to last night then he wouldn’t be wearing her
right now.
He took another whiff of the more musky aroma of that spot and
then said, “Damn it,” for the thousandth time.
Every day started the same
way. If he wasn’t waking from a dream of Cordy, he was scenting her in the air
or on his sheets, or hearing her laughing voice wing its way from the lobby, or
convincing himself his hand was her mouth wrapped around his morning erection.
He was hopeless. It was hopeless – this thing that had built
inside him. It coiled around bone, twisted within sinew, and puckered skin. It
made his mouth dry and his knees wobble and it was doomed to kill him. Oh, not
in the ashes or flambé sense, but in the eternal hell and damnation way; in the
every day a little death but not enough to actually put him out of his misery
method preferred by torture experts everywhere.
It was love and he knew
it, and he hated himself for allowing it to happen – again.
“Damn
it!”
He rolled onto his back and then slid off the side of the bed until
his feet hit the floor. Letting the strong muscles in his abdomen pull him, he
sat up and ran his palms over his face. The friction felt good and real and gave
him a false sense of blood circulating under his touch. If he rubbed hard enough
and forever, he thought he could eventually blot out every molecule of her that
infected him. Then, maybe, he could get over her – it.
He had this same
idea with each rising sun, and he tested the theory every day. And it always
seemed to work until he stepped off that bottom stair into the lobby and saw
her. Then her eyes - that smile - bit him all over again and the infection grew
stronger the more he tried to make himself immune.
Today was going to be
different. He was sure. Slapping his knees, he stood and confidently headed for
the shower where he was certain he could wash without a single fantasy or a
subconscious stroke. Then he was going to go downstairs, look at her and not
feel anything resembling an insect with wings and antlers battling to break
through the confines of his belly. And he was definitely not going to have to
fight to keep his eyes trained on her eyes and not wonder down to anything
resembling ripe fruit or vice-like structures.
No, today was the day he
tossed off the pathetic man and reclaimed the vampire. The beast that destroyed
whole villages with a smile; the animal that defeated the undefeated Pylean
champion without breaking a nail; the only being ever to face The Trials and
come out alive.
Today was the day he faced love eye to eye and
won.
“Angel.”
He turned and his heart flipped, his tongue felt
like it had baked all day in Death Valley, and he tripped over his own foot as
he stepped eagerly toward her blinding grin.
Damn it! “Yes,
Cordy?”
“Do you want a blue,” she held up a sky blue fabric with giant
palm trees and surf boards on it, “or orange Hawaiian shirt?” she asked, pushing
the orange one with pineapples and girls with grass skirts on it in his face.
“Personally, I think blue works best with your…well, let’s face it…blue skin
tone, but orange would really brighten up those eyes.”
He decided he was
still dreaming because never, ever, ever would Cordelia try to dress him in a
Hawaiian shirt. He didn’t think she’d even stoop so low as to touch one. That’s
just the stuff of nightmares. So he decided to play along with night terror
Cordy and see if she was evil enough to do nasty things to him.
“I think
I’ll go with orange because that’s just hideous enough to scare demons away so I
can take a rest.”
“Really?” she squealed. “I thought I’d have to put
sedatives in your blood again – I mean for once because I’ve never done that
before, nu-uh, not me. Anyway, here ya go, big Kahuna.” Cordy tossed the shirt
over his shoulder and then stood on her toes and gave him a noisy kiss on his
cheek.
“Thanks for doing this. You know with you looking like a total
retard, it won’t make the rest of the macho freaks we work with feel so
stupid.”
She bounced out of his suite and he stood there blinking.
Nightmare over. Wake up now.
He pulled the shirt from his shoulder
and sniffed it. The smell was right but the neon Jell-o and vomit colors were
all wrong. Not wrong for a nightmare but…that kiss didn’t feel frightening at
all. It felt really good and still warmed his cheek. But it didn’t last long
enough to give him time to react and latch onto her body and pull her up against
him. That part was familiar nightmare territory, so it could still be a dream.
Right?
He blinked again and again. The landscape before him didn’t
warp, go bright white and then refocus on the ceiling, and he wasn’t on his back
in bed.
“Damn it!” It wasn’t a dream and Cordy had just got him to agree
to wear that…that…there were no words in any language foul enough to describe
it.
Ignoring the fact that he knew he must look horrible and smell worse,
he stormed from his room screaming, “Cordelia!”
Continue on...