![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
selenakYesterday I was without online access entirely in my hotel in Kaiserslautern, hence had to visit an internet café, and today in Pirmasens I'm reduced to phone connections and evil dial-up again. However, all this apparantly benefitted my muse, for I started to write the long-planned crossover between Angel and Six Feet Under which ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kangeiko gave me the basic idea for. (Well, that and she bribed me by promising to write a Jossverse/1602 crossover in return.
This is going to be something longer, but as I never wrote SFU before, I'm testing the waters with the first part. Set post-You're Welcome in season 5 of AtS and at some point during later season 4 of SFU (before David goes back to talking to clients again). No title as yet.
I. Prologue
If everybody had just listened to Harmony, everything would have been far easier, but what else was new? Naturally, Angel didn’t. When he told her that Cordelia was dead, that she never woke up, that what they had seen and talked to an entire day had been some bizarre kind of ghost, Harmony was really considerate. By all rights, Angel should have been consoling her. She was Cordelia’s oldest friend here, after all. Cordy had been her idol. She and Cordelia had tried out new diets and scared the hell out of all the losers at Sunnydale High when Angel had still been chasing rats somewhere and Wesley had been learning useless stuff at some Watcher Academy. She didn’t even know what Fred and Gunn had been doing then, and didn’t care, either. The point was that she had real grief, and nobody even thought of that. No, Angel was in his full broodathon mood which meant he expected everyone to act all consoling and considerate towards him, which just showed you how selfish he was. Still, Harmony did her best. She limited herself to a single becoming tear and even delayed asking whether this meant all of Cordelia’s clothes that were still stored somewhere would be hers. Well, they certainly wouldn’t fit Fred, would they?
Instead, she did her job and pointed out to Angel that Wolfram and Hart had several funeral homes among their clients – well, naturally – and some weren’t even necromancers. They could give Cordy the kind of funeral Paris Hilton would die to get, though if you looked at Paris, it might already have happened. Was Angel grateful? He was not. Instead, he glared at her and pronounced that Cordelia would never, ever, be buried by anyone even remotely connected to Wolfram and Hart. Harmony knew at once what that meant. Horrible work in her time of grief. For she would have to go through all the relevant files to check out which funeral homes never had worked with Wolfram and Hart. Angel was such a selfish bastard sometimes.
Several hours later, she had succeeded in unearthing some dreary thing that had somehow managed to be so insignificant, so totally loser-ville, that Wolfram and Hart with its generous supply of corpses had never considered sending some of those its way.
“Fisher & Diaz,” Harmony said. “Formerly Fisher & Sons. I guess they ran out of sons, or something.”
Angel said they would do, and was about to do his dramatic swirling coat exit when Harmony, remembering he signed her paycheck which he couldn’t as a pile of dust, pointed out to him that no Wolfram and Hart connection meant no necroglass in daytime, and no visits in the middle of the night, which it now was. Someone would have to go in the morning; Fred, Wesley or Gunn, but certainly not Lorne. They probably didn’t have a clue about empathy demons, either.
Harmony didn’t envy them, though she thought it would be fitting. Gunn had improved since his upgrade, but Fred and Wesley were so utterly lacking in style that those losers at the funeral home wouldn’t even clue in about how much money they could make of this gig.
Then she thought again about how Cordelia would have hated being buried looking less than her best, and for some reason burst into tears. Not good tears, the kind that looked cute and made guys raise a fuss about you. Ugly ones that left her eyes swollen. Angel didn’t make a fuss, either. Instead, he gave her a hankerchief. Which just went to show, once again, how cheap he was.
The least he could have done would have been the promise of a salary raise.
II. Meet the Bereaved
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 literary. 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-existing 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, “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 programm. Maybe that was the secret. Just get on with the programm. 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 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 mind. 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 wispered:
“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 couse 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 pint 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 bringing 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?”
***
Next installment: David Fisher, meet Cordelia Chase! (And get some paranormal advice...)
kangeiko gave me the basic idea for. (Well, that and she bribed me by promising to write a Jossverse/1602 crossover in return. This is going to be something longer, but as I never wrote SFU before, I'm testing the waters with the first part. Set post-You're Welcome in season 5 of AtS and at some point during later season 4 of SFU (before David goes back to talking to clients again). No title as yet.
I. Prologue
If everybody had just listened to Harmony, everything would have been far easier, but what else was new? Naturally, Angel didn’t. When he told her that Cordelia was dead, that she never woke up, that what they had seen and talked to an entire day had been some bizarre kind of ghost, Harmony was really considerate. By all rights, Angel should have been consoling her. She was Cordelia’s oldest friend here, after all. Cordy had been her idol. She and Cordelia had tried out new diets and scared the hell out of all the losers at Sunnydale High when Angel had still been chasing rats somewhere and Wesley had been learning useless stuff at some Watcher Academy. She didn’t even know what Fred and Gunn had been doing then, and didn’t care, either. The point was that she had real grief, and nobody even thought of that. No, Angel was in his full broodathon mood which meant he expected everyone to act all consoling and considerate towards him, which just showed you how selfish he was. Still, Harmony did her best. She limited herself to a single becoming tear and even delayed asking whether this meant all of Cordelia’s clothes that were still stored somewhere would be hers. Well, they certainly wouldn’t fit Fred, would they?
Instead, she did her job and pointed out to Angel that Wolfram and Hart had several funeral homes among their clients – well, naturally – and some weren’t even necromancers. They could give Cordy the kind of funeral Paris Hilton would die to get, though if you looked at Paris, it might already have happened. Was Angel grateful? He was not. Instead, he glared at her and pronounced that Cordelia would never, ever, be buried by anyone even remotely connected to Wolfram and Hart. Harmony knew at once what that meant. Horrible work in her time of grief. For she would have to go through all the relevant files to check out which funeral homes never had worked with Wolfram and Hart. Angel was such a selfish bastard sometimes.
Several hours later, she had succeeded in unearthing some dreary thing that had somehow managed to be so insignificant, so totally loser-ville, that Wolfram and Hart with its generous supply of corpses had never considered sending some of those its way.
“Fisher & Diaz,” Harmony said. “Formerly Fisher & Sons. I guess they ran out of sons, or something.”
Angel said they would do, and was about to do his dramatic swirling coat exit when Harmony, remembering he signed her paycheck which he couldn’t as a pile of dust, pointed out to him that no Wolfram and Hart connection meant no necroglass in daytime, and no visits in the middle of the night, which it now was. Someone would have to go in the morning; Fred, Wesley or Gunn, but certainly not Lorne. They probably didn’t have a clue about empathy demons, either.
Harmony didn’t envy them, though she thought it would be fitting. Gunn had improved since his upgrade, but Fred and Wesley were so utterly lacking in style that those losers at the funeral home wouldn’t even clue in about how much money they could make of this gig.
Then she thought again about how Cordelia would have hated being buried looking less than her best, and for some reason burst into tears. Not good tears, the kind that looked cute and made guys raise a fuss about you. Ugly ones that left her eyes swollen. Angel didn’t make a fuss, either. Instead, he gave her a hankerchief. Which just went to show, once again, how cheap he was.
The least he could have done would have been the promise of a salary raise.
II. Meet the Bereaved
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 literary. 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-existing 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, “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 programm. Maybe that was the secret. Just get on with the programm. 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 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 mind. 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 wispered:
“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 couse 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 pint 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 bringing 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?”
***
Next installment: David Fisher, meet Cordelia Chase! (And get some paranormal advice...)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 05:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 06:08 pm (UTC)