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thalia_seawood over on Saturday and roleplaying on Sunday meant I couldn't finish the next part earlier, but sitting in the train to Vienna, I could. Here it is. Still title-less, as none of you has been willing to help me out there yet. Come on. I can't call it "Two Shows And a Funeral", can I?
V. Counselling
Angel hadn’t intended more than a brief conversation. He’d set the record about the lists straight and then vanish at quickly as possible. Somehow, this truly simple plan unravelled into debating the best ways to calm a toddler with one Nate Fisher while being ushered into the living room with his younger brother, until the older Fisher exclaimed: “Fine, put your money where your mouth is”, handing his little daughter over.
He remembered the smell. That smell of milk and baby food and skin lotions and powder and, inevitably, some urine. That smell of blood, a baby’s blood, sweet, so sweet, and more addictive than anything else. He remembered the taste.
For that alone, he could have cheerfully watched every single lawyer at Wolfram & Hart die. Locked them all in a cellar again and stayed to watch, this time. Instead, he found himself working with them, and sometimes he suspected he only did so to wait for the inevitable day when he would finally get his wish.
With one hand supporting the little girl’s head while his arm carried her weight, he noticed how much hair she had already. He had never seen Connor at this age. But he had held him, felt the weight of his head, after delivering the cut that started what first Lilah and then Eve had quaintly called “the deal”.
“You’re good,” Nate commented, sounding both impressed and ungracious, when the baby grew quiet.
“She’s a sweet girl,” Angel said, and tried to get back to what had originally brought him here. Somehow, he forgot to return the child to her father. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I think there was a misunderstanding with the list my coworkers brought earlier. Well, with some of the names.”
“No way,” Nate said. “I typed every single one of these invitations this afternoon and sent the European ones first, via email, just so that the people can make it to Los Angeles in time. And now you’re telling me some names were wrong?”
The younger brother, David, looked vaguely offended, not at Angel, but at Nate. Obviously, this reaction didn’t fit with his idea of professional decorum.
“Nate,” he said, with just a hint of reproach.
“Sorry,” Nate said, not sounding contrite at all. “I guess I need some supervision, after all the weeks of actually trying to have a life. Maybe if you came upstairs more often…”
“Sir,” David said to Angel, blushing just the slightest bit, “of course we understand. If you’d take a look at the guest list, we’d be happy to accept any corrections.”
Nate raised an eyebrow, but stood up, went to a desk and in short time produced the guest list. It was an interesting byplay that reminded Angel of the days when he used to run an actual detective’s office. Of Cordelia who had made such just comments in front of Doyle, Wesley and whichever client was present. He could hear her voice, clear and sharp. He could hear it tell him he was being a doofus, as usual.
The baby in his arm drooled a little, and he looked at the list. Why shouldn’t they all come, in the end? What Andrew had told him about Buffy and his orders still smarted, but it paled now in front of the reality of Cordelia’s death. They had been friends in Sunnydale, of a sort.
“I was wrong,” he told David Fisher. “The list is correct.”
There was an awkward moment of silence; then Nate said with an undertone of what sounded suspiciously like understanding, which caused his brother to look at him: “Must have one hell of a week.”
“A hell of a week,” Angel repeated. More like a hell of a year. A hell of a couple of years.
“Ms Chase was a lovely woman,” David said unexpectedly, and for the first time, it registered with Angel that there were traces of Cordelia’s scent clinging to this man. He must have been working, working to transform her cold, still body into something that could be presented and shown in the kind of ceremony that… what had been the last burial he had attended?
The memory of finding Darla buried in earth came, unbidden and as powerful as always. Of hesitating that fatal moment, just as he had done with Cordelia when he could have killed her just before Jasmine was born. Of Darla opening her eyes, those familiar eyes, blue, the same eyes that looked at him from her son’s face when Connor asked him: “So what are you going to do about it?”
“She should have a wake,” Angel said abruptly.
The Fishers looked nonplussed. “A real one,” Angel clarified. “Not that kind of thing where everyone is whispering. She’d have hated that. An Irish wake.”
David caught himself first. “Well,” he said. “We can… we can certainly organize that…”
“One of my co… one of my friends specializes in – he’s good with parties. I’ll send him over. Cordelia would have – “
He remembered hiding in the kitchen while she sparkled and flitted through the guests in her apartment. There hadn’t been any parties for her even before she fell into a coma, before Connor, before the Groosalug. Suddenly, it seemed monstrous that she had given up this part of herself, and he knew she had given it up for him. For the mission.
“Hey,” Nate said. “We’ll get it done. And could I have my daughter back now?”
His arms felt empty when the small warm body had left them. Angel looked at the Fishers. They were an odd pair, David smelling of death and embalming fluids and Cordelia, and Nate of his daughter, of cigarettes, and some quite recent sex with a brunette. Of life, and yet Nate seemed the more detached of the two.
But then again, there was nothing so deceptive as detachment.
“Thank you for taking care of Cordelia,” Angel said, and only when he had already left the house behind did it occur to him that he had said that exact same phrase to Connor during what passed for one of their more peaceful conversations during that horrible, haunting year.
At least neither of the Fishers had replied by telling him Cordelia was hogging the covers.
VI. Decorations
Claire had not tried to use the bodies as objects for her photography since David had made his opinion on the subject quite clear, and she certainly wouldn’t dream of doing it now, but nonetheless, she took a look at the newest body downstairs. To be fair, she had really planned on checking on David after Nate had told her that David had finally talked to a client again yesterday. But the late Ms. Chase caught her attention as well.
For starters, the woman was gorgeous. Claire wondered whether she saw female bodies different now, after the fuck-up with Edie, and decided she didn’t; this was an aesthetic judgment. Secondly, the juxtaposition of that kind of beauty with what David was using to pump stuff into her just screamed for a photo. But a promise was a promise. In order to avoid temptation, she postponed her chat with David and went outside for a joint. Which was where she encountered someone who looked like he could have been attending one of Aunt Sarah’s parties, carrying a parcel.
“Cool make-up,” Claire told him, in lieu of a greeting. “But the eyes are overdoing it. What’s that supposed to be, red or orange?”
“Molten gold. Everyone is a critic,” the green person said with dignity.
Claire shrugged. “Hey, they’re making us have a go at each other on a regular basis at college. You should have heard what my friends called my series of self-portraits.”
Holding her joint, she looked for her lighter, but the green guy was faster.
“Allow me, Rita Hayworth,” he said, and pulled out a lighter of his own with one hand, holding on to his parcel with the other. “Look, sweeting, anyone who can’t see those flowing red tresses frame a delectable face is too benighted to count anyway.”
“You’re gay, aren’t you?” Claire said, unimpressed, but she led him lit her joint. “Care to share?”
“Labels are so 90s,” he replied, and accepted the joint after she had taken a puff. She took in the morning view of the garden, regarded, not for the first time, the utter mess George had made of her birthday tree and spent her daily minute of hating her mother’s husband. It started to feel old, so she turned to Mr. Green again.
“So,” she said, “let me guess. You’re the guy supposed to organize the wake.”
“Actually, I’m here to deliver the wardrobe for Cordelia Chase, honeykins. But you’re right. I’m Lorne. Trust me, none of her other friends would be remotely capable of throwing a decent party.”
“Claire Fisher, and it’s a cool idea anyway,” Claire commented. “I’d say that’s what I want when I die, but Mom and David are too repressed.” When he didn’t reply, she looked at him, curious. “You’re supposed to protest that I’m too young to die before the rest of my family, or something,” she said, mildly impressed that he didn’t.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, passing the joint back to her. “I haven’t heard you sing yet. And I don’t believe I’d want to.”
“My voice isn’t that bad,” she said with a crooked smile.
“That isn’t the point, Clarissima,” he said, and the sadness mingling with his flippancy convinced her that she didn’t want to know. She inhaled instead.
“Wait a minute. Did you say you were Claire Fisher? Aren’t you one of Olivier Castro-Stahl’s students?”
“Yes,” Claire confirmed with a decided lack of enthusiasm. It was nice to be recognized, but she’d have preferred it to be for her own work. Granted, her own work so far had not had an exhibition devoted to it yet, and hadn’t really sold in the group exhibition last year, but still. She eyed Lorne and wondered whether Olivier had fucked him as well. Sometimes it seemed there wasn’t anyone in the entire city of Los Angeles who hadn’t been screwed by Olivier, one way or the other.
“I’m not a fan, either, lambkins,” Lorne said, reading her expression with an accuracy that was starting to get eerie. “But I head the artist division at Wolfram & Hart, and we do represent the guy. He needs lawyers on a regular basis, you know.”
“No kidding,” Claire said, and hoped she wouldn’t be pathetic enough to ask whether this “artist division” of one of Los Angeles’ most prominent law firms was any good at organizing exhibitions for young unknown artists.
“You wouldn’t want the kind of contract he has,” Lorne said, and Claire decided enough was enough.
“Are you reading my mind or what?” she demanded.
“Nah. I told you. I haven’t heard you sing. But you have an expressive face, Claire,” Lorne said, taking the joint from her again.
“My mouth is too large and I look like some kind of human duck drawn by Disney,” Claire said bluntly. “So what kind of contract does Olivier have which I wouldn’t want?”
“The eternal kind,” Lorne said after having inhaled himself. “I think you should stay… flexible. You are too young for the belly of the beast, darling.”
“I was too freakin’ young all of my life,” Claire shot back, annoyed. “That’s what you get with two brothers who are way older.”
This caused Lorne to look nostalgic and mutter something about someone named Numfar, and she decided to change the subject. When they talked about old boyfriends or family, you knew you had to.
“Do you think your friend would have been okay with me photographing her?” she asked. “Not that I did,” she added hastily, since she didn’t want to get David into trouble.
“Cordelia would have been thrilled,” Lorne said crisply. “She was one of nature’s queens. But take my advice, my dear, and save your artistic talents for the wake. I promise there will be worthy subjects aplenty.”
The last bits of the joint glimmered in his gesticulating hands and fell to the ground, and she decided she might as well ask. “Was that an official commission?”
He confirmed it had been, picked up his parcel again and said farewell. Watching him enter the house, Claire decided to take any fit either David or Nate would throw over this as a welcome sign that her brothers were returning to normal.
***
Next: The Funeral - Finally!
thalia_seawood over on Saturday and roleplaying on Sunday meant I couldn't finish the next part earlier, but sitting in the train to Vienna, I could. Here it is. Still title-less, as none of you has been willing to help me out there yet. Come on. I can't call it "Two Shows And a Funeral", can I? V. Counselling
Angel hadn’t intended more than a brief conversation. He’d set the record about the lists straight and then vanish at quickly as possible. Somehow, this truly simple plan unravelled into debating the best ways to calm a toddler with one Nate Fisher while being ushered into the living room with his younger brother, until the older Fisher exclaimed: “Fine, put your money where your mouth is”, handing his little daughter over.
He remembered the smell. That smell of milk and baby food and skin lotions and powder and, inevitably, some urine. That smell of blood, a baby’s blood, sweet, so sweet, and more addictive than anything else. He remembered the taste.
For that alone, he could have cheerfully watched every single lawyer at Wolfram & Hart die. Locked them all in a cellar again and stayed to watch, this time. Instead, he found himself working with them, and sometimes he suspected he only did so to wait for the inevitable day when he would finally get his wish.
With one hand supporting the little girl’s head while his arm carried her weight, he noticed how much hair she had already. He had never seen Connor at this age. But he had held him, felt the weight of his head, after delivering the cut that started what first Lilah and then Eve had quaintly called “the deal”.
“You’re good,” Nate commented, sounding both impressed and ungracious, when the baby grew quiet.
“She’s a sweet girl,” Angel said, and tried to get back to what had originally brought him here. Somehow, he forgot to return the child to her father. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I think there was a misunderstanding with the list my coworkers brought earlier. Well, with some of the names.”
“No way,” Nate said. “I typed every single one of these invitations this afternoon and sent the European ones first, via email, just so that the people can make it to Los Angeles in time. And now you’re telling me some names were wrong?”
The younger brother, David, looked vaguely offended, not at Angel, but at Nate. Obviously, this reaction didn’t fit with his idea of professional decorum.
“Nate,” he said, with just a hint of reproach.
“Sorry,” Nate said, not sounding contrite at all. “I guess I need some supervision, after all the weeks of actually trying to have a life. Maybe if you came upstairs more often…”
“Sir,” David said to Angel, blushing just the slightest bit, “of course we understand. If you’d take a look at the guest list, we’d be happy to accept any corrections.”
Nate raised an eyebrow, but stood up, went to a desk and in short time produced the guest list. It was an interesting byplay that reminded Angel of the days when he used to run an actual detective’s office. Of Cordelia who had made such just comments in front of Doyle, Wesley and whichever client was present. He could hear her voice, clear and sharp. He could hear it tell him he was being a doofus, as usual.
The baby in his arm drooled a little, and he looked at the list. Why shouldn’t they all come, in the end? What Andrew had told him about Buffy and his orders still smarted, but it paled now in front of the reality of Cordelia’s death. They had been friends in Sunnydale, of a sort.
“I was wrong,” he told David Fisher. “The list is correct.”
There was an awkward moment of silence; then Nate said with an undertone of what sounded suspiciously like understanding, which caused his brother to look at him: “Must have one hell of a week.”
“A hell of a week,” Angel repeated. More like a hell of a year. A hell of a couple of years.
“Ms Chase was a lovely woman,” David said unexpectedly, and for the first time, it registered with Angel that there were traces of Cordelia’s scent clinging to this man. He must have been working, working to transform her cold, still body into something that could be presented and shown in the kind of ceremony that… what had been the last burial he had attended?
The memory of finding Darla buried in earth came, unbidden and as powerful as always. Of hesitating that fatal moment, just as he had done with Cordelia when he could have killed her just before Jasmine was born. Of Darla opening her eyes, those familiar eyes, blue, the same eyes that looked at him from her son’s face when Connor asked him: “So what are you going to do about it?”
“She should have a wake,” Angel said abruptly.
The Fishers looked nonplussed. “A real one,” Angel clarified. “Not that kind of thing where everyone is whispering. She’d have hated that. An Irish wake.”
David caught himself first. “Well,” he said. “We can… we can certainly organize that…”
“One of my co… one of my friends specializes in – he’s good with parties. I’ll send him over. Cordelia would have – “
He remembered hiding in the kitchen while she sparkled and flitted through the guests in her apartment. There hadn’t been any parties for her even before she fell into a coma, before Connor, before the Groosalug. Suddenly, it seemed monstrous that she had given up this part of herself, and he knew she had given it up for him. For the mission.
“Hey,” Nate said. “We’ll get it done. And could I have my daughter back now?”
His arms felt empty when the small warm body had left them. Angel looked at the Fishers. They were an odd pair, David smelling of death and embalming fluids and Cordelia, and Nate of his daughter, of cigarettes, and some quite recent sex with a brunette. Of life, and yet Nate seemed the more detached of the two.
But then again, there was nothing so deceptive as detachment.
“Thank you for taking care of Cordelia,” Angel said, and only when he had already left the house behind did it occur to him that he had said that exact same phrase to Connor during what passed for one of their more peaceful conversations during that horrible, haunting year.
At least neither of the Fishers had replied by telling him Cordelia was hogging the covers.
VI. Decorations
Claire had not tried to use the bodies as objects for her photography since David had made his opinion on the subject quite clear, and she certainly wouldn’t dream of doing it now, but nonetheless, she took a look at the newest body downstairs. To be fair, she had really planned on checking on David after Nate had told her that David had finally talked to a client again yesterday. But the late Ms. Chase caught her attention as well.
For starters, the woman was gorgeous. Claire wondered whether she saw female bodies different now, after the fuck-up with Edie, and decided she didn’t; this was an aesthetic judgment. Secondly, the juxtaposition of that kind of beauty with what David was using to pump stuff into her just screamed for a photo. But a promise was a promise. In order to avoid temptation, she postponed her chat with David and went outside for a joint. Which was where she encountered someone who looked like he could have been attending one of Aunt Sarah’s parties, carrying a parcel.
“Cool make-up,” Claire told him, in lieu of a greeting. “But the eyes are overdoing it. What’s that supposed to be, red or orange?”
“Molten gold. Everyone is a critic,” the green person said with dignity.
Claire shrugged. “Hey, they’re making us have a go at each other on a regular basis at college. You should have heard what my friends called my series of self-portraits.”
Holding her joint, she looked for her lighter, but the green guy was faster.
“Allow me, Rita Hayworth,” he said, and pulled out a lighter of his own with one hand, holding on to his parcel with the other. “Look, sweeting, anyone who can’t see those flowing red tresses frame a delectable face is too benighted to count anyway.”
“You’re gay, aren’t you?” Claire said, unimpressed, but she led him lit her joint. “Care to share?”
“Labels are so 90s,” he replied, and accepted the joint after she had taken a puff. She took in the morning view of the garden, regarded, not for the first time, the utter mess George had made of her birthday tree and spent her daily minute of hating her mother’s husband. It started to feel old, so she turned to Mr. Green again.
“So,” she said, “let me guess. You’re the guy supposed to organize the wake.”
“Actually, I’m here to deliver the wardrobe for Cordelia Chase, honeykins. But you’re right. I’m Lorne. Trust me, none of her other friends would be remotely capable of throwing a decent party.”
“Claire Fisher, and it’s a cool idea anyway,” Claire commented. “I’d say that’s what I want when I die, but Mom and David are too repressed.” When he didn’t reply, she looked at him, curious. “You’re supposed to protest that I’m too young to die before the rest of my family, or something,” she said, mildly impressed that he didn’t.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, passing the joint back to her. “I haven’t heard you sing yet. And I don’t believe I’d want to.”
“My voice isn’t that bad,” she said with a crooked smile.
“That isn’t the point, Clarissima,” he said, and the sadness mingling with his flippancy convinced her that she didn’t want to know. She inhaled instead.
“Wait a minute. Did you say you were Claire Fisher? Aren’t you one of Olivier Castro-Stahl’s students?”
“Yes,” Claire confirmed with a decided lack of enthusiasm. It was nice to be recognized, but she’d have preferred it to be for her own work. Granted, her own work so far had not had an exhibition devoted to it yet, and hadn’t really sold in the group exhibition last year, but still. She eyed Lorne and wondered whether Olivier had fucked him as well. Sometimes it seemed there wasn’t anyone in the entire city of Los Angeles who hadn’t been screwed by Olivier, one way or the other.
“I’m not a fan, either, lambkins,” Lorne said, reading her expression with an accuracy that was starting to get eerie. “But I head the artist division at Wolfram & Hart, and we do represent the guy. He needs lawyers on a regular basis, you know.”
“No kidding,” Claire said, and hoped she wouldn’t be pathetic enough to ask whether this “artist division” of one of Los Angeles’ most prominent law firms was any good at organizing exhibitions for young unknown artists.
“You wouldn’t want the kind of contract he has,” Lorne said, and Claire decided enough was enough.
“Are you reading my mind or what?” she demanded.
“Nah. I told you. I haven’t heard you sing. But you have an expressive face, Claire,” Lorne said, taking the joint from her again.
“My mouth is too large and I look like some kind of human duck drawn by Disney,” Claire said bluntly. “So what kind of contract does Olivier have which I wouldn’t want?”
“The eternal kind,” Lorne said after having inhaled himself. “I think you should stay… flexible. You are too young for the belly of the beast, darling.”
“I was too freakin’ young all of my life,” Claire shot back, annoyed. “That’s what you get with two brothers who are way older.”
This caused Lorne to look nostalgic and mutter something about someone named Numfar, and she decided to change the subject. When they talked about old boyfriends or family, you knew you had to.
“Do you think your friend would have been okay with me photographing her?” she asked. “Not that I did,” she added hastily, since she didn’t want to get David into trouble.
“Cordelia would have been thrilled,” Lorne said crisply. “She was one of nature’s queens. But take my advice, my dear, and save your artistic talents for the wake. I promise there will be worthy subjects aplenty.”
The last bits of the joint glimmered in his gesticulating hands and fell to the ground, and she decided she might as well ask. “Was that an official commission?”
He confirmed it had been, picked up his parcel again and said farewell. Watching him enter the house, Claire decided to take any fit either David or Nate would throw over this as a welcome sign that her brothers were returning to normal.
***
Next: The Funeral - Finally!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 01:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 01:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 01:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 02:39 pm (UTC)Poor Cordelia. In many ways she'd have been better off if she'd never met Angel. This fic meshes these two shows so wonderfully I'm in awe. Angel holding Maya was heartrending and I loved the conversation between Lorne and Claire. And Olivier would definitely be a client of W&H.
Still title-less, as none of you has been willing to help me out there yet.
Um...The Business of Death?
no subject
Date: 2006-03-28 04:06 am (UTC)If Skip wasn't lying, we actually know canonically she would have been, thanks to Birthday, an episode which I am otherwise none too keen on.
Olivier would definitely be a client of W&H.
Wouldn`t he just?
Also, thanks for being the first to suggest a title!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 03:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-28 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-28 04:10 am (UTC)Lorne: will continue to attract non-attention re: looks as Rico suggested half of the mourners will look like D and D players anyway.*veg* And like you said, it follows the rules of AtS.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 06:02 pm (UTC)Awww. . .man, I'm loving this. I loved the comparison of David and Nate dealing with clients to the old AI gang. . .and you even managed to work in Numfar.
On titles, I'm thinking, and I keep going to lyrics from "Candle in the Wind," which Harmony will surely want to sing at the service -- so maybe I'll leave that up to you.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-28 04:14 am (UTC)Numfar was a must!