Angels and Demons

 

by Nicole Clevenger (c) January 2001

 

 Summary: An Action/Angel cross-over. Enough said?

 

Warnings for language, violence, and having to put up with Peter Dragon. Rating: R

 

Spoilers: Takes place sometime early on in both shows. Doyle's in this one. I think I started this shortly after the first episode of Action aired on Fox. A teeny obsession... though a slow one, it seems

 

Disclaimer: They're not mine. Obviously, or I'd be making some money. I miss Action, so this is my tribute to the Great Peter Dragon. The same can be said for Alan Francis Doyle. The Angel bit was thrown in because I wanted to see those two men together. Friends? Right...  Comments and criticisms welcome. (drewbug@san.rr.com)

 

 Here we go…

 

-|- 

 

"He's saying *what*?"

 

 Stuart hesitated, and for the fifteenth time today I considered firing him. Granted, the thought usually comes to me at least twenty times in a day, but it wasn't even noon yet. I could already tell it was going to be one of those long, drawn-out, double gin and Swedish massage kind of days.

 

 "He's claiming that we stole the concept for The Eight Fighting Samurai from him without fulfilling our end of the contract. I've already had to talk to his lawyer this morning. They're asking for a full third of domestic and half of foreign, plus a full page apology in the trades."

 

 I damn near spit hot coffee across my desk at that last part. "An apology? Who the hell does this guy think he is? I wouldn't take out an apology in the trades for Jesus Christ." Stuart shrugged. I took another drink. It scorched my throat going down, making me even less thrilled with this day.

 

 Maybe I could counter-sue for bodily injury.

 

 "Look, this is ridiculous. Just because Joe fucking Blow has decided to jump on the Peter Dragon bandwagon doesn't mean we have to give him a ride. Tell him to get lost."

 

 Stuart looked down at his shoes, then at the top of my desk. "We can't exactly do that…"

 

 "Why not?"

 

 "Well, for one, we actually *did* steal the idea."

 

 Oh. Okay. But still… "Creative collaboration. Maybe he just planted the first little seed of what became a billion dollar motion picture. That doesn't mean he *made* the movie."

 

 "He wrote the first three drafts of the script."

 

 This was getting nowhere fast. And I had things to do. "God, I am so tired of writers who think that just because they put a few words on paper they deserve all the credit." Stuart just stood there, looking at me. "Fine," I said, waving a hand at him, "give this guy a couple thousand and make him go away."

 

 Stuart didn't move. "What now?"

 

 "He's got Risen and Finch."

 

 I swear all the blood in my body ran cold. "Shit."

 

 Risen and Finch were good. Damn good. And this was publicity I definitely did not need. Not now, not after that Slow Torture nightmare. I needed good, solid writers to come up with the next blockbuster -- not something I was likely to find if word got out that I was sometimes… well, a little less than what some might consider to be *fair.* But, then,  "fair" was such a subjective word.

 

 ***

 

 Maybe now might be a good time to jump in with a little introduction. I mean, I know that a lot of people think of me on a level somewhere short of sainthood. But a man should have a chance to explain for himself, right? To shed some light on the reasons behind his actions. Because life isn't perfect, no way. Choices have to be made. *Sacrifices* have to be made. Sometimes people get hurt on the way. All part of the game.

 

 And there's no bigger game than the one I play. Peter Dragon, Hollywood producer. Ever heard of DragonFire Films? Yes that's right -- that's me. You really are sharp, aren't you? My movies have made billions. Huge hits. Giant openings. Big stars. The whole Hollywood dream. The *American* dream, really.  Lots of glitzy gleaming golden moments, fifty feet tall for everyone to enjoy. Take a break from your dull, pointless life and -- for just a few hours -- live someone else's. That's what I do for people. Give them those few beautiful hours.

 

 But it's not easy, you know? It's not like I can just snap my fingers and share this gift with the world. I have to work to make things happen. And sometimes not everyone ends up happy with the decisions that need to be made in order to get things done. They don't understand that I'm working for the greater good. They're all actually pretty selfish, when you get right down to it. All me, me, me… Not realizing that there are other people involved too. Other people who suffer for their art as well. I can't even tell you how many times I've had to get out of my warm bed to deal with a spoiled actor at two in the morning, or missed a tee time because some director wants to go over another casting revision…

 

 Why the fuck am I telling you this, anyway? You people only believe what you see in those stupid entertainment magazines. Let's just go back to the story.

 

 ***

 

 I kicked Stuart out of my office. I needed time to think without having him hanging around like a lost puppy. Besides, he had work to do. At least, I was paying him to work. He'd better find something productive to do.

 

 As for me, I had to get myself out of this mess before it got any bigger. Or, rather, I had to *hire* someone to get me out. I firmly believe that there is nothing that can't be done with some well-chosen help and a little extra cash. I had the cash part; all I needed was to find the right help for the situation.

 

 A lawyer, no doubt about that. An excellent lawyer. Because Bob Smith or whoever had done well for himself. Where he got the money for it, I have no idea. Risen and Finch don't exactly come cheap. Probably using the money I *already* gave him for his work on my movie. Bastard. He certainly wasn't getting any more from me.

 

 I stood up and went to the big picture window behind my desk. Being less than a fan of sunlight on most mornings, the blinds are almost always closed. But it really is a great view, after one gets past all that daylight. Sprawling studio grounds, Hollywood hills, blue skies… Plus I can see my car. I like to be able to keep an eye on it.

 

 I closed the blinds again and sat back down. Who could I get to do battle for me? Preferably someone who could settle this whole thing by this afternoon, no hassle. I needed a name scarier than OJ Simpson. A name I could drop like a Van Damme bomb.

 

 I needed Risen and Finch.

 

 Okay, no I didn't. There had to be another good firm in this town. This was California, for chrissake. The Land of the Lawsuit. There had to be someone around here who could give me a name. Who did I know who'd had law troubles? Alright, stupid question. Better: Who did I know who'd had law troubles that hadn't been splashed over every form of media currently known to man? Because this had to be squashed down before even Hard Copy heard about it.

 

 I shuffled aimlessly through the few papers on my desk, trying to come up with a name. Maybe the ever-helpful (if you'll pardon the cloying sarcasm) Dick Marcellus could give me a suggestion. I mean, a successful owner of "escort services" had to know a lawyer or two, right?

 

 There was a knock on my office door. I'd recognize that timid tapping with a head full of valium and cotton stuffed in both ears. Stuart.

 

 "What?" I called. His cue to come in.

 

 He did. "Uh, I just wanted to make sure you remembered your lunch with Andy Hallers."

 

 I hadn't, and a glance at my watch told me that I had to leave then if I hoped to be on time. Not that I couldn't leave Andy waiting for a bit. We'd known each other for almost six years. He knew better than to hold a little tardiness against me. What can I say -- it's not always easy to be on time in this town. In fact, usually one plans to be late. Being on time just makes you look too pathetically eager.

 

 Besides, we both had far more risqué things to hold over each other's head, should it ever come to that. Which reminded me -- he never did finish telling me the story about that waitress and his second mistress…

 

That was it.

 

"Stuart."

 

The man stopped so abruptly on his way out the door that I thought he was going to end up with whiplash. He turned on his heel and looked at me, waiting for orders. I wanted to scratch behind his ears and give him a biscuit.

 

"Wolfram and Hart." A blank look. "Call them. Set up an appointment for this afternoon."

 

Too much confusion, not enough action. I hate having to explain myself over and over. But Stuart showed no sign of catching on any time this week. I sighed and grabbed my overcoat.

 

He moved with me to the door. "It's a law firm. *The* law firm. The one that's going to save our ass. Call them as soon as you walk out this door."

 

He still looked skeptical. Reoccurring thought number sixteen hit me.

 

I stopped and faced him, my hand on the doorknob. I had to make this as simple as possible, obviously. "Remember that whole incident with Billy Crystal and that thirteen-year-old girl a couple of months ago?"

 

His eyes widened. "No, I don't think I remember hearing about --"

 

I smiled. "Exactly."

 

Point made, I headed out the door and to lunch.

 

***

 

Okay, so maybe my reaction to that waiter was a little extreme. I guess I could have lowered my voice just a bit. But I absolutely can not stand ridiculous wannabe actors interrupting my meal. Hell, they're more common than a blond in a brand-new BMW around this town. But they all think they're the first, the best, the next Big Thing. Fine. Just not during my lunch.

 

I didn't dump the rest of that crappy soup on him, anyway. I thought about it, I assure you. So he got off lucky. Maybe he'll get some sense and head back to Minnesota or wherever the hell he crawled here from. Save him some time, a bit of heartbreak. I might have even done him a favor, really.

 

Besides, Jeff Goldblum really has that geeky intellectual market cornered. No one else is going to inch in there any time soon.  Andy agreed with me, too -- just not as loudly. And he used to be a casting director. So there. I did do the kid a favor.

 

Stuart was waiting for me when I got back to the offices. Maybe I should teach him to fetch my slippers or something. No, I guess that would be a bit cruel. He already brings me both the paper and morning coffee.

 

I kept walking, past him and into my personal office. He followed, as I expected he would. Ignoring him until I was ready, I put my coat away and sat down. I heard him close the door behind us, and he took up his usual spot in front of my desk.

 

He waited until I looked up at him. He really is the best assistant I've ever had. Trained to perfection. Maybe I'd have Wendy buy him a watch or something.

 

First things first. "You have an appointment at two at the Wolfram and Hart offices," he informed me.

 

"Wonderful. With any luck we can just have this all swept away by three." He wasn't smiling with me. Which meant there was something else going on. Damn. That writer kid with the glasses was probably back in the hospital or something. I waited, but Stuart wasn't offering up any hints. "What else?"

 

Stuart shook his head, obviously reluctant to talk. Which was simply wasting my time. "What?" I demanded again.

 

"It's just… Well…"

 

"Just *tell* me, Stuart."

 

"Nothing. Probably nothing." His eyes fell to the floor.

 

I could feel my jaw clenching. "And am I going to get to hear about this 'nothing' sometime within the next few minutes?"

 

He looked up at me. Knew I was irritated. Knew he'd better tell me now or get out of my office. "The person I talked to over there…" He swallowed, then rushed on with it. "It just felt odd, is all. Even over the phone. I got a really creepy vibe. Like something not quite… *ethical* is going on over there."

 

I started laughing; I really couldn't help it. "And just when the hell did you become the spokesperson for the Psychic Hotline?" He scowled at me, but didn't defend himself. "Christ, Stuart. They're *lawyers.* They're not supposed to be ethical. That’s the most absurd thing I've heard since I found out Keanu Reeves was going to do Shakespeare."

 

He still wasn't saying anything. Fine. "I want you to get together any relevant information on this whole thing. Everything you can dig up on this asshole, right down to his favorite sex toys." That got a wince out of him. "I want to give our new creepy lawyer friends everything we can to get this done today. We're going to leave in thirty minutes."

 

I saw the "we" bit get his attention. But he didn't argue. Just took a breath and left silently. Best goddamn assistant I've ever had, I tell you.

 

***

 

The other writer -- Alan… or was it Adam? -- ran into Stuart and I in the downstairs lobby. Almost literally, in fact. Much too close for my personal comfort.

 

I have this thing about being touched by people, okay? Sheesh.

 

"Peter. Stuart. I was just coming to see you…"

 

I forced a smile. "How lovely for us. And so soon after you're out of the hospital too."  I almost choked on all the sugar spilling out of my mouth.

 

 "Uh, Peter… I've been out of the hospital for a month now."

 

Oh. Like I cared. "I guess it just seems like we haven't seen you in a long time. We've missed having you around."

 

"I stopped by last week and met with Stuart and Wendy."

 

Huh. Imagine that. I turned on my best regretful face for my writer. "I just wish someone," a chastising look to Stuart, "would have told me you were around…"

 

The kid's face lit up like I'd just handed him a bonus check. "Actually, I have a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about. And since you're here now --"

 

I glanced at my watch. "Jeez, I wish I could. But I've got to meet with some people right now, Alan." I started moving toward the door, Stuart in tow. Alan -- Adam? I really should write it down -- followed us.

 

"It won't take long, Peter, I promise. Just a couple of notes on some of these revision requests. Oh, and I came up with some more ideas for the zoo scene…"

 

The limo was at the curb, back door being held open for me. The writer was still talking, but I'd almost completely succeeded in tuning him out by now. Just a few more feet…

 

"Look," I said, without looking at him, "I really do want to hear all this. Why don't I have Stuart call you later today, and we'll set something up?" I slid into the back seat, opposite Stuart.

 

Adam looked like I’d just told him his cat got hit by a car. How could he possibly be so devastated by a little wait? It's not like I actually even needed to hear most of what he thought he had to tell me.

 

"Uh, okay, Peter. I'll… talk to you soon then."

 

"Great, great. Soon." I motioned to Lonnie to shut the door.

 

Finally a moment of silence. Beautiful. I straightened my suit jacket and relaxed against the back of the plush seat. "Thank god," I muttered, half to myself. "For a minute there I was afraid he was going to climb right in here with us."

 

Stuart didn't say anything. He was looking out the tinted window, watching the sidewalk stream by. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to convince my skin to stop crawling. That writer kid made me nervous. He was too -- I don't know -- *eager.* Vulnerable. It practically came off him in waves. Like he was dangling a piece of meat in front of a pack of hungry dogs or something. I kept expecting one of them to jump up and drag him off into the shadows. I was protecting him, really. Keeping him safe from all the assholes out in this town just waiting to take advantage.

 

The fact that he was a damn good writer just happened to be another great reason to keep him on my payroll.

 

I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket, feeling around in hopes of turning up some kind of mind-numbing bliss in convenient pill form. Nothing.

 

Crap. I sighed and opened my eyes. Stuart was watching me, but he had the good sense to look away quickly when our eyes met. I wondered briefly if he had anything on him. Probably not. If he was carrying aspirin he'd be out of character.

 

I wondered how long this  meeting was going to take. Hopefully not long. Then I could call it an early day and be home before Charlie Sheen rolled out of bed for the day. Not kidding -- he lived just down the street from me. I've never seen anyone leave that house before dark.

 

Plus Wendy was supposed to be getting in tonight. She'd been in New York the last couple of days, checking out some filming locations. I doubted we were going to decide to do anything outside of LA, but it never hurt to have options. Besides, she hadn't been there for a while. I considered it one of the perks of sleeping with the producer.

 

A producer whose bed had been totally empty since she'd left. Not that I can explain why. God knows I'd had plenty of opportunities. That blond in the red dress the other night, to name just one. A delicious, curvy, green-eyed, willing one. But, for reasons even I am unable to figure out, I didn't go over to her table and introduce myself. Didn't send the waiter over with a drink. Didn't even get her name in case I changed my mind later. Just paid my bill and left alone. And -- the weirdest part of all -- I didn't even regret it.

 

So tell me what's wrong with me? Huh?

 

Don't you dare start trying to feed me some bullshit about me having feelings for Wendy, either. It's not like our relationship is exactly *exclusive.* She's a hooker, remember. And I'm not the most celibate of individuals. Sure, she's been spending most of her time at my house, rather than that apartment of hers. But that doesn't really mean anything. We're both free to sleep around. That's the way we prefer it.

 

But, yeah, I miss her. Okay? I admit it. However, that's still no reason for me to suddenly be playing the one-woman gig. Maybe I'm coming down with something. That would make sense.

 

The car pulled up to the curb and stopped; seconds later, Lonny was holding the door open. I got out with Stuart right behind me and turned to my uncle.

 

"Keep close, okay? I'm hoping this won't take too long."

 

He smiled his ever-faithful smile at me and nodded. "Will do."

 

I smiled back. You know, I think my uncle is the only person ever to get a genuine smile out of me. Well, okay, him and Wendy. (Hey, I know what you're thinking -- stop it. I *don't* have feelings for her, okay?) But Lonny's always been around for me, ever since I was a kid. Never questions anything, either. Just does what I need him to do, without complaints or ulterior motives. He looks out for me. So I look out for him.

 

I headed into the building, Stuart on my heels. It was a huge office complex in the middle of downtown, and the woman at the front desk told me that Wolfram and Hart owned the top seven stories. Not only that, but they had a private express elevator that went straight up to their lobby. Showoffs.

 

We took the elevator up in silence. Stuart had been fidgeting since we got out of the car, and I'd been able to ignore it. But now I'd had just about enough of his squirming. I glared at him.

 

He met my eyes and stiffened. I just raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged apologetically and opened his mouth, but before he could speak the doors opened. I moved past him and into the room.

 

We had found Wolfram and Hart, and they were apparently doing quite well for themselves. Their lobby was richly decorated, from the thick blood-red carpet and tasteful leather furniture to the paintings on the walls. I'm not an art critic, but I know crap when I see it. And this was about as far from that as you could get.

 

The secretary was a very attractive red-head seated behind an oak desk. She was so perfect that I figured she must have been a model for one of the local agencies. Though, looking at her, I couldn't imagine that she'd have enough free time to do this job as well. I wondered what they were paying her to hold her to this instead.

 

She looked up and smiled politely at us. I walked toward her, passing on the way a vase that looked exactly like the one I bought for my ex-wife immediately after the success of my first movie. These people were doing *amazingly* well. I was still remembering how much that vase cost.

 

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you."

 

I offered her my most camera-worthy smile. "Peter Dragon. I have an appointment."

 

Her smile brightened a notch when she discovered that we actually belonged here. "Yes, Mr. Dragon. I'll let them know that you're here. If you would take a seat, it should be just one moment."

 

"Thank you." Stuart and I moved to the black couch and sat down. I literally sunk into the thing, promptly deciding that I needed this piece of furniture for my living room. I was turning to Stuart to have him make a mental note of it when the door opened and the secretary called my name.

 

Damn, that was fast.

 

The man who came to greet us could have been the walking definition of "nondescript." Seriously. This is coming from a someone who makes his living looking for details. In this man's case, there were none. Average height, average shade of brown hair, average nose, eyes, mouth… Getting it? I could have walked right past him ten minutes later and not noticed.

 

I stood up, dimly aware of Stuart shadowing me as usual. Everyman spoke. "Mr. Dragon?"

 

I nodded, then indicated Stuart. "This is my President of Production, Stuart Gl--"

 

"He can wait here."

 

Uh, *okay*… Stuart and I exchanged brief glances, and I swear I saw a bit of "I told you so" stuck into his.

 

I turned back to the man. "I would prefer if he came as well. He has information that could be --"

 

"This meeting is between us, Mr. Dragon. If your assistant is needed, he will be called. This will not take long." He held the door open to the inner offices, gesturing for me to go in.

 

If this guy interrupted me one more time, I was going to turn around and head straight for Risen and Finch. Conflict of interests be damned. They had more than one lawyer, right? I'd make them find somebody. Because I wasn't about to put up with this shit. It's not like I was trying to beat Murder One here.

 

But, being already here, I decided that I might as well sit down and talk to these people. I walked through the door, Nobody close on my heels. He shut the door behind us, then led me to an office as sumptuously dressed as the reception room.

 

We sat down, facing one another. The moment we hit the seats, his manner changed completely. It was nothing short of bizarre. Suddenly I was on the other end of an open box of Cubans and a warm smile. It made me want to jump up and make sure Stuart was still a few doors away -- not in another dimension as I was now thinking.

 

I stayed where I was and waved away the cigars. The man across from me closed the box and set it on the corner of the desk, within my reach. The smile hadn't left, and it was starting to creep me out.

 

 Christ, now I was sounding like Stuart.

 

 "I do apologize for insisting on meeting with you alone, Mr. Dragon. You see,  here at Wolfram and Hart, we cater to only the most exclusive of clients. And, because of our commitment to giving these clients the results they demand, our methods are sometimes a bit… unorthodox. So we like to keep things as intimate as possible."

 

Okay, that made sense to me. Fewer tongues wagging -- a policy I certainly could understand.

 

He looked at me across the desk, the concerned act working overtime. "What exactly is it that we can help you with?"

 

Why did I get the feeling that this guy already knew not only exactly why I was in his office, but also every detail of my life? He probably could tell me down to the minute the last time it was that I took a shit.

 

 But this was just another game, and I had to play along if I was to get what I wanted. At least, for the moment. "I've got a writer suing me because he claims that he wasn't properly compensated for his work on one of my past films. My assistant has spoken with his lawyers already. I'm sure he has a copy of the relevant paperwork --"

 

 Everyman held up a hand. "No need, Mr. Dragon. I already have all of that right here."

 

 These people sure did move quickly.

 

 "In fact," he continued, "I don't think we have a problem here at all. This is all fairly open and shut. This writer obviously wants to bask in your rising glory, and is therefore inventing these accusations in the hopes of insinuating himself back into your sphere of influence."

 

 Wasn't that pretty much exactly what I said earlier? A flash of paranoia made me wonder if I should check the offices for bugs or something. "What do you plan to do? How soon can I expect this to go away?"

 

 He smiled. "Consider it gone as of now. We'll contact him shortly, work something out with his lawyer. But if I were you, I wouldn't worry any longer. It's been taken care of."

 

Wow. Perhaps I should get these guys on the payroll. They could be quite useful to me for a lot of different things.

 

Mr. Nondescript stood, and I followed his lead. We shook on the deal, even though I admit that I wasn't entirely sure exactly what the deal was. But things were working out in my favor, which was the way I always liked them to go. Now all I had to worry about was whether or not I still had cocktail onions in my bar at home.

 

***

 

Stuart was nowhere. I asked the secretary, but all she could tell me was that he had left shortly after I had gone into the office. It wasn't like him to take off without warning, or without me, for that matter. Usually he was more difficult to get rid of than that mental image of Harvey Keitel dusting in the nude. I took the elevator down, making the decision that if he wasn't waiting at the car, he was finding his own ride home.

 

Into the lobby, out onto the sidewalk. No Stuart. No car? That little prick took my *car*? I was going to kill him. String him up by his favorite tie and let him hang there until Stallone won an Oscar.

 

Fuming, I pulled out my phone and dialed Lonnie. Took him three rings to pick up. A record for him, I think. Lonnie's not too big on the phone in the car. Usually he forgets he has it, so when it rings, he can't always find it. I don't think he's forgiven me yet for insisting he learn how to use the thing in the first place.

 

"Uncle Lonnie, where are you?" I demanded, before he even had time to say hello.

 

"Boss, is that you?"

 

"Who the hell else is standing on the street corner without his car?"

 

There was some mumbled conversation in the background, as if he was talking to someone while holding his hand over the mouthpiece. Apparently the lesson on the use of the "hold" button needed to be refreshed.

 

"Okay, Boss, we're headed for you now. It'll be just a minute..."

 

And there was the car, coming around the corner. I hung up the phone. Whatever this little game was, it wasn't very funny. Not to mention that it certainly wasn't winning Stuart any points in his favor.

 

The car pulled up to the curb, and the back door opened. Apparently Lonnie wasn't going to bother to get out. I angrily pulled the door open all the way, and slid into the back seat to find myself face to face with a girl I had never seen before. Stuart reached across me to pull the door closed, brushing his arm against mine. I pulled back from him and glared at both of them as the car hurriedly pulled away from the sidewalk and into traffic.

 

"Would someone mind telling me what's going on," I asked, my voice low and dangerous. I looked at the girl again. "She doesn't exactly seem to be your type, Stuart."

 

She couldn't have been more than eighteen at the absolute most. Her clothes all but screamed "streetwalker," and her hair and makeup backed them up. Her eye makeup was smeared, making it obvious that she had recently been crying rather heavily. The right sleeve of her yellow, tight top was torn, and I could see scratches on the pale skin there.

 

None of which explained why she was in my car.

 

"Peter, this is Autumn. She needs help."

 

"Yeah, I see that. What the hell is this?"

 

Stuart launched into this big explanation, the gist of which seemed to be that this girl was running from something, and Stuart and my car seemed to be in the right place at the right time. The only thing I knew was that this was all adding up to mean that I wasn't going home just yet.

 

***

 

We ended up at the offices, which were fairly empty despite the fact that it was only a quarter to four. Apparently, the staff just assumed that when I was gone, they could be also. I was going to have to clear up that little matter right away. And dock a few paychecks, just to get the message across.

 

I followed behind as Stuart led the girl into *my* office, settling her on *my* imported leather couch. Then he actually had the gall to turn to me and ask me to get his new friend a glass of water. A very rude comment almost escaped before I saw that the girl looked like she was going to burst into tears again. I did not need that, what with the headache that had begun creeping into my skull as soon as I saw this girl in my car. Besides, if I got her something to drink, maybe she'd calm down and get the hell out of here.

 

I knew there were no cups in my personal bathroom, so I had to go all the way out to the coffee station at the end of the hall. There were a few hurriedly concealed looks of curiosity, which I decided to ignore.

 

Stuart was kneeling on the floor at the girl's feet when I returned. It was like some twisted tableau -- Mary Magdalene being worshipped by the equally-sinning Homosexual in some parody of Hell. Or something.

 

Apparently all that Catholic school does make some kind of an impression.

 

Neither of them looked up at me. "Not to break up this little party..." I began, which was enough to get their attention. Stuart stood up then and took the paper cup from me, handing it to Autumn. What kind of a name is that, anyway? It's a *season*, for fuck's sake.

 

The girl still had not yet spoken. She would have been cute, I think, if she didn't look like such a whore. A disheveled whore, at that. I saw that she was shaking.

 

Stuart noticed it too, taking off his jacket at placing it gently around her shoulders. How very touching, really. Especially the part where her eyes welled up with tears again. I could feel the headache growing worse.

 

"So do you have some kind of plan here, Stuart? Or were you hoping she could just live on my couch for the rest of her life?"

 

It came out sounding a little harsher than intended, and I saw anger flash across Stuart's face. It was gone almost immediately, but I had seen the glare he gave me. Before I could say anything, though, the door to my office opened without warning.

 

A tall, dark man in a long coat entered, followed by a beautiful young woman (mental note: get her name to our casting people), and some poorly dressed shorter guy. Right behind these people I could see Julie, the receptionist, trying to get past them and into the office, hopefully with some kind of explanation.

 

Stuart was at my side, his body between the group and the couch. I could feel the tension and nervousness coming off of him. Me, I was just pissed at the intrusion.

 

"Who the hell are you people?"

 

The dark one opened his mouth to speak, just as Julie managed to force her way into the room. "I told them they couldn't come in, Mr. Dragon, but they wouldn't --"

 

 I cut her apologies off with a wave of my hand. I wanted to hear from the good-looking, brooding one. Our eyes locked, and I felt a bizarre shiver work its way down my spine. I held my ground, though, not breaking the contact. Peter Dragon does not back down.

 

 Surprisingly, it was the girl with him who spoke up. "Angel Investigations," she announced, as if that was supposed to mean shit to me. "He's Angel," she added, referring to the man who was still looking into my eyes as if he could see right through me to all my secrets.  My mind flashed back to the meeting with the Wolfram and Hart lawyer, and I had to bury another little shudder.

 

 When in doubt, go on the offensive. "Angel, huh?" I said with a sneer. "That like 'Madonna' or 'Cher' or something? Sorry to break it to you, but that whole one-name thing has gotten a little stale."

 

 His eyes narrowed just a bit, then he looked away from me; I felt ridiculously relieved, like I had just been released from something. His eyes went to Stuart, and then to the girl on the couch. I felt Stuart stiffen even more beside me, but he relaxed suddenly when Angel met his eyes. It was like some kind of unspoken communication had passed between them, because Stuart actually moved out of the way and allowed him access to Autumn.

 

 I watched him kneel down in front of her, adopting the same position Stuart had been in moments earlier. He began to talk to the girl, but so softly that I couldn't understand what was being said. I looked over at Stuart, to see how he was taking this. His eyes were on the stranger and the girl, but he seemed to be comfortable with the way things were taking place.

 

 I, on the other hand, was far from comfortable. There were too many strangers crowding in my office, and I had no idea what was happening around me. Leaving the hushed conversation, I turned to the woman who had come in with the handsome Angel.

 

 "Who are you people? What the fuck are you doing here?"

 

 The guy in the background might have raised an eyebrow a bit at my choice of  language -- I couldn't be sure. But it made me feel more in charge of the situation here, whatever that may be. And that made me feel somewhat better.

 

 The brunette didn't back away at all. I had the impression that she didn't scare too easily. "Cordelia. That's Doyle," she added, nodding toward the sloucher. "We're here for Autumn."

 

 "Okay," I said slowly, making a show of holding on to my slipping patience. "So you're friends of hers or something. Fine. Take her then. And I can go home."

 

 "We need to leave, now."

 

 We all turned to see Angel standing up, helping the girl to her feet. The perpetually serious expression on his face seemed to have gotten even more intense.

 

 "Great. That's exactly what I was just saying. Take the girl, leave, and the next time, make an appointment."

 

 He was looking at me, and I could tell that I wasn't going to be pleased with whatever it was he said next. "You two have to come as well."

 

 What? I took a step back, farther into the office, toward my desk. "No way. I'm going home."

 

 The sound of a throat clearing turned the attention to Doyle, "Sorry, mate," he said in a decidedly Irish accent, not really sounding all that sorry. Something about him and I didn't get along already. "You're in some trouble now too, I'm afraid."

 

 I felt a bit unbalanced. "Trouble? What the fuck are you talking about?" No reaction that time. Damn.

 

 "Save it for later, when we get you to a safer place, okay?"

 

 It was most definitely not okay. "I'm not going anywhere until I get some kind of goddamn explanation. Obviously you people don't know who you're dealing with here. Peter fucking Dragon does not jump just because someone tells him to."

 

Doyle was scowling at me, as was Cordelia. Angel just stood there, looking serious.

 

"Look, you're in mucho trouble here, get it?" Cordelia, moving into my personal space. "No time for this ego trip thing you're on. There's big time baddies downstairs, and we have to get out of here before they find us."

 

She was definitely tough, I'd give her that. But she had to be accustomed to dealing with far weaker people than me. "Who's downstairs? And why in the hell would they be after me and Stuart?"

 

Before anyone answered, Angel cocked his head to the side as if he heard something. "They're coming up. I hear the elevator."

 

This was all too much. "How the fuck can you --"

 

A hand on my arm: Doyle. Stronger than he looked, I discovered as he propelled me out of the office and toward the back stairs. Looking at him close-up, he seemed ashen, his features slightly pinched as if he were in pain. I could understand that at least: The beat in my head was increasing tempo with every new twist in this drama. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to will the ache away.  There was definite tension in the group, and I began to seriously wonder what exactly it was that we were running from. When we hit the stairs I pulled my arm out of his grasp with a snarl, but instinct told me that I didn't want to be left behind. I hurried with them, resolving only to get out of the building. After that, there was damn well going to be an explanation before I went any farther.

 

Out the back door, we rushed alongside another small building and ducked inside there. I noticed that on the way there Angel seemed to keep awfully close to the wall, staying in the shade and hurrying with his head down. No wonder the guy was so pale. Didn't he know that that look went out years ago?

 

It took me a minute to figure out what this building was used for, having never been inside it before. Then I saw all of the meters and dials and such, and assumed that it was the housing for all the readers that ran the office building. "Nice hiding place, guys. I'm sure they'll *never* think to look in here..."

 

Cordelia snorted behind me. "Yeah, well... You're gonna just wish that we were staying here when you see what comes next."

 

Angel, in the lead, opened a small door in the wall, opposite the door we came in. All I could see was darkness inside, but something smelled rank. Almost like...

 

"No way. No fucking way. I've had about enough of this secret agent bullshit. What's wrong with you people anyway?"

 

No one bothered to respond, which pissed me off more. Angel disappeared through the door, having to fold his muscular body almost double to pass through. Autumn right behind him, then Doyle. Stuart looked at me, a question on his face. Cordelia looked at both of us, then rolled her eyes. "Come on, guys, we don't have all day here. It's not as bad as it looks... We don't even get wet. Though that smell is a pain to try and get out of clothes, and if... Well, nevermind. Get moving."

 

When neither of us made a move, she said, "Geez, I didn't expect you two to be such wimps." The skin on the back of my neck bristled at that one. She shrugged and moved toward the door. "Fine. Stay and become baddie bait then. I don't care."

 

We watched her  take a deep breath and pass through into the darkness. I couldn't explain why I did what I did, so I blamed the headache that was running full-force now, blurring things just a bit. I moved through the door, growling at Stuart over my shoulder. "Let's go, Stuart. This was your mess to begin with."

 

It wasn't as dark or rancid as I had been expecting. What did I know about sewers, anyway? These people though, seemed to be experts. They moved quickly and sure-footedly along the narrow path that ran beside the liquid muck. My dress shoes slipped a few times, and I had to struggle a bit to keep up, all the while cursing strongly under my breath.

 

After what seemed as long as a Kevin Costner movie marathon, we stopped and climbed a short ladder to the surface. Angel lingered below us, not following us up. "Take them to your house, Cordelia. I'll be there in a few hours." With that, he melted away into the darkness below.

 

"He's not coming with us for the fun?" I asked once we were in the light again. I was disoriented by the underground travel and realized that I had no idea what part of town we were in.

 

"Angel?" she asked, over her shoulder. "He's not too big on social. He'll be around later."

 

She led the four of us into an apartment building and up a few flights of stairs. I was irritated and tired, but no further answers were forthcoming. She let us in to a decently-sized apartment. I wondered what kind of work she was doing to be able to afford this place.

 

"Dennis, we have company," Cordelia called out as we walked in. I looked around, expecting to see a man emerge from somewhere. When none did, I began to wonder if this pretty girl might be a little short on the sanity.

 

"Dennis?" Autumn asked warily. It was the first time I had heard her voice since this all started. I noticed a bit of a lilt to it, some kind of accent that I couldn't place.

 

Out of nowhere, a blanket flew past me to the girl. I assumed that Cordelia or Doyle had thrown it, and I turned to give them a piece of my mind. But they were no longer in the room. I swear that it wrapped itself around her shoulders, absolutely no one in sight.

 

I rubbed my eyes, cursing the pain in my head. Now I was starting to see things? I dropped heavily into the chair behind me, unable to do much but stare. It's not often that I'm at a loss for words. Stuart was gaping at Autumn and the blanket, his mouth hanging open like he was trying to catch something. The girl for her part, just looked around the room, pulling the blanket closer around herself. "Uh, thank you?" she said to the air.

 

Cordelia returned wearing different clothing, took one look at the three of us and smiled. "I see you've met Dennis already. He's not major into formal introductions," she added, looking up as if she were speaking to someone. Her voice was jokingly reproachful. My head pounded on.

 

Stuart actually spoke first. "Who...?"

 

"Dennis is a ghost. Duh."

 

"Ghost?" he repeated in a shaking voice. I was just glad he was there to ask all the stupid babbling questions for me, so that I didn't have to look like the idiot.

 

"He's friendly, aren't you, Phantom Dennis?" The lights flickered once, then came back on. I decided that I must be going out of my mind.

 

Autumn had curled up on the couch under the blanket, and was somehow already asleep. I wished I could do the same. Ghost. Angel Investigations. What the fuck was going on? Really?

 

I had to get things back under control, so I moved for a safer topic --as if I had been dealing with ghosts all my life. "So where's Doyle?"

 

"Sleeping," came the reply. Was everyone around here narcoleptic or something? "The visions really wear him out."

 

I could feel the solidifying ground begin to crumble again. Visions? It must have showed on my face, because Cordelia laughed at me. "Yeah, visions. That's how we knew where to find you guys."

 

Okaaay... As if that just cleared everything up. A glass of water floated into my line of sight and hovered in front of me as if I was supposed to take it. "That's real nice and all, Casper," I said to the empty air, "but the only thing that's going to cut it here is a bottle of aspirin and a pint of bourbon."

 

Imagine my surprise when the water glass upended itself on my head.

 

I jumped up with a yelp, only to see Stuart trying to hide a grin. The smirk on Cordelia's face was quiet clear. I stood there, dripping on the floor, trying to remind myself that I would only look like an idiot trying to fight with the air. Didn't work. I could feel the anger bubbling.

 

"Goddamn it!" I yelled, causing a sharp pain to shoot through the inside of my skull. "Stuart, find me a towel." After only a brief hesitation, he disappeared and returned with the requested object. I tried to dry my dripping hair, get the water off of my face, while Cordelia stood there laughing.

 

"I'm glad to see that you're so amused by this," I said through clenched teeth, while I tried to get some of the water off of my suit. "Maybe you'll still be laughing when I send you the dry-cleaning bill."

 

The towel was pulled out of my hands and began wiping up the water spilled on the floor. "Thank you, Dennis," Cordelia told the ghost. She looked up at me, her arms crossed. "Look, Mister Big Shot, I don't know exactly what you've got shoved up your butt, but I've taken on monsters far scarier than you. You don't even have claws, for pete's sake."

 

Claws?

 

"So knock off the king of the mountain crap. Remember that at any time we could just leave you out there for Wolfram and Hart to find." A corner of her mouth quirked up endearingly. "And you should try and be a bit nicer to Dennis."

 

I was still stuck on the first part. "Wolfram and Hart?"

 

She nodded. "The big bad lawyers. They're the ones who are after us. And maybe now you."

 

I glanced over to Stuart. "I... We were just there..."

 

Cordelia sounded a bit impatient. "I know. That's where we followed you from."

 

"No, I was just *there.* Like I hired them to settle something for me."

 

Her features turned into a frown. "Not real bright, are you? They're pretty much as evil as they come."

 

I rubbed my forehead. "I needed a good lawyer, to get rid of the writer who's riding my ass... Nevermind. You wouldn't understand, I'm sure."

 

"Writer?" Suddenly she seemed to perk up, even dropping the aggressive stance. "You're in the business then? What, a director?"

 

She had moved closer to me, a bright light shining in her eyes. "Producer. Peter Dragon, DragonFire Studios. Don't tell me that that vision or whatever didn't already tell you that?"

 

"No, they're not usually that specific..." Her voice trailed off, as if she were speaking to herself. "Though if I find out that Doyle knew and didn't mention it..." She looked back at me, all smiles suddenly. "Anyway, you're here now. Did you say you wanted bourbon?" She asked, heading for the kitchen. "I'm not sure if we've got any... but Doyle may have left something here..." She disappeared into the other room. Stuart and I exchanged  looks, his complete with one eyebrow raised at the shift in demeanor.

 

I wasn't particularly surprised. The girl wanted to work. And to do that in this town, you had to know somebody. I was, however, a bit annoyed that I hadn't thought to mention it sooner and skip all the attitude.

 

Cordelia returned after a moment with a full shot glass and a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol. I took both from her gratefully, emptied four of the pills into my hand and knocked them back with the shot. It wasn't bourbon, but it was some damn good whiskey. That Doyle had taste in liquor, if nothing else.

 

The chair I had been sitting in was thoroughly damp, so I took the only other chair in the room. Stuart inched a little closer to me, hovering in the background as usual.

 

"Of course, now isn't the time," the girl was saying, "but when this is all over I'd love to give you my head shots, my resume, an audition..."

 

"Of course," I responded, sinking back into the chair. How had this become such a long day when the sun hadn't even fully set yet?

 

***

 

At some point, I did end up dozing a bit. Cordelia's phone rang and there began a long, repetitive conversation about this bit part and that, a couple names dropped here and there, and the price of the new skirt she had just bought on Rodeo. All together wholly boring and minor league.

 

The next thing I was aware of was opening my eyes to see Angel coming in the front door. I think he was wearing different clothes, but it was hard to tell with as similar as this outfit was to the last. I was beginning to get that he wasn't much of a pastel man.

 

He met my eyes and nodded stiffly -- I assumed it was supposed to be some kind of greeting. I remembered what the girl had said about him being somewhat unsociable. Which was fine with me. I wasn't exactly looking to make any new friends here.

 

The headache had gone, and I was again questioning why I had let myself be dragged into this. These bizarre people had cried Danger, sure, but I didn't see any. I wondered if they did this often, picking people up and dragging them home. Maybe this was some kind of fucked up Misery thing.

 

Cordelia came out of the kitchen, followed by Doyle, drink in hand. Stuart had somehow ended up on the couch beside Autumn, asleep sitting up. I stood and stretched, and then nudged him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up at me blearily.

 

"Let's get out of here. I'm done with this... whatever this is."

 

"We can't protect you if you leave here."

 

I turned to Angel, who was still standing by the door, coat still on. "Look, I don't know who you people are or what you want. The secretive, shadowy danger thing is a great angle, and I can see you've got plenty of practice. You've even got some kind of smug ghost. Really, you should consider writing this all up and trying to land a pilot. But I'm going to change the channel and get on with my life now."

 

"A bit of a bastard, isn't he?" I heard Doyle mutter around the rim of his glass.

 

Cordelia snorted. "What is your deal? Didn't I tell you about all the badness and danger and stuff? Geez..."

 

"Yeah, well, you all keep *saying* that, but I've yet to see --"

 

A huge crash, like the world was ending, accompanied by the sound of glass shattering across the floor. I swear I thought I heard Cordelia moan something about her window, but all thought flew out of my head when I turned to see what exactly was happening behind me.

 

I make movies for a living. I know all about camera tricks and special effects and bringing the somewhat fantastical and unrealistic to life. But I never would have come up with something like the thing that had landed ten feet from me. It just would have been too unbelievable.

 

Not that I had time to rationalize as it was happening. No, it was more like a flash of green and scaly and *big*, and then I was knocked out of the way just before Angel leapt on The Thing, coat billowing out behind him in a visual effect that any director would have killed for. I was caught between trying to stand and trying to crab-scuttle away from the fray as quickly as I could. Angel was thrown across the room, smashing hard into the far wall.

 

He immediately climbed to his feet, looking none the worse for the impact, rejoining the fight just as Doyle -- who had filled his place even as Angel was sailing through the air -- was knocked backward as well. I saw Cordelia then, with what looked like a goddamn *crossbow.* The Thing flailed out in all directions (and I suddenly realized what Cordelia had meant about "claws"). Angel took a slash across his abdomen, but continued to fight as if it were a papercut. In what could have been any length of time but felt like merely seconds, the fight was finished as the monster went down with an arrow in the heart.

 

Or where I assumed the heart would be. On... whatever... that thing was.

 

Then, just to add to the whole freakish surreality of the whole thing, the creature exploded into a green burst of flame. A flame that somehow didn't catch on anything else, instead burning itself out less than a minute later. With no trace left behind of anything unusual at all.

 

I couldn't breathe. I was trying, I assure you, but I couldn't seem to do it. There was a tightness in my chest, like someone was sitting on me, and my vision started to go gray at the edges. Something in the back of my head warned me that I was hyperventilating, but I couldn't seem to do any thing about that.

 

Then I was being supported over to what turned out to be the couch. I wanted to tell them not to touch me, tell everyone just to stay the hell away from me, but I still couldn't get enough breath. Someone was telling me to calm down; a hand was trying to push my head down between my knees. Slowly -- far too slowly -- I began to get more air into my lungs. The stars inside my eyelids started to fade as well. I guessed I wasn't going to die just yet.

 

Unless something else jumped through the window and ate me. Or gave me a heart attack.

 

"Peter... Peter, answer me..."

 

That familiar voice sounded so concerned; I lifted my head to find Stuart leaning over me so closely that I could smell his fear and the remnants of his aftershave. His eyes brightened when they met mine, and I could feel an answering smile moving across my face. Then I realized that Doyle was right behind Stuart, staring down at me with what looked like concern. Or pity.

 

Uh-uh. I pulled away from Stuart, getting to my feet and ignoring the faint wave of dizziness when I stood too fast. Stuart saw something though. "Peter, are you okay?"

 

"Fine," I growled, trying to will the light-headedness away. Just another minute, and I really would be fine.

 

"But... Can I get you anything? Maybe you should --"

 

Doyle still hadn't said anything, just stood there, watching. Waiting for me to fall over, I'd bet. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "I said fine, Stuart. Leave me the hell alone," I said, scowling as the outburst sent another little ripple through my equilibrium.

 

Cordelia emerged from the direction of the other rooms I had yet to see. She was followed by a slow-moving Angel, his open shirt showing off a thick white bandage wrapped around his middle. Some papercut. He looked far worse than I'm sure I did.

 

But he was still standing, and -- other than a wince here and there -- was managing any pain quite well. That was assuming that such major bandaging was really necessary, and this wasn't all some showy overkill complete with artificial grimaces. Who knew? Maybe he wanted to audition as well.

 

He leaned against a wall, his eyes on me. I got the feeling then that he was standing simply because I was, like some kind of territorial alpha male bullshit. He didn't seem to realize that I lived that game.

 

Steeling myself for a version of the usual power-struggle pissing contest, his words took me by surprise. "You okay?"

No way was I falling for whatever mind game twist this was. I opened my mouth to tell him to mind his own fucking business, but Doyle was faster. "He's a regular dose of sunshine, this one is, Angel. And about as big on gratitude as Princess over there."

 

"Hey!" Cordelia protested from where she stood, close to Angel.

Angel ignored them both. "Derak demons always come in pairs," he announced, his voice low and serious. "We've got to prepare for this one's mate. We might not have much time."

 

At what point was I going to wake up and find that this was all a dream?

"There's going to be another one?" Cordelia asked, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. "There'd better be room for a cleaning service in our budget, Angel. That, and a new window. Because there's no way I'm putting some tacky cardboard up there..."

 

"We'll take care of it later, Cordelia." He sounded exhausted to me, and I didn't even know the man. But I must have been right, because the girl was instantly guiding him to the couch even as Doyle was brushing the few glass fragments off onto the floor.

 

Angel tried to shake her off, but she refused to be dissuaded. "We have to find somewhere else to move them to. We don't have time for --"

 

"Enough with the Macho-Mania. You can plan just as well from the couch." She looked to Doyle as if for backup.

 

"Cordy is right, Angel. That thing almost sliced clean through you. Let her play Nurse Nightingale for a bit, and then we'll head out."

 

Angel looked decidedly unhappy, but he didn't get off the couch. I wondered just how badly he had been hurt. He was still conscious, so it couldn't have been all that serious, right? But Doyle's words bounced around in my head. //Sliced clean through.//

 

It wasn't until then that I realized that Autumn -- the cause of all this, in my mind -- was nowhere in the room.  Doyle and Cordelia were focused on the injured man in front of them, and had their backs to me. But Angel had seen me looking around and recognized what I was searching for.

 

"She's resting in the other room. She's going into shock, I think."

 

"Surprised she made it this long," Doyle commented.

 

Angel tried to push himself off the couch, but Cordelia's hand on his shoulder -- as well as the pain evident on his face -- kept him down. "Someone should check on her again," he said through tightly clenched teeth. Behind me, Stuart volunteered. Angel nodded at him. "You do seem to have a calming effect on her... Damn."

 

The last word escaped his lips somewhere between a groan and a whisper. Cordelia left the room, returning quickly with a mug of something or other. I thought it might be alcohol, but I couldn't smell anything. The liquid had steam coming off of it, so I assumed it wasn't water either. Probably some of that herbal crap. These people looked like they might be into that natural bullshit.

 

Well, maybe not Doyle. I was guessing that his liquid diet consisted mostly of hard liquor.

 

When the cup was handed to him, Angel looked up at Cordelia with something like surprised confusion on his face. His eyes slid to me, then back to Cordelia, who simply offered a small shrug. I would have been curious about the odd exchange, but, due to the earlier events of the day, I really didn't have it in me.

 

After drinking what must have been half of the liquid in the mug, Angel spoke again. "We have to get Autumn to somewhere safe until we can get her out of town. Any ideas?" he asked the other two.

 

"The office would be too obvious," Doyle thought aloud. "It has to be some place no one knows about..." He turned to me, a devious grin on his face. "How 'bout your place, mate?"

 

I took a step back, unconsciously putting space between myself and this group. "No way. Not a chance in hell. I'm not risking something like *that*," I gestured to where the creature had gone up in flames, "coming to my house. I just had new carpeting put in." This didn't seem to hold much sway with them, so I tried something else. "Besides, Wolfram and Hart have my address."

 

 Angel paused in mid-drink, one sculpted eyebrow raised. Cordelia leaned over to him and explained in a stage whisper. "He hired them," she said, in the tone of someone discussing the mistakes of a child. Then she brightened. "The good news is that he's a producer, so when this is over I --"

 

 "Later, Cordelia," Angel said, cutting her off midsentence. Doyle smothered a chuckle, and Cordelia shot him a dirty look. Doyle stuck his tongue out at her. Angel looked at them both with an expression of tightly-stretched patience. For once I could sympathize with him.

 

 "It's not so much about Wolfram and Hart: Derak demons track their prey by scent." I noticed that it was becoming less and less bizarre to hear a bunch of semi-rational adults using the word "demon" in every other sentence. I wondered what that said about me and this whole situation. Angel continued, "It's got the girl's trail. We can't ask Mr. Dragon to risk his home for this."

 

Damn right they can't.

 

"So you're saying that Mrs. Green Yuck is going to come find us no matter where we go?"

 

"Mister, actually. The one that came here was the female."

 

Cordelia groaned. "I do not get paid well enough for this."

 

"So why don't we just stay here?" Doyle asked. "If it's going to get us anyway, what's the point in running?"

 

"You wouldn't be saying that if this was your apartment facing certain destruction, " Cordelia told him. "Oh wait, that's right -- If this was your apartment, no one could tell the difference."

 

"Ha ha. Excuse me if I have more important things to do instead of picking out furniture and paint chips, Princess."

 

"And when exactly do you do these 'important things'?" Cordelia shot back. "In between all the drinking and hanging around the office, is it?"

 

"Guys, guys... Enough." They both glared at each other like fighting siblings, but neither said anything else. "I need something constructive here."

 

Doyle was the first to break the eye contact, turning back to Angel. "Okay, I repeat my question: What's the point in running?"

 

I swear Angel actually squirmed a little. He looked uncomfortable, but not just from his wounds. "We need to put some space between us and it, to give us more time."

 

More time? That's it -- I was in hell. A never-ending, horrible hell. Why couldn't we just finish this and then I could go back to my life. I never wanted to see any of these people ever again.

 

"Why do we need more... Oh," Cordelia started, suddenly answering her own question and mine. "You can't fight them until you heal."

 

Now he was definitely squirming. "I *can* fight. I will if I have to. It's just that..." What looked like embarrassment flashed across his features, quickly submerged. "It would be better if I had a little time, is all." The admission looked like it had cost him, and I caught myself relating to him again. I hate doctors; consequently, I also hate admitting that there is ever anything wrong with me.

 

"If we hide at my house," I heard myself saying, surprised as anyone in the room to hear the words that were coming out of my mouth, "it will give you the time you need?"

 

"We can use my apartment." Stuart, coming up behind me and making me jump. I glared at him.

 

"There's no way I'm spending god-knows-how-long in that cramped thing you call an apartment, Stuart. Besides, at my house I know for sure there'll be some decent liquor."

 

Why exactly was I arguing for this?

 

Angel was getting slowly to his feet, unable to hide the grimace on his face. "How's Autumn?" he asked Stuart, probably as a distraction for all of us, but still with genuine concern.

 

"Sleeping," he answered as Angel began painfully buttoning up his shirt. "She's exhausted."

 

"She's not the only one," Cordelia said under her breath. I thought she meant herself, until I looked and saw where her eyes were. Angel either ignored her or was concentrating on his task so intently that he didn't hear.

 

This martyr thing seemed to be pushing a bit far, even by my standards. Especially if we were counting on this guy to be our champion. Even I could tell that this man was barely on his feet. "Should he be in a hospital or something?"

 

Angel visibly straightened, his face almost a blank mask. "I heal quickly. It's fine." The shortness of the statement left little room to argue.

 

Cordelia and Doyle shared a look, but neither said anything for a moment or two. Then Doyle broke the silence. "All right, you're the boss, Angel. Princess, let's get these people moving. Relative safety, here we come."

 

***

 

Doyle let out a low whistle. "I guess you make some money, huh?" he asked, looking around my living room. And paying a little too much attention to the crystal vase that sat on the front table.

 

"Don't touch anything," I told him as I left them and ran up the stairs. Despite all that had gone on, the only thing I could focus on at the moment I walked in my door was the intense need to change my clothes. Now that we had a little breathing time (no pun intended), I was beginning to realize how disgusting the smell coming off of them really was. Sewer, definitely -- Cordelia had been right on that one. And something else I couldn't place... Monster, maybe? A shudder ran through me, and I stripped quickly.

 

The shoes might be a lost cause, I decided. Some kind of nasty looking slime on the bottom of one. I hoped I hadn't tracked it through the house. To say nothing of the people that were now in my living room. If there was so much as a smudge on my new carpet...

 

I didn't feel comfortable leaving them down there for long on their own, but I decided that I had to take a shower. It was less than relaxing. The only thing I could think of while I was in there was that either Doyle was going to make off with half of my things or some big "demon" thing was going to suddenly come flying through a wall. I was out and dressed in less time than it takes to list Don Johnson's Oscar nominations.

 

Nothing -- including my walls -- seemed to be missing or broken when I came back downstairs. Doyle was stretched out on one of my couches, watching Angel pace slowly like a caged cat; Cordelia was sitting on the other, flipping through one of the trades that had been left on the coffee table. Stuart was standing beside Autumn, who was sitting on one of my bar stools, drinking what looked like water but could have been anything.

 

I doubted underage drinking was one of our problems at the moment.

 

They looked at me when I came in, then immediately went back to what they had been doing. So calm, as if we weren't all waiting around for a law firm and a killer monster to burst through the door at any minute. I wondered if I had any Xanex left upstairs.

 

I did, and wasted no time taking a couple to take the edge off. Follow that up with a gin and tonic, and I was well on my way to becoming as mellow on the inside as I was pretending to be on the outside. Demons? Hah. Claws? No problem. I'd fought studios, for crissake. It was all the same thing.

 

Still, my mind was having a bit of a problem fully accepting this whole idea. Well, part of it was. Another part was taking care to memorize every FX detail for use sometime later. By the time I had started on the second drink the drugs had kicked in, and I was well on my way to believing that the whole thing had been a movie effect to begin with.

 

An hour passed in silence. When I realized that I was being hypnotized by the ticking of my own Rolex, I got out of my chair and headed back for the bar. Angel was standing still now, a shadow of a statue looking out the window into the darkness. I wondered what it was he was expecting to see on my front lawn.

 

"So now what?" I asked him, refilling my glass. "Intermission? To Be Continued?"

 

 He looked at me -- that same piercing, silent appraisal -- and then turned back to the window as he answered. "He's searching the city. It could take him a while. Or not."

 

 "Might as well be talking to a Magic 8 ball," I muttered, taking a sip. Needed more gin. Doyle approached the bar while I was pouring, the incline of his head silently asking permission to get another for himself. I nodded, picking up my own drink again. Much better.

 

 I watched him help himself. Again the question surfaced: Who *were* these people?

 

 "You do this often?" I heard myself asking. Brain was beginning to lag a bit behind the tongue. Comfortable.

 

 He looked up at me, an eyebrow arched. "What's that?"

 

 "This. Fight...uh... demons." The word didn't want to come out, it seemed.

 

 The amused smile returned to his lips. "Yeah. It's pretty much *what* we do."

 

 Demons. Deeeeee-mons. Hmmm... maybe I finally did have that breakdown after all, and I'm still on the set? Where the hell did Stuart go, anyway?

 

 Stuart was sitting on the other couch, his arm still firmly around his new pet. She was staring straight ahead, her gaze resting on a spot somewhere on my carpet. He was rocking her gently, but she appeared totally nonresponsive. "What happened to her, anyway?" I asked Doyle, nodding in their direction.

 

 Doyle looked at Autumn, his eyes sad. "Poor girl saw something she wasn't supposed to. Wrong place at the wrong time and all that."

 

 "So the *lawyers* are trying to kill her? The jokes are true after all." There had to be pieces I was missing here, because these were some  big holes. Of course, my attention span at the moment seemed short enough that it probably wouldn't matter to me anyway, in a minute or two.

 

 He shrugged. "Bit of advice? Things aren't usually what they seem."

 

 His smug little brush-off annoyed me. "Thanks so much, Son of Cryptic. Did you make that up all by yourself?"

 

 Doyle's eyes narrowed a bit. "You always treat people like this when they're trying to help you ?"

 

 "I treat people like this when they're wasting my time."

 

 We were almost nose-to-nose by this point, my anger matching what I could feel coming off of him. I'm not sure why I wanted this fight, but I knew I did. I'd wanted it when he walked into my office.

 

 "Mate," he started, under his breath, "if Angel didn't say --"

 

 "What's wrong? Daddy got you on too short of a leash?"

 

 The guy packed more than I would have expected, I'll admit that. Before I saw it coming, I was reeling back into the bar's polished wood, literally seeing spots from the left he'd landed almost dead center on my nose. What little I could make out through the sparkling haze was the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

 

 "You little prick..." I jumped on him, swinging.

 

 Things went a bit fuzzy there. Some time soon after, Angel and Cordelia had us on separate sides of the room like scuffling first graders in time-out. Cordelia had one of my monogrammed bathroom towels and was pulling slivers of glass from Doyle's palms and shoulder. I noticed that even the realization that I had lost some glassware wasn't enough at that moment to dampen my spiteful happiness at his minor wounds.

 

 We continued to glare at each other from our opposite corners. Angel looked back and forth between us, frowning like a disappointed parent. "This isn't working."

 

 "Right-o, let's pack it up and leave this bastard to his own defenses."

 

 Cordelia smacked him lightly on the uninjured shoulder and he pouted at her, missing the look that Angel directed at him. "We're not leaving anyone. You two are just going to have to ignore each other."

 

 "If I ignore him, he'll probably run off with the nearest thing that looks expensive." Angel turned that look on me. I had to make a supreme effort not to drop my eyes in the face of his dark intensity. I didn't think the guy was going to ever blink.

 

 When he broke the eye contact, my gaze darted around the room, instinctively seeking out something less... *threatening* to look at. It settled on Autumn, who was continuing to focus completely on my carpet. If the fight had caught her attention at all, you couldn't tell now. She simply wasn't there.

 

 It was then that the perfect solution to all of this came to me. "What if we took her to the hospital," I began, all eyes in the room turning on me. "This evil monster thing will track her *there,* right? Instead of here?" Seemed like a definite plus to me. No monster, no mess.

 

 "Peter --" I heard Stuart protest. At the same time, Doyle's voice rose with, "You cold-hearted --"

 

 "Wait. He has a point."

 

 "What?" Cordelia and her boy patient couldn't have timed it better had it been scripted. "Angel, we can't --" and "Angel, you're not really going to --"

 

 Stuart, for his part, simply watched the arguing with his lips in a tight line, never releasing his hold on Autumn. I knew that look. Stuart Glazer was unhappy. Whether he would do something about it was another matter entirely.

 

 Angel stood up, leaning with one arm on the back of the overstuffed chair. "She needs medical attention. If she's in the hospital, she can get that. I can watch her room, and grab the Derak when it comes for her."

 

 "Bait." Doyle spit the word out with obvious distaste.

 

 "I'll be right there. Nothing is going to get to her. And it will be safer for the rest of you. You'll be out of the way."

 I still was not seeing the downside to the plan. Sit back in my comfortable living room, drinking myself into sweet, familiar oblivion while this self-appointed Batman took care of a problem that wasn't even mine to begin with. Nope, no downside at all.

 

 The Dark Knight's sidekicks still looked less than thrilled, though. "Since when has 'safe' ever been part of the plan?" Doyle asked him. "The PTB didn't give me this power so I could sit back and watch you get killed."

 

 PTB? Great, more secret lingo. Where did I leave my decoder ring again?

 

 "No one's getting killed."

 

 Doyle stood up, separating himself from Cordelia's ministrations, and moved closer to Angel. "That thing came close to taking you out last time," he said softly. "You're not back to full strength yet. You can't take this on alone."

 

 "He's right," Cordelia agreed, standing and joining them. "We're a team, remember? Brooding Protector, Vision-boy, and me. And, since I do *everything* else around here" -- I saw Doyle roll his eyes theatrically, barely dodging another blow from the girl  -- "you can't leave me out either."

 

 Angel looked back and forth between them, finally seeming to realize that neither was going to budge. He sighed. "Fine. But someone should stay here, just to be sure."

 

 "And," Cordelia said, continuing the thought, "since the Testosterone Twins can't be in the same room together, I guess that means me."

 

 The taller man nodded, then moved to kneel beside Autumn. I beat back the deja-vous with a large swallow of my drink, which I was pleased to see had somehow managed to avoid being upset during the fighting. Too bad the ice had melted. I hate that.

 

 Stuart was arguing with Angel, trying to convince the other man that he should go along as well. The image of me and the lovely Cordelia alone in my house was a pleasant one, but Angel clearly thought otherwise. Too bad. I have to say I've never been hiding from an otherworldly creature with a beautiful woman before. I bet the sex would have been incredible.

 

 Good to see that it merely took a sci-fi near death experience to get me off of the "one-woman" track. Shit, I'd forgotten about Wendy. When was she supposed to have gotten in? What the hell time was it *now*? Oh man, was she going to be pissed...

 

 I was distracted by the glimpse of metal as Angel adjusted something in the lining of his coat. Cordelia was keeping the crossbow with us. (Crossbow. Of course. Why wasn't I writing all of this down? Between Stuart and I, we should be able to get some kind of a script from all of this.)  If Doyle was armed, I didn't see it. Maybe the demon would be hungry for obnoxious Irishmen.

 

 Doyle helped Autumn up. She only moved where he directed her, as if she had no will of her own. Christina Ricci as the girl? No, too old. Katie Holmes in a darker turn? Hmmm. Not entirely sure she could pull it off. What about that girl -- what was her name? Kirsten Dunst. She'd done some good work. Have to dirty her up a bit...

 

 Then Doyle was at my side. I resisted the impulse to swat at him. Cordelia was at the door, talking to Angel in a low voice. Stuart was standing with the girl, telling her god-knows-what. Probably promising her the Happily Ever After ending. Sap.

 

 Anyway, there was Doyle, doing a fairly good impression of a gnat in my ear. "If anything happens to Cordelia while we're gone, you're gonna be the one answering for it. Got it?"

 

 He didn't even try to conceal the tenderness in his voice when he spoke of her, and the predator in me honed right in to peg that as his weakness. I couldn't resist. "Oh, sure... But if you happen to come back here and can't find us, be sure to check upstairs."

 

 I watched the anger take over his face as my meaning dawned on him. I swear he actually growled. "Don't touch her."

 

 "Even if she begs?"

 

 Faster than I could react, Angel had hold of the Irishman's arms, pulling him away from me even before he could strike. I just stood there, my long-practiced smug smile firmly on my face. Doyle snarled something under his breath that definitely wasn't English, then straightened himself and walked toward the door -- with remarkable restraint, I'll admit.

 

 Though not to him.

 

  ***

 

"So, do you actually *enjoy* this?"

 

"Hmmm?"

 

We'd been sitting in my completely uneventful living room for a little over two hours. Stuart had retreated into the guest bedroom right off from where we were. Cordelia was flipping through the latest Backstage West (Where had *that* come from? Theater... psh.), finally silent after a long run of more directionless rambling than I'd seen since the last Oscars. I don't know why I was trying to engage her in conversation again, after she'd finally shut up, but the silence was beginning to grate more than the sound of her voice.

 

Lesser of two evils.

 

"This demon thing. You actually enjoy doing this?"

 

She looked up at me like I'd just signed Pauly Shore as my next romantic lead. "Yuck, no. Demons are evil, and usually tend to explode. That, or drip goo over whatever I happen to have just gotten back from the dry cleaners. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to get demon innards out of any kind of fabric?"

 

Couldn't say that I did.

 

"Besides, we don't always fight demons. We help people." She smiled proudly at that thought, but her expression darkened a moment later. "Unfortunately, we only seem to help the *unpaying* people... No matter how often I explain it to him, Angel thinks that the whole money issue isn't really all that important. I could show up in rags for what we get paid, and he wouldn't even notice."

 

I tried to picture her in rags. Despite the chemical haze I was floating in, it still turned me on.

 

"Not that Angel's not great, but you might have noticed he's not the best conversationalist. I swear, if Doyle wasn't around to talk to, I'd probably go agro."

 

"What about Doyle? Are you two...?"

 

That Paully Shore look again. "As if. Not that he's  -- well... I mean, Doyle's sweet. But he's not exactly financially solvent, you know? A girl needs a man who can support her. And Doyle's definitely not that man. And not moving that way any time soon, either. No thank you. Xander Harris was one loser too many. I've hit my quota for life."

 

Xander Harris? I decided to just let that slide all together. However, the part about her wanting a man to support her... No problem. I could do that -- just ask my ex-wife.

 

 I was about to hint as much, when someone began pounding on my front door. It didn't sound like a Jehovah's Witness either. The two of us headed for the door. I noticed she was holding her weapon, and I couldn't decide if that made me feel better or worse.

 

 I had barely turned the knob when they burst in. Doyle looked like he'd seen his share of a fight, complete with the rapidly swelling right eye. He was almost carrying Angel, who staggered along with his feet barely tracking on the floor. Cordelia immediately grabbed his other arm and pulled it over her shoulder, and the two of them supported him to my couch.

 

 "He's bleeding again," Doyle offered in explanation as he pushed aside the leather jacket lapels and began to unbutton the other man's shirt. Angel mumbled something and tried to lift his head from the back of the couch, but he was less than successful.

 

 Once the silk shirt was moved out of the way, I could see that the white bandage was now soaked in red. I heard Cordelia suck in a breath, but I was having trouble pulling my eyes away from all that blood. At least the couch was black. Unlike the carpet.

 

 "Do you have a first-aid kit?" she asked me, barely looking away from her friend.

 

 Did I have --? "No. I don't usually have guests bleeding all over my furniture. Sorry."

 

Doyle glared at me, then jumped up and left the room. I watched Cordelia fuss over Angel, wondering vaguely how I could possibly squash the story if this man died in my house. Too bad Wolfram and Hart were the ones we were supposed to be running from. I had the feeling that they'd be able to handle something like this.

 

Wait, maybe they still could. I mean, it's not like I was an active participant in all of this. It wasn't my fault that these do-gooders kidnapped me and involved me in this bizarre scene. They couldn't actually hold me responsible, could they?


"Here, we'll use this."

Doyle was holding, much to my horror, my fine guest sheets. Those cost more than he'd probably ever have in his pocket at any time in his entire life. Stuart wandered into the room a minute later, a somewhat bewildered look on his face. One look at his flattened hair told me that he had been using those sheets up until a moment ago. The look he gave me was slightly apologetic.

 

"Hold on. You can't --" The rest of the sentence was lost in the loud ripping sound that filled the room. "You're paying for those," I informed him. Paying clients or no, I was getting reimbursed for this.

 

Doyle ignored me. Surprise, surprise. With a bit of effort, he peeled the wet bandages off. Angel groaned but still didn't open his eyes. I managed to grab the disgusting bundle before Doyle dropped it on my carpet. I hurried it to the trashcan, then proceeded to scrub my hands until they were raw. These days, it paid to be paranoid around blood. What a great time to be alive.

 

"Looks like the wound reopened during the fight," Doyle was saying when I reentered the room. He was rewrapping Angel's midsection with what used to be my sheets, but the injured man still had not shown any signs of awareness. I wondered how much blood he'd lost.

 

"What happened?" Cordelia asked, watching Angel worriedly.

 

"Demon showed, just like he knew it would. We managed to get it out into an alley on one side of the hospital building... It was a tough bastard, I'll tell you that. I went down, and when I came to, Angel was staggering away from me, leaving a trail of red behind him. He almost made it to the street when he collapsed."

 

"What about the demon?" she demanded. "Did you get it?"

 

"...got away..."

 

We all turned to look at Angel, as if unsure that the gravelly words had come from him. "I...lost it..." His eyes were mere slits, pain creasing their corners. With obvious effort, he lifted his head from the back of the couch and moved as if to sit up. Both Cordelia and Doyle held him down easily. He fell back against the pillows, breathing in short, quick pants. "No time. It's... loose. Probably... followed..."

 

"That thing is on its way *here*?" No answer. "What about going for the girl?"

 

"It's angry..." His eyes were closed again, and every word sounded as if it were being forced out. "...revenge..."

 

"Great. Just fucking great."

 

"Real helpful," Doyle snapped.

 

Before I could come back with a reply, Cordelia intervened. "Not now, you guys. We have *way* bigger things to deal with."

 

As if on cue, the front door flew open, wood splintering as it crashed against the wall behind it. Cordelia made some comment I didn't quite catch -- something about being invited in, I think. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw Doyle helping Angel to his feet, supporting him as if *that* meant he could fight. I grabbed the closest weapon-looking thing that my hand closed around and backed as far away from the creature as I could. I didn't even know what I was holding -- other than it was heavy.

 

I couldn't seem to pull my eyes away from the monster long enough to look.

 

Bigger than the other, if my memory could be trusted. And definitely *not* FX, as surreal as it seemed. This thing had horns, wicked looking points sticking right out of its skull. Did the other one have horns? Did it really matter?

 

And then came the action-sequence rush of motion. Angel managed to launch himself at Mrs. Thing, only to get knocked backward over the arm of the chair with one sweep of a green arm. Surprisingly, he was struggling to get back up when I glanced his way. This guy was super-human or something.

 

A glimpse of light on glass as a paperweight my daughter had bought me flew across the room to bounce off the demon. Stuart. The Thing recognized the source as well, and turned on him. A fierce, animal yell brought its attention back around just as Doyle landed on its back. It tried to shake him off, but was having some difficulty. Angel meanwhile was on his feet again, however unsteady. Amazingly, he got a few solid kicks in before The Thing flung him away again. This time he hit the floor and didn't move. Stuart moved toward him, only to get knocked down by a flying Cordelia. She landed on top of him, not showing much sign of rising either. Stuart was squirming underneath her, trying to free himself. Blood speckled the once-pristine white carpet, and there was a decent amount beginning to spread from Angel's prone form.

 

My carpet. My brand-fucking-new carpet that took three days to install because the first time it wasn't cut right. My beautiful fucking carpet that cost me more than my last movie spent on film. My carpet that had to be ordered specifically from one particular company, because they were the only people who carried that exact shade...

 

"Goddammit, you ruined my fucking carpet, you son of a bitch!"

 

Later, I was able to see the absolute lack of any kind of thought that went into what I did. Later I realized exactly how stupid I had been, how close to becoming monster food. Later I dosed myself with Valium for three days and did nothing but lie in bed and shake for hours at a time. But right then, all I could see was red. Everywhere. And I charged.

 

The impact sent stabs of pain shooting all the way up into my shoulder. I screamed, dropping my weapon and falling to the floor, clutching my arm in agony. Imagine my surprise when the weapon stuck. Multiply that by six, and you'll come close to the look of shock on the demon's face, right before he burst into green flames.

 

 ***

 

It was decided by the group that Stuart and I were probably not in any danger, considering that the girl was no longer with us, and that the demon team had failed. The reasoning went that since the demons were tracking us on their own -- and since neither lived to report back to its masters -- that our involvement in the whole affair was fairly speculative. At the very least, I was informed only a few days later by that writer's lawyer that the suit against me and DragonFire Films was being dropped. I took that to be a sufficient sign as to my status in the eyes of Wolfram and Hart.

 

Still, the do-gooders insisted on keeping a surreptitious eye on us for a while more. I never did see any of them, but occasionally I would get that creepy, shivery feeling that only Angel had ever been able to produce in me. Maybe I was imagining it. Maybe not. What I didn't imagine was the bloodstains all over my living room, or the loss of my new carpeting. Took them almost as long to pull it out as it did to put it in, plus this time I had to throw in some extra to keep certain things from getting out to the press.

 

I took a week of vacation, most of which -- as I said -- was spent inside my house. I had new locks installed on the new front door, and I decided to leave the hardwood bare for the time being. I didn't end up sending Angel and Co. the bill, though I was tempted. Especially after Wendy (whose flight had been delayed by almost ten hours, thank christ) came home, and I spilled the entire story -- realizing again just how much I had been screwed out of during this whole thing.

 

Turns out, in case you were wondering, that I had stabbed the demon with the metal poker from my fireplace. Apparently metal isn't a favorite of these particular creatures. I wanted to call everyone who'd told me that a fireplace in LA was a waste of time, but of course I didn't. Who'd believe a story like that anyway?

 

I'm still not sure that I do.

 

 

The End