The Case Of The Missing Santas by Little Heaven
Summary: Cordelia’s first Christmas in LA isn’t turning out the way it was supposed to.
Spoilers: Parting Gifts, Season One.
Notes: Gen friendship fic with a smattering of angst and foreshadowing. Thanks to Kelley and Laurie for the beta, and to the Angel Fanfic Workshop.
Prologue: Monday, December 20, 1999.
Bob locked his apartment door behind him. Then he fastened the deadbolt. And put
on the chain. Reaching down, he slid the last two bolts into place, and gave the
doorknob a small, sharp twist, just to be sure.
Heaving a sigh of relief, he kicked off his black, shiny boots and slipped the
red felt hat from his head, tossing it onto the cluttered dining room table,
where it sat like a big red exclamation mark amongst the final demand letters
and disconnection notices.
Still five days to go until Christmas and already he was exhausted. Every year
he promised himself that this one would be the last. This year it absolutely
*would* be, no question. He was getting too old for this shit.
As he sat down on the threadbare sofa and removed his white beard, the feeling
of unease that had followed him home crept over him again. Bad time of year to
quit smoking, he thought, reaching for the almost-finished bottle of scotch on
the coffee table. He drained the remainder of the liquor in one swig and rested
the empty vessel on his padded stomach, the glass clinking against the gold
buckle of his black patent leather belt.
God, he was so tired. Maybe he’d caught something from one of the hundreds of
children who’d clambered into his lap over the last few days. Enough of them
had been snotty-nosed. Maybe if he closed his eyes for a moment, just to muster
enough energy to get out of the damned prickly red suit…
The bottle hitting the floor woke him with a start. He must have dozed off
completely, and now he felt truly awful. Perhaps some aspirin would help.
Bob stumbled into the bathroom, the long legs of his Santa suit almost tripping
him as he made his way to the medicine cabinet on the wall. He opened the
mirrored door, and then slammed it shut, with a gasp, leaving the aspirin and
all the other contents untouched.
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t see himself! He looked wildly around the small tiled
room. Everything else appeared normal. He held up a hand in front of his face.
Nothing -- no red sleeve, no chewed fingernails… He pressed his palm against
the deteriorating mirror, and it made a misty halo on the cool glass. When he
withdrew it, a few greasy fingerprints remained.
Shit -- maybe he was dead! It was the only explanation. Dead. Oh God oh God oh
God… His stomach clenched and he grabbed for the sink with trembling hands.
This couldn’t be happening.
What if he was a *ghost*? Could he walk through things? Bob charged at the wall,
and there was a resounding crash as he cannoned into it, almost knocking himself
senseless. It hurt, and threw his ghost theory out the window. Little beads of
cold terror-sweat trickled down the back of his neck. What the hell was going
on?
Maybe it was just him that couldn’t see -- himself. Some sort of selective
hysterical blindness maybe? He needed someone else to see him. Anyone just to
smile and nod; acknowledge his presence. He dashed for the door, fumbling with
the locks and chain, and finally out into the courtyard of the apartment
building.
Nobody was there.
“Hello, anybody?” he yelled, his voice bordering on hysteria as it echoed
off the buildings around him. With a small, strangled noise of desperation, he
began running towards the street, the adrenaline of total terror overriding his
fatigue.
He burst from the car park, onto the sidewalk, and down the road, past his grimy
apartment building and the poorly maintained houses of his neighbours. Gathering
speed despite his cumbersome clothing, he bolted between the broken-down Ford
pickup that sat on blocks, and a rusty Buick, and out into the street.
There, at the corner of the block, was a group of people, walking home from
their Christmas shopping, arms full of bags and parcels. He stumbled towards
them.
“Hey, you there!” he shouted, waving his arms. The people looked around,
startled. One shrugged and they continued walking, a little faster than before.
“Look at me!” Bob screamed. He was now only about 20 feet from them,
standing in the middle of the road. He should have been a very visible, odd
sight, in his red suit, leaping about in the street like a lunatic.
“Where the hell is that coming from?” One of the men looked straight past,
or rather through, Bob.
“I don’t know, but it’s freaking me out.” A woman clutched her bags
closer to her body, and the group began to hurry off.
Bob stood there, incredulous. They couldn’t see him either. God-in-heaven,
what had happened to him? He turned and fled into the night.
***
Chapter One: Wednesday, December 22, 1999
“What’s this?” Angel’s voice startled Cordelia.
Standing atop his desk, her balance was precarious, at best. Damn vampire, how
could he be that big and still move around the place in complete silence?
“Jeez, Angel, stalk much?” She glared at him, wobbling on her heels, and
losing her grip on the large piece of tinsel she was trying to attach to the
ceiling. It coiled to the floor like a gaudy snake.
Standing, hands in pockets, in the doorway of the shadowy office, he looked more
annoyed than when she’d dropped peanut butter in his bed. “What are you
doing?”
“Well, duh, putting up the Christmas decorations,” she said, accepting his
hand, and descending with as much grace as her skirt would allow. His deepening
scowl indicated he could see the little crescent-shaped dents her stilettos had
made in the mahogany desktop. Obviously he was unaware how trendy distressed
wood was.
She moved to retrieve the tinsel, but Angel planted his boot on it. “Can we
not?” he said, pointing towards the main office, where the dusty mid-afternoon
sunlight filtered in slanting beams through the windows, causing a myriad of
decorations to sparkle and shimmer.
“Angel, just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we shouldn’t celebrate.
This is my first Christmas in LA and I won’t have you brooding all over it.”
Cordelia was pleased how steady her voice was, when her insides felt more like
jello in an earthquake. This was going to be harder than she thought.
Last Christmas she was skiing in Aspen, wearing designer everything, getting
bundles of money from her parents, and wasting altogether too much energy hating
Xander Harris. It may have seemed like the worst Christmas ever, what with the
broken heart and the hole in her guts, but this year felt twenty times worse.
Fifty, maybe.
This Christmas she had no money, no family, and no friends -- well, none that
were actually alive.
And there it was again -- the grief. Simmering under the false cheer,
threatening to burst out at the worst possible moment. Her chest ached and her
throat closed up. Damn you Doyle for leaving -- and for leaving the visions. An
ornament or a piece of jewellery would have been way more appropriate.
Maybe Angel sensed her melancholy, because he let out
a long, audible sigh. “Christmas is just another reason for stores to con
people into buying things they can’t afford, to give to people they don’t
even like.”
Okay, Angel, way to spread the cheer. No, dammit, she would not let this get her
down. They were going to have a nice Christmas, even if it killed her. And not
even Angel could stand in the way of Cordelia Chase on a mission.
She tugged at the tinsel. “Listen to you, Ebenezer. Christmas is not just
about presents. It’s also about eating yourself silly and drinking way too
much. Though in your case, that’s the same thing, isn’t it? What do vampires
do at Christmas? Drink a turkey? Can the undead get salmonella?”
Angel lifted his foot. That was easier than she thought. Round one to Queen C.
“Hello? Angel? Corde -- oh there you are.” Wesley’s head appeared around
the office door.
“Wesley.” Angel nodded towards the skinny Englishman.
“Hey, Wesley, how are the rogue demons?” Cordelia smiled, knowing her
mockery of his self-imposed title drove him nuts.
“As I explained before, they’re not… Oh, super, Christmas decorations! May
I help?”
“Give me strength,” Angel muttered. He took a deep breath, then another, and
motioned to the doorway, his mouth setting in a grim line. “You can do what
you like out there, but my office is a Christmas-free-zone.”
“Fine, party-pooper. Wesley and I will aaah!” Cordelia threw the piece of
tinsel to the floor, one hand flying to her face. Oh, God, here it came.
Brain-bender the second. And it was a hell of a lot more painful than
brain-bender the first.
“We’ll what?” Wesley frowned. “Smack ourselves in the head?”
“No -- she’s having a vision.” Angel’s voice became fuzzy and far away.
Screaming pain cracked through her skull, the pressure building and pounding
behind her eyes. They were gonna pop out, she was sure of it. Angel’s fingers
closed over her shoulders, his touch barely registering in her howling brain as
she crumpled to the floor.
Then came the images -- fast and blurred, and it was hard to make them out. The
place she saw was almost comforting in its familiarity. But something was very,
very wrong. Cordelia’s heart hammered in her throat, her hands sweating and
shaking, despair wrenching at her gut.
“Good heavens, it looks rather dramatic,” Wesley’s voice grew louder in
her ears as the vision began to fade.
Cordelia opened her eyes gingerly. Angel was kneeling over her, his face
contorted with about as much concern as she’d ever seen him express. She
sucked in a deep breath. “Please tell me I’m not drooling.”
“No, no drool.” He reached up to his desk and caught a tissue between his
fingers. “But, there’s -- a thing…” He pointed to his nostril.
Oh, yay, now she was shooting stuff out her nose. She felt a pang of nostalgia
for the drooling as she accepted the tissue, noting with gratitude that Angel
and Wesley were both pretending to be interested in other parts of the room.
After a few moments of blowing and wiping, she felt strong enough to sit up.
Angel sat back on his heels. “Could you make anything out?”
She knew where it was now -- the place she’d seen. “The mall”.
“Demons are attacking the mall?” Wesley sounded excited.
“I don’t know,” she said, vaguely annoyed that the source of her pain
seemed to be making him so darn cheerful. “All I saw was the mall and
Santa’s grotto. It was empty.”
“The mall?” Angel helped her to stand.
She shot him an irritated glance before pulling her arm away. “No dumbass, the
grotto. We have to go and check it out. Someone was really, really scared. Oh,
God, I felt it, Angel. I felt someone’s feelings…” Now she was shaking.
Doyle had never mentioned anything about feel-o-vision. It truly, monumentally
sucked.
“It’s okay, we’ll sort it out. Coming, Wesley?” Angel grabbed for his
car keys.
***
The thought of the mall terrified Angel. Everything he despised under one roof
-- crowds, commercialism, mirrored walls -- and Muzak. Plus, his last mall visit
had contained just a little too much rocket launcher for his liking. A shudder
jolted down his back as he huddled under the blanket in the back seat of the
Plymouth. If it hadn’t been for the anguish in Cordelia’s voice, he would
have been tempted to send Wesley alone. And he wouldn’t have caved when she
insisted on driving.
The tires squealed as they took a corner too fast. “Cordelia, please be
careful,” he moaned, his stomach lurching along with the car.
“Would you rather drive? Oh, that’s right, you can’t, what with the
setting sun shining in the windows,” she snapped. “I’m doing the best I
can. This thing handles like a tank.”
Angel made a mental note to limit Cordelia’s use of his car to emergencies.
They screeched around another corner. Make that life or death emergencies.
“Look at that. Why does everyone leave their shopping to the last minute?”
Wesley said. “I always have my Christmas shopping done by Aug-argh!”
Angel could only guess that Wesley’s head had collided with the raised roof of
the convertible, as they bounced over a speed hump. “Cordy,” he grunted.
“Keep your fangs on,” she said. “I’m used to driving cars that actually
have shock absorbers.”
Mental note number two. Avoid arguing with post-vision Cordelia.
“You’ll be driving one missing half its transmission in a minute,” Wesley
said. “Okay, Angel, we’re in.”
“Thank God.” Angel discarded the blanket and sat up. “I’m driving
home.”
Wesley turned around in his seat. “Sunset’s over an hour away.”
Angel took a deep breath to calm his churning stomach. “Then we’ll kill
time.”
***
Angel emerged from the elevator into his own private hell.
The mall consisted of five levels. The center of the building was an atrium,
through which something charitably described as a sculpture thrust its way
towards the domed glass roof. Stores ringed each level, and the pedestrian areas
were decorated with mirrored pillars and potted shrubbery. Every available
surface and window was festooned with wreaths, tinsel, glass baubles and lights
that flashed in a multitude of colours and patterns.
And it was *busy*. Shoppers moved as one huge, amorphous blob, ebbing and
flowing from store to store. Angel figured it was probably normal, being three
days before Christmas. Or maybe it was always this crowded. He tended to avoid
anywhere that teemed with this much humanity.
Being here was causing him more discomfort than the Wrentarth talon that
Cordelia and Doyle had dug out of from between his shoulder blades last month.
Someone bumped him as they bustled past, barely glancing up to apologize. The
tense atmosphere was aggravating his already anxious state. He could smell the
frustration. It oozed off people as they hurried about, struggling to move
through the crowds.
The carols blaring from tinny speakers proclaimed this was a time for peace and
goodwill. A time to celebrate with family and friends. A time to be full and
happy and generous. Yet all he saw was people too stressed to smile at each
other.
He *had* liked Christmas, a long time ago. The memory of sweet little Kathy was
still vivid. She would help their mother re-set the table, on Christmas Eve,
after their evening meal had been cleared away. Together, they would place the
traditional loaf of caraway seed and raisin bread on it, alongside a pitcher of
milk and a candle. He always tried to sneak a bit of the bread. His mother
always caught him.
He and Darla had made their own traditions. They’d dressed in fine clothes;
sauntered about whichever town they were in, finding gifts for each other. Some
were purchased, some were stolen, some were killed. They had enjoyed themselves,
in their own way.
Drusilla had loved it best of all. Her favourite game was to sneak up on a group
of carollers -- see if she could snatch someone away, unnoticed, and drain them
before the song had ended. The strains of something pseudo-traditional caught
his ear, dragging him back to the dark, lamp-lit streets, laughing as he watched
her pick out victims like candy from a shop window. He could almost smell the
blood, and his stomach twisted and yawned with familiar need.
And then came the nausea and self-abhorrence that had filled so many Christmases
since -- the ones spent laying in gutters, filthy and awash with despair -- and
the sharp memory of standing on the ridge in Sunnydale, waiting for the sun to
take him.
Coming here was a bad idea.
“Oh my God!” Cordelia squealed, startling him.
Wesley tensed, his eyes lighting with anticipation. “What is it? Do you see
something from your vision?”
“Victoria’s Secret. We *have* to go in!” she clapped her hands and dashed
into a shop.
“Cordelia, this is no time for shopping,” Wesley called. She didn’t turn
around, disappearing into the sea of undergarments. He sighed. “I guess we
should go in and wait for her.”
Angel nodded. The last thing he wanted was for them all to split up. He didn’t
trust his reactions, alone in this place. Plus, they had about an hour up their
sleeves. How long could this small diversion possibly take?
***
Angel glanced over at Wesley, his impatience growing. “Time?”
“Two minutes after you last asked.” Wesley sounded more than a little
irritated. He was also quite pink in the face, apparently embarrassed by their
proximity to women’s intimate apparel.
Angel shifted in his seat, and felt his anxiety crank up another notch. Thank
goodness he didn’t have any blood pressure, or it would have been going
through the roof now. “That makes twenty minutes. Do you think she’s all
right? Maybe she had a vision, and fell, or something attacked her in
there…”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Wesley said, through gritted teeth.
Another bored-looking man, seated at the far side of the waiting area, smiled at
them. “Women, huh?”
“Quite.” Wesley nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on his feet.
This, then, was obviously normal. Angel breathed a sigh of relief. Of course --
that man had been there at least as long as him and Wesley. Angel felt an
unusual sense of solidarity with him, and managed a smile and a nod in the
man’s direction.
Another few minutes passed. Angel’s normal ability to sit and contemplate the
universe seemed to have deserted him. The whole vibe of the mall made him too
tense. Perhaps a quick circuit of the store was in order, just to make sure
nothing demonic was going on. He stood up, and then sat down, and then stood up
again. “I’m going to look around a bit. Wesley?”
“Er, no, thank you, I’ll just wait here until one of you returns,” Wesley
replied, still staring with immense interest at the floor.
Angel wandered about the store, relieved to be doing *something*, and marvelling
at how women’s corsetry had changed over the years. He’d seen his fair share
of it. Gone were the bones and cruel, pinching corsets that Darla had laced
herself into, and he had frequently torn off her. This stuff was light, lacy,
and he guessed much more comfortable -- and easier to remove. He reached out to
feel a floral-patterned bra, and his fingers pressed against the underwire.
Okay, so maybe not that much more comfortable…
“Can I help you sir?” A woman’s voice startled him.
“Uh, no, I’m -- just looking.” He snatched his hand away, wondering if he
looked as guilty as he felt -- a pervert fondling the underwear.
“Something for your girlfriend?” she said, persistent. “We have a lovely
range of camisoles, if you’re not sure of her cup size.”
“Cup size?” Angel looked around for a means of escape, his stomach knotting.
Racks of coloured silk and lace loomed around him like a maze. He was out of his
depth. He didn’t belong here, amongst these people, and this new-fangled
corsetry that he didn’t understand.
The woman looked at him with undisguised pity. “Okay, maybe we’d better try
nightwear. I can show you something in a nice mauve satin.”
“No!” he barked, and then held up his hands when she jumped and pressed her
fingers to her mouth, shocked. “I’m sorry, I -- I’m just waiting for a
friend.”
She backed away. “Well, why don’t you go sit in the waiting area, sir?”
“Of course, sorry.” He nodded, relieved to be off the hook. Turning his back
on the startled woman, he hurried back to the safety of the changing rooms.
As Angel neared the place where he’d left Wesley, the sound of a commotion
caught his attention.
“I can assure you that’s not what I was doing.” Wesley’s voice grew
louder as he appeared around the corner, flanked by two security guards.
“Angel, help me!” he said, at their eyes met.
“What happened?” Angel asked, holding out a hand to stall the men.
“We caught your friend here trying to get into the women’s changing
rooms,” one of them said.
Wesley frowned. “I was just trying to see if Cordelia was all right,” and
then he mouthed ‘vampire’, motioning towards the changing rooms with his
eyes.
Angel inhaled, taking in the scents around him. Humans, perfume, a little sweat.
No vampire. He shook his head.
“Ah, well, there you go,” Wesley muttered, drooping a little.
“Where are you taking him?” Angel addressed his query to the other guard.
“Manager’s office. C’mon pal,” the man said, pulling on Wesley’s
elbow.
***
Cordelia checked she was buttoned up correctly, and gathered the assortment of
bras and panties she’d tried on. Once, she would have considered wearing
Victoria’s Secret as a lowering of her standards. These days, her budget was
too tight even for these prices. Her old stuff would just have to hold together
a little longer, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to stoop to cheap and
nasty.
When she entered the store, she’d been consumed with the thought that just
trying on new stuff would make her feel better. But all it had done was depress
her more. Window-shopping was a soul-destroying experience -- one she figured
she’d never get used to. She missed the dainty little bags and things wrapped
in tissue paper. Coming away from a shop empty-handed defied the natural order
of the universe.
She emerged from the changing rooms to find Angel, standing awkwardly, hands
deep in the pockets of his duster. His expression changed from near-panic to
relief when he spotted her.
“Hey, Angel,” she said, glancing around. “Where’s Wesley?”
“Store security took him away,” he said, looking miserable again.
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Oh, is that what the commotion was? Boy, you
can’t take him anywhere. I didn’t pick Wesley as a pervert.”
“He thought there was a vampire in the changing rooms.”
She stiffened, and he must have noticed, because he added, “Don’t worry,
there’s nothing here. I’d sense it if there was.”
She began to chuckle, despite herself. This could only happen to *her* in a
mall. “I guess we should go rescue him.”
“Guess we should.”
Cordelia approached the changing-room assistant and handed over the things
she’d tried on. “Thanks, I’ll leave these for today.” She held back one
bra, a gorgeous azure floral pattern. Just one thing. It would make all the
difference if she could only have this. But that would leave her without enough
money for next week’s food. Sighing, she added it to the pile.
“You’re not buying anything?” Angel asked, looking confused.
She put on her biggest fake smile. “No, didn’t really like any of it.”
“And it took you thirty minutes to come to that conclusion?” he muttered,
falling in behind her as she headed for the doors.
“Hey, you wanted to kill time,” she said, wanting to put as much distance
between her and the blue satin as possible, before her resolve crumbled.
***
Angel wondered if a man’s place at the mall was solely to sit around and wait
for people. He and Cordelia were perched on the low couch in the Management
Office’s reception area, waiting for Wesley to come out. The severe-faced
woman at the desk said he was ‘being interviewed.’
The room was sterile, cream-on-cream, with recessed lighting, and more of the
potted palms that filled the rest of the mall. Prints of famous paintings hung
on the walls, set in generic chrome frames that insulted the genius of the work
contained within. A corridor ran off to the left, office doors set at regular
intervals between the ceiling-to-floor one-way windows that served as walls. One
of them contained Wesley -- his smell hung in the air, proving he’d passed
this way recently.
With a sigh Angel picked up a magazine, flicking the pages with little interest.
Perhaps there was some enchantment placed on waiting rooms which made time move
slower there than in other parts of the universe. At least in hell things had
rollicked along at a fair old pace…
A sense of release washed over him. The sun was down. Even buried here, encased
in the monolith that was the mall, he felt it slip below the horizon. Now, if he
wanted to, he could leave. He rose, more out of frustration than actual intent
to follow through on his instinct.
“Angel, what are you doing?” Cordelia asked, the tone of her voice clearly
transforming the words to ‘leave now, buddy, and I’ll stake you dead.’
He raised a finger to his lips. He could hear voices. She opened her mouth
again, but stopped as he cocked his ear closer to the source of the sound.
A woman was talking, her voice raised, which is what had brought it into his
hearing range. “He’s just gone, and that’s not like him. He’s usually so
reliable. I can’t get hold of him at any of his numbers -- it’s like he
vanished without a trace. That’s both of them now. We should call the
police.”
“I said *no*. We don’t want that sort of publicity,” a man’s voice
replied, semi-threatening.
“Well, what do you want me to do, just hire another, pretend nothing
happened?” the woman snapped back.
“Yes, that’s what I want you to do. Get another stupid Santa, or get
yourself a new job.”
“Do you know how hard it is to find a good Santa at this time of year? And
what happens if the next one disappears too?” The woman’s voice held a touch
of panic now.
“I don’t care. Just get another one.” The man’s voice grew louder, and
the door of the closest office flew open. The owner of the voice stormed out,
and down the hallway, where he went into another office and slammed the door
behind him. The glass wall rattled.
Angel took his opportunity, and slipped into the room the man had just vacated.
The woman -- a nicely dressed lady in her late thirties -- looked at him with
misty eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. The public aren’t allowed in here.”
“What happened to the Santas?” Angel asked.
“Oh, God.” She went very pale, and sank down into the chair behind her desk.
Cordelia came in the doorway behind him. “Angel?”
He motioned for her to enter, and she closed the door before sitting down.
Angel produced a business card from the pocket of his duster, placing it on the
desk where the woman could see it. “I know you have a problem, and I think we
can help. I’m Angel.” He held out his hand.
“Miriam Saunders.” The woman shook it, business-like, but he could feel the
tremor in her fingers. “Have a seat, please.”
“So, what’s going on?” he said, settling into a chair.
Miriam studied the card for a long time, and it was obvious she was debating
whether to tell him everything, or throw him and Cordelia out. Finally, she took
a deep breath. “I know this sounds crazy, but both of our Santas have
disappeared. They went home two days ago, and never showed up for their next
shifts. Nobody has heard from, or seen either of them since. It’s like
they’ve vanished into thin air. It’s -- frightening.”
“Well, boy, have you picked the right team for the job,” Cordelia said,
bursting into her less-than-subtle sales pitch. “At Angel Investigations we
specialize in unusual cases, for a reasonable fee -- or store credit.”
Angel groaned inwardly, but Miriam seemed more than happy to consider what
Cordelia was saying. “If you’d like to see the grotto, maybe you could find
some clues?” she said.
“We’ll consider taking the case, on one condition,” Angel said, wincing as
Cordelia elbowed him in the ribs.
“What?” Miriam rubbed her temples with both forefingers.
“That you release our friend. He was in Victoria’s Secret…”
“Oh, yes, the peeper. I suppose so, as long as nothing like that ever happens
again,” Miriam said, frowning at Cordelia’s snort of laughter.
It was Angel’s turn to elbow Cordelia. “I promise, Ms Saunders. He’ll be
perfectly well behaved.”
***
Cordelia watched, rather bored, as Wesley and Angel strode around the periphery
of the empty grotto that she’d seen in her vision. As grottos went, it was
nothing special. A two-foot high white picket fence surrounded a sugar-pink
castle, in the doorway of which stood a large gold and velvet throne. Leading up
to that was a meandering fake brick path, weaving between plastic fur trees
covered in artificial snow and red glass baubles. At the entrance to the whole
thing was a gate, adorned with a sign that advised the grotto was currently
closed. Overall, the effect was pretty tacky.
Miriam Saunders stood to one side, her face displaying an odd mixture of
scepticism and expectation.
“Oh, dear, another one gone?” An older man’s voice over Cordelia’s left
shoulder made her gasp and wheel around. “Sorry sweetie, didn’t mean to
startle ya,” he said, his face crinkling into a warm smile.
“That’s okay -- Jack,” she said, reading his name badge, which also
proclaimed that he was store security. He looked way too old and frail to be
able to secure anything, but to say so would be rude. Not that it usually
stopped her, but he had such a pleasant, grandfatherly quality about him, she
decided to hold her tongue on this occasion.
“Such a darn shame. The little kiddies will be so disappointed if there’s no
Santa,” Jack said, his blue eyes peering at her through thick, wire-rimmed
spectacles.
“Did you see what happened to them?” she asked. Surely a security guard
would need to be perceptive as part of his job.
He shrugged. “Well, Missy, yes and no. I seen ‘em all right, but nothing
funny happened while they were here. They just went home and never came back,
both of ‘em. Breaks my heart to see the little’uns disappointed. I’d
volunteer myself if I wasn’t so old and skinny.”
Cordelia nodded and sighed. A five-year-old would probably crush him. She
wondered why he was still working, instead of enjoying a nice retirement with
his wife and family. Maybe he didn’t have anyone. Like her.
Jack glanced at Miriam, and then smiled at Cordelia. “Better be on my way,
don’t want to get in trouble for loitering. Nice to meet you.” He tipped his
cap and ambled off.
Wesley approached her, looking puzzled. “It doesn’t appear to be in any of
the more common mystical formations.” He glanced up at the turret of the fake
castle.
Cordelia couldn’t help herself. “Peeper, Wesley?”
“You had to bring it up.” He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at
her.
“I’m sorry, it’s just -- what on earth were you doing?” She tried to
suppress a grin.
“I was so sure she was a vampire,” he said, bewildered. “Very pale, you
see. I ran in after her and she started screaming. I can assure you I had only
your safety in mind.”
“Well that’s a relief.” Cordelia attempted to remain straight-faced. “I
don’t think I could bring myself to shop for your present at
‘Dirty-Old-Men-R-Us’s House of Trenchcoats’.”
To her surprise, Wesley’s face lit up. “You’re buying me a Christmas
present? I’m so touched.”
She smiled and nodded, regretting her runaway mouth for one of the few times in
her life. Not only did she not have enough money for new underwear, now she
didn’t have enough money for Wesley’s present either. What did stuffy
English guys like, anyway? Bowler Hats? Umbrellas?
Angel’s voice broke her train of thought, as he stopped beside them. “I
can’t find anything unusual.”
“Nor I. It would really help if we could interview one of the Santas -- see if
they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary,” Wesley said.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “If the Santas were around to be interviewed, then
Miriam over there wouldn’t need us in the first place.”
At the mention of her name, Miriam Saunders began to approach, her expression
now a mixture of scepticism, expectation and hope.
“Perhaps we could hang around the next Santa, watch for -- something,” Angel
said with a marked lack of enthusiasm, like the last thing he wanted to do was
return to the mall.
Miriam sighed; obviously realising they’d come up with nothing. “Finding a
decent Santa at this time of year is going to be difficult, maybe impossible.”
“What about the last two, do you have their addresses?” Wesley asked.
She nodded. “We keep comprehensive records on all our Santas. You can’t be
too careful these days, considering they have close contact with children.
There’s a lot of weirdos about.” Her eyes narrowed at Wesley, who turned a
vivid shade of pink again.
Cordelia wondered how she could ever have seen such a 007 quality in someone who
turned out to be, well, just a 0 really.
Angel looked eager at the prospect of moving their investigation elsewhere.
“If we could have their details, please, we’ll investigate their homes. Look
for signs of foul play.”
“We’re not supposed to give that information out…” Miriam hesitated,
perhaps still wary of revealing everything to three strangers, and then
shrugged. “One can’t hurt, I guess. They’re back in the office.”
Angel turned so fast that his coat flew out in a wide arc behind him. For a
split second Cordelia smiled as she remembered Doyle’s comment about how hot
it made the vampire look. What did you call something that made you sad and
happy all at once? Bittersweet?
Then she realized Angel was covering ground at significant pace, and took off at
a jog to keep up.
***
Cordelia screwed up her nose in distaste as they drove along the dingy street.
She studied the square of memo paper that Miriam had scrawled the name and
address on. Bob Kowalczyk. Just another faceless victim in the procession of
people who lost themselves in LA every day.
Shit, she’d spent too much time hanging around with Angel -- now she was
starting to think like him.
“Here, stop!” she shouted, snapping out of her reverie just in time to
realize they were about to sail past Bob Kowalczyk’s apartment building.
Cursing under his breath, Angel braked hard, sliding the back end of the
Plymouth around and fishtailing slightly as he managed to make the driveway --
just.
“Jeez, and you complain about my driving,” Cordelia muttered, climbing out
into the parking area. Angel looked like he was about to protest, but just shook
his head instead.
“Which one is it?” Wesley said, trying to extricate himself from the back
seat and straighten his glasses at the same time.
She peered at the address again. “Apartment 10.”
“Over there,” Angel pointed to a ground floor dwelling. The lights were all
on, and the door stood wide open.
They all gathered in the little covered porch, looking inside. Wesley took a
small axe out of his jacket.
“Wesley, you took that to the mall?” Cordelia gasped.
“Shoppers can be brutal,” he replied in a hushed voice, stepping into the
apartment with care, weapon at the ready. “I once got a black eye at the
Harrods sale. Who knew that half-priced cashmere sweaters could turn people into
complete maniacs?”
“Thank God the mall guards didn’t search you, or you’d been in jail by
now,” she muttered, following close behind him.
Angel waved a hand in the doorway, and then slipped inside. “He’s dead.”
Cordelia’s skin prickled. “How can you tell?”
“I wouldn’t have been able to come in otherwise.”
She scanned the small, shabby room. It was a dump. Perhaps that was why, even
with the front door wide open, it hadn’t been robbed. Nothing worth stealing.
The dining table was covered in what looked like bills. A Santa hat sat in
forlorn solitude in the middle of the pile of envelopes and paper. The sofa
looked like an over-cuddled teddy bear; you knew it used to have a pile to the
fabric, but it had long since been worn away -- yuck, by people’s butts -- and
now it was only visible in any great quantity on the cushion corners and along
the top of the backrest. An empty bottle of scotch lay on the floor in front of
it. There were no signs of a struggle, no blood, no nothing.
“It looks like Bob owed quite a few people money,” Wesley said, leafing
through some of the correspondence. “Perhaps someone came to collect on a
debt.”
Cordelia took a wad from the table, and surveyed them with growing scepticism.
“Somehow I don’t think the power company is in the habit of murdering their
customers. Or California Bank & Trust. Or Visa. Or American Express. Or
MasterCard…” she said, tossing each bill back on the pile as she went.
“Boy, he owed a lot. Maybe he killed himself. Bills this big would make me
pretty suicidal.”
“Not out of the question I guess,” Angel said, shrugging, his eyes scanning
the room.
A cockroach scuttled across the floor. Since the plague in Cordelia’s old
apartment, they freaked her out even more than usual.
She screamed, loud and long, bounding onto the couch, and making Wesley throw
his handful of final demand notices in the air.
“Good Lord, Cordelia, it’s just an insect,” he
chastised, as the bills fluttered to the floor around his feet -- poor man’s
confetti.
“I think I’ve got Post Dramatic Stress Disorder.” She slumped into a
sitting position, then thought better of it, and stood up again, the old springs
creaking in protest.
Wesley rolled his eyes. “That’s Post *Traumatic* Stress Disorder, and I very
much doubt you have it.”
“Yeah, well you’re not the one having the big bug flashbacks,” she
snapped, flapping her hands and looking around the floor to see where the
disgusting thing had gone.
“I cannot believe that after all your years living on the Hellmouth, you place
the common cockroach at the top of your list of scary things,” he said,
shaking his head.
God, Wesley could be a pain in the ass. She took a deep, patient breath. “One:
I happen to have had a very bad cockroach experience recently,” she said,
“and two: they’re not *top* of the list. Roman sandals are. Especially worn
over socks.”
“Guys, in here.” Angel popped his head out of the bathroom door. Cordelia
shot Wesley her best aggrieved look, and went first, keeping an eye out for the
cockroach.
As soon as she got in there, she wished she’d let him go ahead of her. The
room reeked of mildew, and there was a nasty ring around the tub. She didn’t
even want to look at the toilet.
“Yech. I don’t think anything demonic killed Bob. I think his own lack of
personal hygiene did him in.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I can smell it,” Angel said, his nose twitching.
She rolled her eyes. “You and everyone for six blocks. Someone really should
have introduced the guy to bleach.”
“Not the mildew. Fear,” Angel replied. “It’s stale, but still quite
strong. He was terrified.”
“And now I’m so pleased I didn’t have time for dinner,” Cordelia said,
turning and pushing her way back out, past Wesley.
She hesitated in the middle of the living room, wondering if she was safer in
there with the cockroach, or outside with people from the lower socio-economic
bracket.
Wait a second, she *was* the lower socio-economic bracket. Okay, now she was in
serious danger of feeling sorry for herself again, and she’d decided against
that. Suck it up, Cor, find some clues.
The front door still stood ajar, and she automatically went to close it. It had
a bunch of locks on the back, all unbolted. She stared at them for a moment.
There was no damage to the door -- so the guy had let himself out, and left the
door open. Must have been in a hurry. Angel said he smelled fear. Something had
scared Bob Kowalczyk enough for him to bolt from his apartment and leave it wide
open. Maybe it was the cockroach.
“I seem to have come up with more of nothing than usual,” Wesley said, as he
and Angel emerged from the bathroom-from-the-black-lagoon.
“He ran out of here, scared out of his wits, and never came back,” Cordelia
said, pointing to the door.
Angel appeared to take a deep breath. “No demons have been in here.”
“Ugh, enough with the bloodhound act,” she said, an involuntary shudder
dancing down her back. “I just want to go home and take a shower.”
“I’ll call Miriam in the morning and tell her that Santa is dead,” Wesley
said.
Santa is dead. God, it sounded so morbid. Cordelia sighed -- what else could she
have expected from spending Christmas with a tortured vampire and the world’s
worst Watcher? “Great, excellent, that’s settled then. Now can we go?” She
headed for the door. If anything else squicked her out tonight, this was going
to gown down in history as the Christmas of Barfing.
***
Chapter Two: Thursday, December 23, 1999
“Morning!” Cordelia breezed into the office. It was a beautiful day, if a
little cool. But sunshine of any temperature lifted her spirits. Plus, a hot
shower and a good night’s sleep had left her feeling refreshed. Her
decorations twinkled as the breeze from the door made them dance.
“Cordelia,” Angel said, turning from the coffee machine to greet her. His
face was grave. “Can you finish making this and bring it through?”
She clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Have your arms fallen off? I’m not
a glorified waitr -- ooooh, right.” She glanced through into Angel’s office
and saw Miriam Saunders sitting, pale-faced, in one of the chairs. “I get it,
coffee’s for her, right? Right.”
Cordelia finished mixing the toxic-looking brew, and carried the mug into
Angel’s office, placing it on the desk. Angel picked it up, slipped a coaster
underneath, and then sat back in his chair, pressing his fingers together in
front of him.
“He must have had my card in his wallet. He had no family, so they rang me. I
had to identify the body,” Miriam said, her voice tremulous. She picked up the
coffee, took a big sip, and pulled a face as she swallowed. Carefully she placed
it back on the coaster and pushed it away from herself.
Angel nodded for a moment. “Did they say what killed him?”
“Heart attack. And his feet were all cut up -- like he’d run a long way
without shoes. They said it was as if he’d died of fright.” She took a deep
breath. “That’s not the worst of it. While I was there, Ed showed up.”
“Ed?” Cordelia asked, getting the sudden, bizarre vision of a talking horse
on stretcher.
Miriam reached for a tissue from the box on Angel’s desk, and dabbed her eyes.
“The morning Santa. They found him washed up on Venice Beach -- in his pyjamas.”
“It’s okay, Miriam, we’ll get to the bottom of it,” Angel said, leaning
forward. “Can you tell us anything else? No matter how strange it seems, it
could be important.”
“Well…” Miriam hesitated for so long that Cordelia thought she’d
forgotten what she was saying. “It might just have been the lighting in there,
but he looked kind of -- fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy?” Cordelia echoed.
Miriam nodded. “Kinda indistinct -- not solid. I dunno, I was really tired, my
eyes were all blurry. It’s probably just my imagination.”
“Good morning, all.” Wesley’s voice made them all look towards the door.
“I was just about to call Ms Saunders, but I see she already knows about the
sad demise of Bob.”
“Did you manage to get another Santa?” Angel asked, turning his attention
back to Miriam.
“No.” She shook her head miserably. “They’re all booked. All the
reputable ones are, anyway. I know Bob was a bit of a loner -- and from what you
say he must have had his fair share of personal problems -- but he was so
reliable, and great with the kids. He’s been with us almost ten years.
Replacing him is going to be really hard. You’re sure watching someone would
help?”
“Greatly,” Angel said, nodding.
The idea hit Cordelia so hard, she nearly fell over. “Angel, why don’t you
be Santa?”
“What?” He looked up at her, alarm written all over his face.
“What better way to catch the culprit than to go undercover?” she said.
“That would be wonderful. It would solve both my problems,” Miriam said,
perking up. “I just have to ask, how are you with children?”
Angel was turning a peculiar shade of grey. Cordelia wondered how many children
he’d dealt with in his pre-soul days, and how many had survived the encounter.
Best not to dwell on that. “He’s great with kids, aren’t you Angel?” She
nodded at him, prompting a response.
He rose out of his chair, glaring at Cordelia. “No. I’m not doing it. You
can forget it right now.”
***
Angel closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. How he ever came to be in
this position, he would never fully comprehend. Perhaps it was Miriam’s
crying, or Wesley’s incessant attempts at logical persuasion. No, it was
Cordelia. No matter how hard he tried to resist her, he always ended up doing
exactly what she wanted. One day he would have to figure out how she did it,
before it got him into real trouble. Or maybe that horse had already bolted.
“How do I look?” he sighed.
“Hang on, I’m not quite done!” Cordelia’s voice floated over the
concertina partition set up in Miriam’s office. Her bra flew over the top of
the particle-board barrier. “Oops, Angel, throw that back?”
He bent to pick it up with some difficulty, his enormous padded stomach getting
in the way. The soft fabric of the bra was faded, and kind of thin in patches.
He rolled it between his fingers. Not really the sort of thing he would have
expected her to be wearing under those glamorous clothes she liked so much. It
smelled like her -- a mixture of skin and perfume, and it was warm, her body
heat still contained within the fibres.
His fingertips tingled, and his chest felt tight. Touching Cordelia’s bra was
weird; too intimate. This was her *underwear*. The heat seeping out of it came
from her... Okay, he shouldn’t have thought that. He hastily tossed it back.
“Thanks,” she called. There were a few moments where fabric rustled, and a
zipper closed. “Okay, I’m coming out. Ta-daa!”
Cordelia emerged from behind the screen, and did a little twirl.
“You look… Hey!” Angel protested, a little offended, as she burst into a
fit of giggles.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” She pressed a hand to her mouth, having
limited success at stemming the tide.
It wasn’t doing anything for his already shaky confidence. “Do I look right?
I mean, I can’t see in the mirror, so it’s hard to tell.”
She smiled and nodded. “You look perfect, Angel.”
God, this was so, so wrong. A vampire in a Santa suit. And his assistant in
something that left very little to the imagination.
“Angel, what? I can see a frown under all those white curls,” she said.
“Isn’t your dress a little -- well -- there’s more to the -- that’s
it?” he asked as she shook her head.
“Pfffft. I’m the sexy helper, you’re the fat old guy. You can’t look
cool all the time. Live with it -- or be undead with it, whatever,” she said.
“We should see if Wesley’s ready.”
“Okay, I guess so. Let’s go,” Angel said, taking another deep breath. His
gut churned, and he hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. Surely there had to
be a way to avoid this. To prevent dozens of warm, chubby children, sugar-sweet,
climbing into his lap. Crowds of people would be watching him...
Angelus would have enjoyed this. He felt a sharp prod in his back.
“Angel, what is it?” Cordelia asked, poking him again.
He shuddered. “I’m not sure about this.”
“Of course you are. Store credit, remember? Bailing is not an option.” She
gave him a little shove in the right direction.
***
Cordelia admired her reflection in the mirrored glass as they walked down the
hallway to collect Wesley. Angel’s flustered reaction to the shortness of her
dress had given her an idea. How many good-looking, single fathers were there in
LA? Would they like to sit on *her* lap, perhaps? Oh wait, Angel would probably
give them the third degree and scare them off, like he did with all her dates.
How was she ever going to find a man who wouldn’t run a mile when he found out
what she did?
They stopped outside the room where Wesley was getting changed.
“Decent, Wesley?” Angel knocked on the door.
“I don’t think that word could be used in relation to this costume, but yes,
I’m dressed,” Wesley replied, his voice even more clipped and uptight than
usual.
Angel pushed the door open, and he and Cordelia both stared at Wesley in silence
for a good five seconds. He was dressed as an elf, in a red velvet jacket and
matching red leggings. A pointy little hat rounded the outfit out nicely. But
there seemed to be a problem with the groin area of his tights. In fact, he
looked like the Dirk Diggler of Santa’s workshop.
“Wow, Wes, is that a stake in your pants or are you just pleased to see me?”
Cordelia said, dragging her eyes away from the large bulge.
Wesley glanced downwards. “Yes, it is a stake, actually. We don’t know what
sort of evil may be lurking in Santa’s grotto. I’m ready to do battle should
anything attempt to attack us.”
“As comforting as that sounds, Wesley, it looks like you’re ready to do
something else,” she said, shaking her head. The man was clueless.
“It appears to have slipped from its original position in my waistband,” he
conceded, looking embarrassed.
Angel frowned. “After what happened yesterday -- perhaps it would be better if
you left the stake behind.”
“Very well,” Wesley sighed, turning his back and removing the offending
object. “Ow!”
“Splinter, Wes?” Cordelia giggled.
“I don’t see why I couldn’t be Santa,” he grumbled, glaring at her over
his shoulder.
“Oh gee, the peeper with a woody in his tights? Yep, that would go down well
with the parents. Miriam already thinks you’re a weirdo. I’m surprised she
even let you be an elf,” she said.
“Yes, I see your point.” Wesley nodded. “A blood-sucking creature of the
night is a much better choice -- no offence, Angel.”
Angel took a deep, hitching breath. “Let’s just get on with this, shall
we?”
***
They made their way down to the grotto in silence, armed with a sack of candy
and a Polaroid camera. Miriam’s list of instructions rolled over and over in
Cordelia’s head. Always keep your hands in view. One piece of candy per child.
Keep the line moving. Hard-sell on the photos.
Her heart stopped for a second. What if vampires didn’t show up in photos? Oh
well, too late to worry about that now. They’d deal if it happened, though she
wondered with increasing anxiety if a bunch of angry parents -- with photos of
their children levitating in front of Santa’s throne -- would jeopardise the
promised store credit.
They let themselves in the rear of the display, through a little gate in the
white picket fence. There was already a line of noisy children at the front
entrance. Angel seemed to be having trouble with -- well, it wasn’t quite
obvious with what. But he was hanging back, turning this way and that, rubbing
his palms on his padded belly.
“Just get in there already,” she groaned, dragging him by one arm to the
large, plum-coloured velvet throne.
“I can’t do this, Cordelia,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the white
nylon beard and moustache.
“Course you can. Remember, just ask them if they’ve been good, what they
want for Christmas, and tell them you’ll see what you can do. Easy.” She
smiled, hoping it looked encouraging. The last thing she needed was Angel
freaking and scaring the kids.
He lowered himself into the ornate chair. For someone who was dead, he was doing
a heck of a lot of deep breathing. Could vampires hyperventilate? At the rate he
was going, she was probably about to find out.
“Ready?” Wesley asked, from his position at the front gate, craning his neck
to see them between the trees.
“No,” said Angel.
She nodded. “Yep, let ‘em in, and keep your eyes peeled.”
The first child came towards them. He was the living incarnation of a
four-year-old Dennis the Menace, mischief all over his face and a plastic bow
and arrow strapped to his back. His mother stood back near the entrance,
probably pleased to get rid of him, even if just for a moment.
Angel lifted the boy onto his knee. “Uh…”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. He’d forgotten his lines already. “Have you been
good?” she hissed under her breath.
“H-have you been good?” Angel repeated.
The kid sighed like some cynical old guy. “Yes.”
“Uh… have, I mean, what do you want for Christmas?” Angel stumbled over
the next part.
“I want a Game Boy, and a skateboard, and a football, and car.” Dennis the
Menace rattled off his Christmas list.
“You’re too young to drive,” Angel said, his white eyebrows going up.
“No, no! You’ll see what you can do,” Cordelia whispered. This was like
acting class for the retarded.
Dennis hopped to the floor. “You suck,” he said, kicking Angel in the shin.
Cordelia heard a growl rumble through the Angel’s chest as the boy stomped
away. Okay, this was going well. Not.
The next child was a little girl, about six, her huge green eyes framed by a
mass of blonde curls. She held out her arms to Angel so he could set her on his
knee. Surely this one would be easier than the baptism-of-fire kid who was now
loudly complaining to his mother that he didn’t get a piece of candy.
“Oh, crap, we forgot about the candy,” Cordelia said, picking up the bag
which she’d stashed behind the throne.
“Have you been good?” Angel asked the little girl. She nodded, but didn’t
speak. “What do you want for Christmas?” He looked up at Cordelia, eyes
clearly asking if he was doing it right this time. She smiled.
The little girl remained silent. Cordelia held the bag of candy out, raising her
eyebrows at Angel. He took a boiled sweet and offered it to the child. Her giant
eyes filled with tears.
“Wha -- what?” he asked. “What did I do?”
“Don’t you remember what I said last week?” the girl sniffled, breaking
her shy silence.
“Um, no,” Angel replied, looking panic-stricken.
“Well, if you can’t remember that I’m a diabetic, how are you going to
remember where my house is?” she asked, her lower lip jutting out.
Angel didn’t reply, he just lifted the girl from his lap, and rose to his
feet.
“I can’t do this,” he said again. He took a couple of large strides, and
before Cordelia knew it, he was a rapidly diminishing red figure in the crowd.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she said to the pouting child. “Santa has to pee.”
With that, she jumped the white picket fence, and sprinted after him.
Cordelia ran through the mass of shoppers, trying to keep up with the
fast-disappearing Angel. It was amazing that someone with half a ton of Dacron
padding in his jacket could move so quickly. Just as she thought she’d lost
him in the sea of shoppers, she caught a flash of red going into the men’s
room. Wow, maybe vampires really did pee.
***
Angel leaned on the porcelain basin, trying to ignore the trembling in his
hands, and his lack of reflection in the mirror. The white tiled room was
mercifully empty, with just the incessant echoing drip from a leaky faucet to
break the silence. Nobody there to see his fear, his shame.
If it weren’t mid afternoon, he could get out, just climb in the car and take
off.
This had been a bad idea. All those children, life pumping through their veins
-- so close to the thin, soft skin. Their smell… Saliva flooded the back of
his mouth.
The swinging door of the bathroom flew open, crashing against the doorstop.
“Angel, what’s going on?” Cordelia barged in, her short velvet skirt
flaring around her legs as she strode towards him.
*Not now, Cordelia. Please, leave me alone.* His throat felt thick and
tight. “I can’t do it. All those people…”
Her breath rushed out in a little noise of exasperation. “Oh, for God’s
sake, don’t tell me you’ve got stage fright. Hello, grrrrr, remember? Big
scary vampire? Kicker of demon butt? They’re just little kids, they can’t
hurt you.”
“I’m no good with humans. I don’t know what to say to them. I -- I made
that girl cry.” He wiped his hands over his face, pushing the annoying nylon
beard down, off his chin. Why couldn’t Cordelia just leave him alone? Didn’t
she understand what he was? What every primal instinct was screaming at him to
do? She was just a human -- she couldn’t begin to fathom the want, the raw
need. Stupid girl! Ignorant, trusting Cordelia…
“Improvise,” she said, oblivious to the battle he was waging. “Just say
whatever feels natural.”
He banged the basin with his hands, shouting, “Nothing feels natural. None of
this *is* natural. Look at me!”
His eyes snapped up to the mirror, and where his own face would have been, there
was only Cordelia’s reflection, staring at him, startled and upset.
“Angel…”
He turned and sat on the vanity, looking into wounded brown eyes that filled him
with remorse. “It’s easy for you, Cordelia. You’ve been doing it your
whole life. You’re so confident with everyone,” he said, softening his tone.
“Well, I must be a better actress than I realized,” she sighed. “Angel,
I’m scared all the time. Can’t you tell? I have no idea what I’m doing in
this city. Just when I thought I’d worked it out, Doyle died, and now I’ve
got these visions, and they scare the crap out of me…” She started blinking,
like she might cry. “I’m just making it up as I go. We all are. Wesley is.
Doyle was. You have to, too.”
Angel stared at her; opened and shut his mouth a couple of times. It wasn’t
like Cordelia to come out with something so personal and -- well, deep. He
hadn’t realized she was having such a hard time. She was always telling him he
had to get more involved, show more concern for those around him. Maybe she was
right, because he’d missed this one, big-time.
The bathroom door squeaked open. Cordelia flung an arm in the direction of the
noise, one accusing finger pointing. “Don’t even think about it, buddy. Use
the one upstairs.” The startled man retreated without protest. Her eyes were
still firmly fixed on Angel. “So, are we ready?”
He shook his head, remembering the crowd that awaited him at the grotto.
“It’s not just that I don’t know what to say. It’s hard for -- other
reasons.”
“Such as?” Cordelia stepped towards him, frowning. He couldn’t look her in
the eye any longer, and dropped his head. “Ohhhh,” her voice betrayed sudden
realisation. “But you’re good now.”
“I am. But having a soul doesn’t mean the demon isn’t there. I still
want…” He knew he didn’t have to finish the sentence. “It’s always
there. You don’t know how hard it is.”
“Yes I do,” she countered. “Angel, I know what it’s like to want
something so badly, and to deny yourself. This whole mall is a testament to
that, for me. I have *nothing*, and now I can’t buy stuff to fix that.”
His hands tensed, fingers gripping the Formica mouldings. She *didn’t*
understand, she never would. “Dammit, Cordelia, you can’t compare your need
to shop with a vampire’s bloodlust,” he said, looking up again. Her face
burned with an intensity he’d never seen before. There was real pain there,
and a look that he felt in his gut. “Okay, maybe in your case, you can.”
A small smile forced its way across her face. “Possibly not the best analogy,
I admit. But I didn’t just mean the shopping part. I guess Christmas is making
me think about what I had before, and what I have now. Don’t get me wrong,
I’m grateful for my job, and my apartment, and my ghost. Sometimes I’m even
grateful for Wesley showing up -- though usually that’s when I’ve been
drinking -- but it’s gonna take time to adjust, y’know? I thought I was
there, and now I’m not so sure.”
“I get that.” Angel nodded. His arms and chest relaxed a little, his mind
calming and clearing. Cordelia often left him confused and bewildered, but her
last statement made too much sense.
“We just have to deal. You have your demons, I have mine. Doesn’t mean we
can hide in the bathroom forever. Now put your whiskers back on, and get out
there. Okay?” Cordelia said, smiling. As she did, the scared, vulnerable girl
transformed back into the person he knew.
He could feel his lips quirking in response. “I’ll give it one more try.”
“Good. But I warn you now, I catch you nibbling on any of the kids, and I’ll
stake your undead ass.”
“Understood,” he said, pulling his beard back into place.
***
When they arrived back at the grotto, the place was in a near state of
pandemonium. Cordelia couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Wesley was sitting,
cross-legged in the entrance, telling a story, with a group of raucous children
in front of him.
“And then the Rogue Demon Hunter cried, ‘you’ll never take me alive!’
and the Golvar demon raised up its mighty tail…”
“This story sucks!” That sounded like Dennis the Menace. A plastic arrow
bounced off Wesley’s chest.
“Who did that?” he demanded, getting to his feet. All the children started
cheering Dennis on. A rain of candy wrappers and bits of screwed-up paper
accompanied the second arrow.
“Stop that right now! When your parents come back…” Wesley huffed.
“Problem sir?” Jack the security guard seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Cordelia recognised him from yesterday, and wondered again why he was working at
his age.
“I’m quite capable of controlling a group of mere children,” Wesley said,
smoothing down his jacket and flicking a candy wrapper from his shoulder. As his
eyes followed it, he noticed Cordelia and Angel, and hurried over to them,
leaving Jack to deal with the junior uprising.
“Thank goodness you’re back. Those children are evil.” He looked at them
fearfully.
Cordelia couldn’t resist. “I cannot believe after all your -- weeks on the
Hellmouth, that you place a bunch of little kids on the top of your list of
scary things.”
Wesley looked like he was really going to lose it this time, but just as she
thought he was about to shout at her, Angel’s quiet voice cut in. “Wesley
might be right. Perhaps one of them is evil. We still don’t know what happened
to Bob and his counterpart. Cordelia, take photos of all of them. Wesley, record
names and addresses -- pretend we’re running a competition or something.”
“And what will you do?” Cordelia asked.
“Smell them,” Angel said. “Nothing else, I promise.”
She tried to get a good look at what small part of his face she could see
through the fake facial hair.
“Will you be okay?”
He nodded. “Humans, I have trouble with -- evil, I can handle.”
***
Cordelia raised the Polaroid camera and took a quick photo of child number
forty-seven, perched on Angel’s knee. Angel blinked and rubbed his eyes, as he
had done the previous forty-six times. The flash had to be hurting him, but he
hadn’t complained once. And, on the bright side -- no pun intended -- he was
visible in every single picture.
Not only that, but he seemed to be getting better at the conversation part of
the job. Go figure -- Angel can’t cope with normal people, but give him the
possibility that one of them might be something icky and dangerous, and he calms
right down.
Why did she always end up hanging with the weirdos of the world? Did she give
off some sort of vibe that attracted the geeky, the emotionally stunted, and the
not-always-human? Like Doyle. Her heart stabbed in her chest. Dammit, why was
repressing this sort of thing so hard lately?
“Hey there, missy.” Jack’s voice interrupted her train of thought, for
which she was kinda grateful. “I brought you nice folks some snacks,
compliments of Mrs Field’s Cookies.” He held out three paper bags.
The thoughtfulness of the gesture touched her. This poor old guy probably had
nobody, and yet, here he was bringing her baked goods, instead of feeling sorry
for himself. There was a lesson to be learned in that.
She studied the packages. They were labelled in shaky handwriting -- ‘Pretty
Girl’, ‘Elf’, and ‘Santa’. “Oh, how sweet,” she said, giving him
one of her biggest smiles as she accepted the gifts. “You chose these
specially?”
“Yeah.” Jack nodded, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Yours are chocolate
chip, the English guy’s are bran -- he seems like he needs the fibre -- and
Santa’s are sugar-coated. I thought he looked a little pale.”
Her heart was going to melt, she was sure of it. Was it legal to adopt a
grandparent? “Thank you, Jack.”
“Least I could do. I’m just so pleased the kiddies didn’t have to miss out
today,” he said. He looked at his watch. “That’s me done. Time to head
home.”
“To your family?” she asked, hoping for the best.
He shook his head, looking a little sad. “No, sweetie, just my cat.”
So, she was right, he was all alone. In forty-five years that could be her.
Minus the nose-hair, of course.
“You have a nice Christmas, Jack,” she said, and for the first time, it
wasn’t just a throwaway remark.
“Won’t you be back tomorrow?” He frowned, his forehead a lattice of
wrinkles.
“I don’t think so.” She glanced at Angel, who was waiting patiently while
the little girl described the dollhouse she wanted, right down to the fittings
in the bathroom. The kid had taste.
“Well, good day then,” Jack said, tipping his cap again. She watched him
walk away, a frail old figure, quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
***
Angel stretched out on his couch, listening to Wesley and Cordelia bicker in the
kitchen. It had started as soon as they’d gotten back to his apartment, all
three of them exhausted from their shift in Santa’s grotto -- an experience he
wanted to put behind him as quickly as possible.
He wondered if Wesley was going to continue hanging around. From what he could
make out, the ex-Watcher had little money, no way to get back to England, and
very little purpose in life -- other than trying to live up to his principles by
hunting demons. And judging by his fighting skills at Cordelia’s eye auction,
he was lucky to have survived this long on his own.
“How come Angel only got one biscuit?” Wesley sounded suspicious.
“Okay, so I ate the other one. I was hungry. Looking beautiful is gruelling
work,” Cordelia replied.
“It was Angel’s biscuit, Cordelia. Shouldn’t you have asked first?”
“Pffft. Angel doesn’t eat.”
“I *can* eat, I just don’t need to,” Angel called, wanting them to stop,
but lacking the energy to go in there and referee.
“Well, I was hungry,” she shouted back. “And it seemed a shame to waste it
on someone with your stunted sense of taste.”
“*My* sense of taste isn’t stunted,” Wesley said.
“Unlike your sense of style.”
Angel groaned and pushed himself off the couch. It was impossible to relax with
those two carrying on like children. He’d had enough of children to last a
lifetime, which -- in his case -- was really saying something. He rounded the
corner, glaring at them both. “Wesley, you can have the other cookie. Now,
both of you, sit down, be quiet, and I’ll cook you dinner.” The immediate
silence was worth the effort.
***
It was obvious, Angel thought, watching his two colleagues shovel eggs into
their mouths, that neither of them had eaten well lately. No wonder they’d
been fighting over a giant sugar-coated cookie like it was made of gold. This
was another one of those things he should have noticed, if he hadn’t been so
busy wallowing in his own grief and guilt over the-day-that-wasn’t, and
Doyle’s death.
“So,” he said, putting his cup of coffee down and gazing into it. “Are you
both -- all right?”
Wesley and Cordelia both stopped, mid-chew, and stared at him.
He glanced up at them. “I mean, you know, are you okay? Any problems you want
to tell me about?”
“Has someone spiked your blood?” Cordelia arched one eyebrow at him.
Angel shifted in his seat. This wasn’t quite the reaction he’d hoped for. Of
course, they were probably both too proud to admit that they were struggling.
Cordelia had already revealed far more today than she would have liked, that was
obvious. “No -- I just wondered…” he abandoned the sentence, and turned
his attention back to the coffee.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” Wesley said. “And by the way, these eggs
are truly excellent. Again. You could go into business, you know, if the
detective agency thing doesn’t pan out.”
“That’s -- comforting,” Angel replied. Silence blanketed the room again,
broken only by the chink of forks against plates, and the sounds of chewing.
***
“So, what’s the plan?” Wesley asked, as he passed the last plate to
Cordelia.
She took it from him and towelled it dry. “Don’t ask me -- Angel’s the
boss. Angel, what’s the plan?” she called.
“Well, generally after the drying comes the putting away,” Angel replied,
walking into the kitchen, wishing they’d both give it a rest and leave him
alone. “Are you two planning on going home any time soon?”
Wesley shook his head. “Someone has to watch you.”
“I don’t need a Watcher,” Angel said, alarmed. The last thing he wanted
was the two of them sniping at each other all night. He had some quality sitting
in the dark planned, followed by a spot of brooding.
“I know how much you love to play statues with the lights off, but if you run
away in terror some time between now and nine o’clock tomorrow morning,
we’ll be back to square one,” Cordelia said, rubbing the back of her neck,
looking tired.
With a sigh, he realized they were right. While fleeing in terror wasn’t his
style, they had no idea what had happened to the other Santas, so it made sense
that someone observe him for the next twenty-four hours.
“I’ll take first shift,” Wesley offered, taking the tea towel from
Cordelia and hanging it on the rail.
She sank into a chair, her face blanching. “I think you might have to take all
the shifts, Wesley.”
Angel was at her side in a flash. “You okay? Is it a vision?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m just tired, I think. How old were those
eggs?”
“The eggs were fresh. Maybe you caught something at the mall,” he said,
worried. Cordelia had been nothing but vibrant and healthy since he’d bumped
into her at that Hollywood party.
She sighed, and looked around for her bag. “Maybe I did. Can you take me
home?”
“Okay, but you call me if you need anything,” he said, going for his car
keys.
“Excellent.” Wesley smiled. “And on the way home we can swing by my place
and collect the Monopoly board.”
Angel resisted the urge to punch Wesley in the face. Hard.
***
Cordelia let herself in, and dropped her bag on the floor. Back against the
door, she slid into a sitting position. Every muscle ached, her eyes burned, and
chills trembled through her body. She felt a gentle tug on her sleeve. “Oh,
Dennis,” she sighed. “Please, run me a hot bath.” After a few moments the
sound of running water floated out of the bathroom. It was warm and inviting,
and the thought of sinking into the hot, foamy goodness spurred her back to her
feet.
Unbuttoning her top, she dragged herself towards the bedroom. This was just
perfect -- because not enough awful things had happened to her in the last
couple of weeks. Nothing capped off the Christmas from Hell better than a nasty,
infectious disease. Oh well, at least if her appetite was ruined she wouldn’t
mind so much that all she had for Christmas dinner was a frozen macaroni cheese
and a couple of apples.
She shook her clothes free of her pale, clammy body, leaving them on the bedroom
floor, from where she knew Dennis would collect them and put them in the laundry
hamper. With a final effort, she stumbled into the bathroom, where the warm
steam enveloped her. She sank down into the water, letting it swirl around her
throbbing limbs, and a few tears slipped down her face. She wasn’t crying,
really, because then she’d be breaking her promise to herself. What her eyes
did of their own accord had nothing to do with her.
***
Chapter Three: Friday, December 24, 1999
Wesley jolted awake. Bugger. He’d meant to stay alert, keep an eye open for
anything suspicious, and instead he’d dozed off under a blanket on Angel’s
couch. He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. The soft green numbers
showed four-twenty-two a.m. He remembered someone mentioning to him that the
hour between four and five was when the undead walked the earth. His flesh
prickled and he pulled the blanket up under his chin.
“Cold, Wesley?” Angel’s voice made him jump. In this instance the undead
weren’t walking -- they were reading a book in the chair opposite him.
“No, no, just a bit peckish actually,” Wesley replied. As if on cue, his
stomach rumbled. He remembered the giant, sugar-coated biscuit, still sitting in
its paper bag on the counter. It was calling to him. Angel turned back to his
book as Wesley folded back the blanket and padded, barefoot, into the darkened
kitchen.
By the dim glow from the microwave display, he located the bag. His stomach
growled louder, sounding very much like the Golvar demon he’d been telling the
children about earlier that day. Not that they’d been particularly interested.
No respect -- that was the problem with the younger generation.
Taking a plate from the cupboard, Wesley unravelled the crumpled edge of the
bag, lifting it open to expose the biscuit, in all its sugary glory. “Oh
my.”
“What?” Angel asked.
“You might want to take a look at this.”
***
Bang.
Cordelia shifted, restless, and pulled the covers up higher.
Bang. Bang.
“Dennis, I’m ignoring you, if you hadn’t noticed,” she grumbled. In
response, the bed started shaking. Or possibly it was an earthquake. She sat up,
ready to run for the doorframe. In her experience, earthquakes weren’t just
tectonic plates jiggling around -- they were often portents of apocalypsey
things about to happen. But everything else was still and quiet.
The covers flew back, exposing her to the chilly air of the bedroom. “Dennis,
I swear, what’s gotten into you?” She grabbed the sheet, irritated, and
tried to pull it up. Dennis pulled back. A short tug-of-war ensued, until she
refused to participate any longer, laying back down, blanketless and defiant.
She was not getting up at quarter past five, no matter what he did.
Without warning, all the drawers and cupboards in the room flew open, their
contents exploding into the air and scattering across the floor. Okay, that was
the last straw. Now she was really pissed.
“Dammit, Dennis, I am so gonna kick your insubstantial…” Oh, shit.
Cordelia was certain she was waving a finger in front of her face. In the
artificial light from the street that filtered through her window, it should
have been easy to see. So where was it? She glanced down at herself and saw only
empty bed, and an indentation in the rumpled sheet where her thighs should have
been. “Oh, crap.” Heart in her throat, she scrambled out of bed and into the
bathroom. The light flicked on as she leaned over the sink, looking into the
mirror.
Nobody looked back. She was invisible.
Okay, this was -- unexpected. Cordelia patted her arms and legs, and then her
stomach, and lastly her breasts. Oh, thank God, they were still there. She was
solid enough, just see-through. She wandered, slightly dazed, back into the
bedroom, picking her robe out of the pile of clothes on the floor, and slipping
it on. As soon as it covered her body, it too disappeared. Interesting. She
kicked a few sweaters aside to unearth her slippers. As each foot nudged inside,
they vanished too. She shook one off, and it re-appeared.
“Well, look at us, just a couple of invisible room-mates,” she said, hoping
that verbalising it would make it less spooky. The wall knocked twice. So,
Dennis agreed -- it wasn’t just her sleep-addled brain giving her the wiggins.
No wonder he’d been going crazy trying to get her attention. “I’m sorry I
ignored you,” she sighed. Dennis, obviously feeling a little guilty, began
picking up her clothes and folding them.
Cordelia put her slipper back on, watching it dissolve again. Invisible. Wow,
that was shitty. She’d come to LA to get away from shitty things -- like
vampires and hellhounds and mayors that turned into giant snakes -- and the IRS.
Although, she had to concede, you never really got away from the latter. She’d
had such high hopes of fame and fortune, sacks of money and rich, eligible men
lining up to wine and dine her. It was supposed to be easy and happen right
away.
But what had she actually ended up with? Russell Winters, donkey demons, Spike
and his little torture pal, detatcho-limb guy, cockroaches, vengeful ghosts,
Doyle frying himself, drool-o-vision, almost having her eyes removed for the
highest bidder -- and now this. This sucked most of all. Okay, no, Doyle dying
sucked most of all, but this ran a close second. And the timing sucked too. It
was a yuletide suck-fest.
How on earth was she supposed to go to auditions in this state? As far as
Cordelia could remember, there were no Academy awards for ‘best actress in a
transparent role’. Her inevitable stardom seemed a lot less assured right at
this moment.
She sank down on the edge of her bed, elbows on knees and face in hands.
“Okay, Universe, I give up. I don’t care about having a nice Christmas
anymore. I’ll embrace the crappiness, I promise. Please, just fix this.”
Silence pressed around her.
A one hundred and fifty dollar dress, salvaged from her Sunnydale wardrobe,
slipped onto a hanger and floated into the wardrobe -- and suddenly it all made
sense. “I’m still being punished, aren’t I?” she asked the air.
Cordelia had thought that was all over when she moved into her new apartment.
Finally she had something nice, where she could be herself again. I’ve already
paid, she thought. Paid for being super-bitch Queen C, for being haughty and
self-centred. Obviously she hadn’t paid nearly enough. Not for all the misery
she put people through. People like Willow -- and Marcy.
Oh, God, now there was a relevant memory -- Marcy, who turned invisible because
everyone ignored her. Marcy who had idolised Cordelia and her gang. They’d
been so awful to her. Cordelia remembered how that had ended. Tied up on the May
Queen throne while a scalpel danced inches from her face.
Psycho girl never got a chance to finish the job, so now the universe was doing
it for her, and for all the others like her. What better punishment for vanity
than invisibility? Plastic surgery won’t fix this one.
And then the most awful thought of all struck. “Oh my God, how am I going to
put my makeup on?”
The doorbell made her jump. “Cordelia?” Angel’s voice was tense. Was
everyone determined not to let her sleep today? She tied her robe around her,
and then remembered that it didn’t really matter. She could be naked and
he’d never know. With a sigh she shuffled to the front door, and pulled it
open.
Wesley and Angel stood in the doorway, both looking anxious.
“Thanks Dennis,” Angel said, stepping inside and looking around the darkened
room.
Cordelia’s skin crawled. Angel couldn’t see her either. And he had
super-hero eyesight. She swallowed hard. “It’s not Dennis, it’s me.”
“Cordelia?” Wesley gasped, reaching out and waving his hand in front of him.
“Ow! Look out, you just about poked me in the eye!” she snapped, jumping
backwards. Turning to Angel, she said, “Whatever this is about, it better be
good. As you can see, I’m having a bit of a visibility problem.”
“Yes, yes, very interesting.” Wesley nodded, rummaging in his satchel. He
held out a crumpled paper bag.
Cordelia took it and peered inside. “You came all the way over here at the
crack of dawn to bring me a stale cookie for breakfast?”
“No, look at it again, Cordelia,” Angel replied.
With a sigh, she took another look, and chills raced across her invisible skin.
The damn thing was glowing. Not that brightly, which is why she’d missed it at
first glance. A sort of iridescent blue that pulsed in and out, like it was
breathing. She looked at Wesley and raised an eyebrow. He was standing there,
looking creeped-out, as she floated the bag in mid-air.
“For those of you who can’t see my expression,” she said, “please refer
to Wesley’s face for a good imitation. What the hell is going on?”
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Angel gestured towards the couch.
“You two sit. I’ll stay over here. I don’t want your bony vampire butt in
my lap.” Cordelia began to imagine the endless possibilities for being injured
that came with her condition. Being sat on, having doors slammed in her face,
getting run over… She clapped a hand over her mouth in horror, as it all
became crystal clear.
Angel and Wesley perched on her sofa, placing the cookie in the middle of the
coffee table, where it cast an eerie blue glow. Dennis must have disliked it as
much as she did, because he chose that moment to turn on the lights, drowning it
out.
Cordelia began to pace the floor, her feet almost keeping up with her spinning
brain. “That cookie was meant for Angel, because he was dressed as Santa,”
she said, thinking aloud. Angel and Wesley’s eyes tracked her voice as she
moved. “But because I ate it, I disappeared. That must be what happened to the
other two.”
“It makes sense. Miriam said that one of the bodies looked fuzzy,” Angel
said, nodding.
Cordelia didn’t like where her train of thought was leading her. “No wonder
Bob freaked out in his bathroom -- I know I had a Sunnydale moment when I looked
in my mirror -- and no wonder both men ended up dead. You two have only been
here a few minutes and I’ve already nearly lost an eye. Being see-through is
dangerous. Fear may have killed Bob, but I guarantee the other one had some sort
of accident because nobody could see him. They both died as a result of being
invisible.”
“Yes, but Miriam identified them at the morgue -- so at least we know it wore
off,” Wesley mused.
“Or perhaps it only works on people while they are alive,” Cordelia said,
shuddering. “Angel, have a bite. Of the cookie, not me. Maybe…
“No, no, I can’t have both of you invisible.” Wesley glanced up, looking
panicked. Except he looked at where she had been when she spoke, not where she
was now. For some reason, that freaked her out most of all.
“I’m over here, Wesley,” she said, hugging her arms around herself.
“Well, for God’s sake, stand still so I know where to look.” He turned
towards the sound of her voice. Okay, now it looked like he was ogling her
breasts. Nothing new really, but still kind of yucky.
Angel rubbed his face, looking tired. “Why don’t you put on a hat, so we
know where your face is?”
“Fine in theory,” she said. “But -- watch.” She shook off one of her
slippers, and it revealed itself. The look on both their faces would have been
hilarious in any other situation.
“Fascinating,” Wesley breathed, as she put it back on.
“I’m glad you’re so excited by all of this.” Cordelia slumped into a
chair. “Forgive me if I don’t share your enthusiasm. This Christmas
officially can’t get any worse.”
“I’m sorry. This was supposed to happen to me,” Angel said, rising and
coming over to her. He reached out to her, resting his fingers on her in what
she hoped was supposed to be a comforting gesture.
“Angel, do you know what you’re touching?” she said, teeth gritted.
“Not your shoulder?” He snatched his hand away.
“Not quite,” she sighed.
“Cordelia, where did you get these from anyway?” Wesley asked, pointing to
the cookie.
He was unbelievable, thinking of his stomach at a time like this. She wondered
if he would hear her coming before she kicked him in the shin. “If you’re
hungry, there’s cereal in the kitchen.”
His face lit up. “Well, yes please, I’d love some. But I was more interested
in the magical qualities of the biscuit, rather than its nutritional value.”
“I -- I’ll make eggs,” Angel said, looking relieved to have an excuse to
escape after his unintentional fondle.
While Angel poached, or scrambled, or whatever you did with eggs to make them
edible -- Cordelia hadn’t gotten around to working that out yet -- she sat
down next to Wesley on the couch and recounted her conversation with Jack, the
security guard. It wasn’t that she needed to sit next to Wesley, but the
closer her voice was, the better his ability to “look” at her face, rather
than the wall beside her. It made her feel better -- enough to risk the odd poke
in the eye.
“He was such a sweet old guy,” she sighed, turning the cookie over and over
in her hands. “Do you really think he knew what was in these?”
“Hard to tell,” Wesley replied, eyes turning towards the cookie, which even
to Cordelia herself, looked like it was spinning in mid-air of it’s own
volition. Little grains of sugar dropped off and fell to the floor. He jerked
his head up, as if struck by a thought. “Dennis, can we have the lights off
please?”
Cordelia felt the rush of cold air a second before Wesley’s glasses flicked
off his face, flew in a spectacular arc over his head, and landed behind him on
the sofa. “That’s his way of saying he doesn’t like you,” she said,
retrieving them. “It’s okay, Dennis.”
The lights clicked off, and Wesley got down on his hands and knees, nose
touching the floor.
“Sorry, are we interrupting your morning prayers or something?” she asked,
mystified.
“It’s not the biscuit. It’s the topping,” he replied. “Come down here
and have a look.”
She didn’t need to bend all the way down. The little blue specks on the
polished wood pulsed just bright enough for her to pick them out. “Just
another reason why sugar is bad for you,” she sighed.
Wesley got to his feet, dusting himself down. “I think we need to make another
trip to the mall. There’s a security guard I’d really like to have a chat
with.”
***
Angel pulled Cordelia’s bedspread around him. For the third time in three days
he was crouched in the back of his car while they drove to the mall. It was like
some sort of recurring nightmare that he couldn’t seem to wake up from.
He stifled a yawn. The sun had come up while they ate breakfast, and waited for
the mall to open for the day. Trying to keep human hours was messing up his
sleeping patterns, and he was tired. Maybe this is what it was like for people
who worked night-shift. For Buffy, patrolling the graveyard when other girls her
age were tucked up in their beds. His heart squeezed tight in his chest, as he
recalled how beautiful she had looked in the sunlight, turning towards him as he
strode out to meet her -- to kiss her…
“I don’t see why I couldn’t drive,” Cordelia whined from the front
passenger seat. “Wesley had his turn yesterday.”
“Because, Cordelia, I’d rather not have to explain to the fine constabulary
of Los Angeles why I was a passenger in an apparently driverless car,” Wesley
replied.
“Yeah, it would look weird,” Angel agreed. The last thing in the work he
wanted was for Cordelia to take control of his car again. Especially with him as
a passenger.
“This coming from the guy in the Laura Ashley shroud,” she said.
The sound of an apple being bitten filled the air, and then the sharp smell of
Granny Smith tickled Angel’s nostrils. It was followed by Cordelia’s sigh.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Wesley said.
“You have ‘something’ face.” The sound of leather squeaking indicated
she’d turned in her seat.
It was Wesley’s turn to sigh. “I was just thinking how happy I am that food
becomes invisible as soon as it goes in your mouth. Otherwise breakfast would
have been a rather stomach-churning affair, as would your consumption of that
apple. Oh, dear God, woman. Stop it!”
“What’s going on?” Angel said, trying to peer out from under the
bedspread.
“It appears that when Cordelia pokes her tongue out, the chewed-up food on it
becomes visible again,” Wesley answered. “As will my omelette, if she keeps
that up.”
“You’d deny an invisible girl her only pleasure in life?” Cordelia sounded
mock-hurt.
“Oh, well, carry on, if your pleasure includes wearing the remains of my
breakfast,” Wesley snapped.
Angel pulled the bedspread closer around his head, suppressing a growl. “If
you two don’t stop it…” He felt the car glide gently over the speed bump
that signified their entrance to the car park, and threw off his cover. The
corner draped over Cordelia’s shoulder, and for the first time that day he
could see the contours of her body. Something that could have saved him from
excessive embarrassment earlier.
***
Cordelia stood behind Wesley and Angel, who were seated in front of Miriam
Saunders’ desk. She’d discovered on the way through the mall that it was the
safest place to be, if she didn’t want to be walked into, or kneecapped with a
shopping bag.
Miriam was looking through the staff database, a frown marring her tired face.
“Are you sure his name was Jack?”
“Yes, an elderly gentleman, by all accounts. He wore a security guard’s
uniform,” Wesley replied.
“I’m sorry.” Miriam shook her head. “There’s no Jack working here.”
“You’ve got to be frickin’ kidding me,” Cordelia huffed.
Miriam’s head snapped up. “Who said that?”
“I did,” Cordelia said. Okay, sure, they’d decided that Miriam wouldn’t
be able to handle talking to an invisible person, but this was now beyond a
joke, and Cordelia wasn’t going to stay silent.
“That’s Cordelia,” Angel said, casting an irritated glance in the
direction of her voice. “She’s sort of --invisible.”
“That’s what happened to Bob and Ed,” Wesley added. “And we believe
it’s as a result of a biscuit Angel was given by this Jack fellow -- which
Cordelia ate.”
“Invisible,” Miriam echoed. “Because of a biscuit. This is a trick,
right?”
“Honey, I wish it was.” Cordelia moved around to Miriam’s desk, picking up
a marble egg and tossing it from hand to hand.
Angel leaned forward. “Remember Cordelia said we deal with unusual cases? This
is one of them.”
Miriam’s eyes were glued to the marble egg as it plopped backwards and
forwards.
“Jeez, it’s rude to stare,” Cordelia said, putting the egg back down.
Miriam went a couple of shades paler, and began to hammer on her keyboard with
alarming force. “Here -- we had a Jack working here eight years ago, in
security. According to his records, he had to take compulsory retirement because
he was too old.”
“It looks like Jack decided to come back to work,” Angel said.
“And we have to find him. Perhaps we should split up,” Wesley suggested.
“That way we can cover more ground.”
Angel looked uncomfortable with the suggestion, and Cordelia remembered his
comments in the bathroom the previous day. The whole place must give him the
wiggins. She tried to imagine walking along Fifth Avenue, and not wanting
something from every shop window. She couldn’t. “Are you sure?”
End.
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