Title: Divine Intervention
Author: Ficbitch82 (aka Angelicgal82)
Posted: 09-19-2002
Rating: PG-13 for this part
Email:
Content: A/C, F/G, W/Lilah…
Summary: Let’s see, Tara, Doyle and Lindsey make an appearance in this fic – but really they don’t. Confused yet? You will be… Don’t really know how to sum it up without giving everything away.
Spoilers: Everything in Season 3, speculation for what my wacky mind thinks could NEVER happen in Season 4..
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution:
Notes: To Lisa, my beloved best Australian buddy! To Tonya, for wonderful beta-ness and BRILLIANT Anya/Gilesness..
Part 1
At night, she dreamt. Dreamt of demons, of families who didn’t appreciate her and families who did. She dreamt of a girl. What was odd was, this girl, this girl had the nicest lips and she didn’t think she liked girls like that! At least not now.
“Anna, where’s my drink?”
Nervously, the blonde girl dipped her head as the guy asked for a drink. Some days? Her name was Anna, and on the others, it was something she’d made up because she couldn’t remember the other one.
In her dreams, there was magick.
There was something else other than this. There was light.
Even in the daytime, for her there was darkness. There was nothing holding her to this world, nothing to connect her. A couple of days ago, a guy had pretended to care. Pretended that he was interested in helping her, and she’d believed him. For some reason, she believed that there was good in this world. She saw it at night, when she slept, surely it could exist in the day.
The guy? Not good. Not like those in her dreams. Not the slightly older man – who even now, she could see wiping his glasses on his shirt. It made her eyes mist with tears – the small, kind smile on his face. And then, she could see the blonde girls, two of them. One, as tactless as anything – the other, giving. Giving and giving and giving until her body didn’t want to give anymore. Until finally, they’d laid her to rest.
Anna was crazy – was that her name today? Yes. She felt like an Anna. She was crazy because she dreamed of Demons. Of little girls who weren’t really there, but whom she loved all the same.
And that was where her light came in. Her light was pretty, her light was kind.
Her light had spoke to her once upon a time when no one else wanted to. Her light was… Hurting. Last night, the glow had seemed to dim and Anna had cried for hours when she’d woke in her apartment.
If she didn’t have that light, that family, even if they were a product of her crazy imagination, then what else did she have? Darkness. She had darkness.
An apartment. Something she’d happened on quite by chance. Working a bar in Vegas meant money. She was a quick learner, kept herself quiet, unnoticed. Didn’t bug anybody. As a result, she had to listen to a guy in a green demon costume singing. The costume was okay, the horns looked fake – and still, Anna thought he looked like one of those demons she dreamt of but… A demon singing in a Las Vegas lounge? What were the odds? Not likely, was it?
“Anna,” The voice broke into her reverie and she turned, looking at her boss. He was a nice guy, one of the most decent in Vegas, she’d found. “Pour the man his drink.”
She turned again and found the same guy who’d asked for the drink standing in front of her. “S-sorry…” She whispered.
A moment and a scowl later, the guy had walked away and Anna was stood beside her boss. “Anna, you’re a good kid. You look… Distracted. Is it… Is it drugs?” He asked tentatively, placing a hand on her shoulder. “If it’s drugs, you know the rules, you’re out.”
“N-no,” She whispered, “It’s… I didn’t get much sleep, I…”
Jack sighed. “Go collect the glasses. Then, you get yourself home and get some sleep or pretty soon, you won’t have the crappy job you have now,” He said, though not unkindly. He knew how unkind Las Vegas could be to someone like Anna, that was part of the reason he’d took her in. As Jack watched her walk away, he sighed.
Me and my bloody good heart, He half-groused, Nina always said it would be my downfall.
Again, Anna dipped her head as she collected the glasses, singing a little tune she’d heard in her dream world, softly…
I’m under your spell
How else could it be
Anyone would notice me?
It’s magic I can tell
How you set me free
Brought me out so easily…
Anna smiled. Her dream world was nice, safe. It was here in the real world where things weren’t so nice.
* * *
“Because I don’t WANT to admit it!” Yelled Fred, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If you tell me to admit they’re dead, then you’re telling me to give up hope and I can’t give up hope because that was all that kept me alive in Pylea and I got out of there eventually! I can’t…”
There was a beat. A beat in which Gunn stared plaintively at Fred’s face until finally, he crossed the room and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her softly. “I’m sorry.” He whispered quietly.
They were both tired. For three months, they’d done what they could – upturned every stone, visited every informant both demon and human and turned up nothing. Today, Gunn had suggested the very thing Fred hadn’t wanted to hear – that maybe they should just admit Cordy and Angel were dead.
At first, before the running around for information and the stomach-clenching fear, Fred had remained hopeful – suggested that maybe they’d gone to get ‘happy’, but Gunn had burst that bubble with an enormous pin.
If Angel and Cordelia had gone to get happy? In that case, he and Fred would both be a mass of brains on the wall and wouldn’t exactly be talking right now.
“I know what you’re saying,” Said Fred softly, “I really do, but I lived for five years having to cling to something. When you’re all alone in a cave and the two suns aren’t shining any light, the only light you have is hope. And I know that didn’t make sense, but…”
“I get it.” Said Gunn, sadly. “No hope-giving-up in this hotel. But… Y’know something?”
“What?”
“You’re not alone. Hope’s not all you have. You have me.”
For a moment, the old Fred was back and the smile that she gave almost split her face in two. “I know I have you and you have me but… We need them too. We need our family back together.”
Gunn gave a sigh and a little smile, “So, we’re back out looking tonight, huh?”
Fred grinned, “You betcha!”
Sometimes Gunn found himself wondering where she got her energy from – her endless amount of optimism. As it was though, Fred was the one part of his life that made him believe the rest could be better. Before her, there was his self-destruction mission, the one that Cordelia had saved him from. Without her, he wouldn’t have this in his life.
Reaching down, Gunn laced his fingers through hers and smiled. “Let’s go.”
* * *
These days Wesley Wyndam-Pryce didn’t need his father’s disgust to wear him down. He had his own. He hadn’t shaved in days, the repugnant smell of stale scotch stuck to his skin and still, she came back. It had become a nightly ritual. She’d come to his apartment, they’d have sex – hard, brutal – over with as quickly as it had begun and he’d roll away, pretend like it had never happened until she spoke.
“I see we’ve reverted back to your average cave man Neanderthal — feeling guilty Wes? Sleeping with the enemy not working out all that well for ya?”
If Wesley reacted to that comment, it didn’t show. “I didn’t think you’d be that bothered, Lilah. You don’t have a heart for the feelings a normal human is capable of.”
“I’m hurt, Wesley. Once again, you’ve struck me right where it hurts, my heart.”
“What heart?” Wesley rolled over and plucked his half-empty bottle of scotch from the nightstand, before tossing the dossier Lilah had not-so-strategically placed across the room. “I’m not joining Wolfram and Hart.”
The same answer every night. The same flash of frustration in Lilah’s eyes and then the smirk, “Once you’ve done black, you’ll never go back.” After that, she dressed, left Wesley to his own devices and the same dossier – the feeling that perhaps he was turning to the dark side. Wesley sighed and got up, looking at the shower for a moment, before frowning and picking up his bottle of scotch again.
Alcohol – numbness. Lilah – numbness. What the hell was the difference any more?
* * *
He was going to KILL his agent. Kill her dead. More dead than Angel – the kind that didn’t get up and walk around, occasionally brood. He’d always known that she’d had a bad name, but being subjected to THIS every night?
Lorne sighed. What he wouldn’t give for a seabreeze right now. As it were, all this crappy bar served was beer. French beer, German beer, Austrian Beer.
He’d like to bet if he asked, he’d be able to get the Pylean equivalent because, after all, this was beer! How he hated themed bars. The theme was… You guessed it, beer. Beer in short glasses, beer in tall glasses, beer in jugs. Beer, beer, beer, beer, beer…
Not a seabreeze in sight!
The opening notes of Lorne’s song rang through and he cursed his agent again. She’d advised him to go with a much more ‘upbeat’ sound. Upbeat? Since when was Babyface upbeat? Lorne frowned, then, as the spotlight turned on him – he threw out that million dollar LA smile and began to sing…
I pretended I’m glad you went away
These four walls closin’ more every day
And I’m dying inside
And nobody knows it but me
Like a clown I put on a show
The pain is real even if nobody knows
Now I’m cryin’ inside
And nobody knows it but me
A clown. He felt like one. First class, with their big feet and their stupid outfits. At least he didn’t have the nose. There was an upside to everything, he supposed…
The nights are lonely
The days are so sad
And I just keep thinkin’ about
The love that we had
And I’m missin’ you
And nobody knows it but me
I carry a smile when I’m broken in two
Now I’m nobody without someone like you
I’m tremblin’ inside, and nobody knows it but me
I lie awake, its a quarter past three
I’m screamin’ at night
As if I thought you’d hear me
Yeah my heart is callin’ you
And nobody knows it but me
He couldn’t explain it. It was like an arrow that hit him right between the eyes — and he knew that from experience — Lorne gasped and dropped the microphone, his efforts focused on the blonde girl collecting glasses and humming to herself. Something wasn’t right. Her soul… No, her souls PLURAL were jumbled. Each one calling out for a hand to guide them on their way. And what was he, if not an Anagogic demon, intent on setting people on their path?
Plus, what he could see in her future? Concerned friends of his in Los Angeles – friends of his that currently lived… Underwater? What in the holy hell was going on here?
As Lorne got off the stage, he realised that the only way he could approach her, was to sound like a great old pervert, with the line, “Can I buy you a drink?” on his lips.
He only hoped Angel-cakes would appreciate this…
* * *
The figure stood alone in the parking lot, shrouded in darkness. Other than the streetlights, the only thing that illuminated his face, was his zippo as he flared up a cigarette. Smoky tendrils curled from between his fingers and Quinn frowned, waiting until the
building across from him was lit up by only one office light.
With strong, practiced fingers, Quinn flicked his cigarette butt across the parking lot and strode forward, his walk strong, confident. He’d been scoping out this building for three weeks, knew his targets leaving time down to the second. Knew where he lived, which tunafish was his cat’s favourite – knew that tonight, he’d be working late on a case that involved children.
Lindsey McDonald was now the worst kind of lawyer.
Righteous.
Good.
Was there anything more nauseating?
Evidently so.
A righteous, good lawyer who threatened to expose his ex-bosses dirty dealings from across the state unless he gave them what he wanted. Money. Money made the world go round and money was the reason that Quinn stood here right now. Quite a large amount of money, in fact. Half a million dollars before the job was completed, half a million after. Sounded fair.
“Got an appointment,” Said Quinn to the doddery old security guard behind the desk, his voice harsh, cold. “Lindsey McDonald? Was told to be here at ten…”
Robertson, the security guard, moved forward lethargically, looking down at the book, “Got nothin’ here…”
Quinn waited. In the time it took for Robertson to look back up, Quinn’s gun was levelled at his chest. “Too bad.” He smirked, squeezing the trigger. The shot made barely a noise. His silencer covering the sound, Quinn chuckled as Robertson fell to the floor, blood spreading underneath the guard’s body.
His legs made short work of the stairs, by the time Quinn reached the top he was humming a tune, his demeanour one of pleasure, pleasure in the hunt – though he could barely call it that. Perhaps McDonald would give him a run for his money, so to speak.
He stepped into his office to the obvious displeasure of the young lawyer and smiled, a warm, pleasant misleading smile. “Well, when Wolfram and Hart said you were going up in the world, they weren’t wrong, huh?”
The mention of his previous employers made Lindsey’s eyes narrow and he frowned, reaching for the phone.
Quinn raised his gun quickly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. No one’s coming; your security guard ran into a little accident. It’s just me and you, McDonald. The only thing keeping you alive right now is the fact that you have something I want.”
Lindsey swallowed, his gaze remaining on the gun. The guy seemed familiar somehow, though he didn’t know how… “I have something you want?”
“Files.” Said Quinn, “On Wolfram and Hart’s dirty dealings. You have two choices, you can either give me the files and I’ll make it quick. Or you don’t give me the files and I waste time looking for them. Which do you think is the better on you?” He raised his gun and fired a shot, the bullet spitting through Lindsey’s shoulder and into the wall behind.
Lindsey screamed, falling from his chair and to the floor. Perhaps it was the shock, or something else that triggered his memory. Never could it be said that Lindsey McDonald wasn’t thorough.
When he’d investigated Angel, after the debacle with Russell Winters – he’d left no stone unturned, knew which day the hottie who worked for him wore pink panties on.
The guy in front of him, minus the Irish accent was Doyle, Angel’s employee who’d died little more than two years ago in a bid to save the world.
Lindsey coughed, pain running rife through his body as Doyle came round the desk, “Look, Doyle, whatever Wolfram and Hart are paying you, it’s not worth it. Losing your soul over some half a million dollar deal?”
Quinn raised an eyebrow and then his gun, shooting the other shoulder, enjoying the almost inhuman squeal he got from Lindsey, “Soul?” He asked, curtly. “What soul?”