Manila Envelope - apropos of Comlodge's last. :)
So - the delightful image posted by comlodge made me want to write! I admit, this is nothing more than a 'reaction shot', an extended one... but I'm hoping to write a sequel just as soon as I decide who sent the pictures and how Buffy and Spike will thwart their intentions!
Manila Envelope
Angel Investigations usually got one or two manila envelopes without return addresses a week. They were mostly crackpots sending tenuous evidence of conspiracy theories, but every once in a while, the crackpots hit on something real - just because you’re crazy doesn’t mean there isn’t a demon sacrificing children next door to you - so Angel set the big envelopes aside until he had three or four, and then poured himself a double shot of whisky and went through them.
He opened the second envelope of the day and felt the familiar edge of an 8x10 glossy photograph. For a moment, he suspected a desperate actor was petitioning him for help on some circuitous path to fame - in LA it was hard to pick a penny off the sidewalk without also getting a spec script. He up-ended the envelope and slid two glossies out, and a slip of notebook paper. He caught a glimpse of black sharpie block-letter but then his eyes caught something on the top photo. Angel let the paper fall and turned the stack of photos upright. He squinted, at first wondering if this were one of those optical illusion things you had to cross your eyes for, but he looked a long time and the picture didn’t shift or change. He had to slowly acknowledge that he saw exactly what he thought he saw.
Buffy and Spike.
Spike. And Buffy.
Their jaws were tensed, their faces smooshed together, both pressing hard - it was clear that this was no one-sided kiss. Angel flipped the second photo on top of the first. It was the same scene, the same kiss, a moment off, Spike had tilted his head back, a little of his lower lip now exposed. Buffy’s hand was higher on his arm.
Angel flipped the two pictures back and forth, playing the world’s shortest, most personally painful cartoon. Head left, head right. Hand up, hand down. Lip in, lip out.
He didn’t know how long it was before he looked away. He slapped the pictures facedown on the desk.
Cordelia walked by the open office door and Angel wondered briefly if she knew anything about photo retouching, if there was a possibility someone was playing a cruel joke on him.
No, he couldn’t show Cordelia THAT. He saw the note on the desk and snatched it up. “Angel - Just thought you should know what’s going on in Sunnydale. A concerned friend.”
His hand started to crumple the paper. He thought better of that and held it to his nose. The astringent scent of marker drowned out anything else. He did crumple the note, then.
Cordy poked her head in the door. “Everything all right?”
“Hm? No. Fine. I’m fine.”
“Because you were growling. Did the Kings lose again?”
Angel swept the photos and the crumbled note back into their envelope. “I’m going for a drive,” he said, and paused only to grab his car keys from the little dish by the coat rack.
Cordy followed him. “Uh, Angel? Daytime?”
Angel stood at the door to the hotel, shaking his key ring in his hand while the sun glared cheerfully off the pavement outside. He turned in place.
Cordelia had her arms crossed and that look on her face that he might as well give up and tell her everything.
Angel sighed. “It’s family business.”
“Darla?”
Angel shook his head. “Spike.”
Cordelia looked curious, but just nodded. “Do you want backup? I owe him a piece of rebar in the gut.”
Angel rather liked the image of Cordy putting a piece of steel through Spike, but he shook his head. “Thanks. I think I just need to tear his lower lip off.”
“That’s oddly specific and gruesome. I think I’ll stay here, then.”
Angel had a long day ahead of him. He walked back to his desk and told himself he was not going to pick the photos up again.
Buffy. Spike. Buffy’s tan, smooth cheek. Spike’s soft pink lip. A sharp cheekbone, a lithe neck.
Angel looked down. Without meaning to, he’d started sketching the kiss. He snapped his pencil in half. “Screw it. Cordy - find Wes. I need someone to drive me to Sunnydale right now, sun or no sun.”
He had no idea what he would do when he got there, but he certainly wasn’t getting anything done until he did.
Manila Envelope
Angel Investigations usually got one or two manila envelopes without return addresses a week. They were mostly crackpots sending tenuous evidence of conspiracy theories, but every once in a while, the crackpots hit on something real - just because you’re crazy doesn’t mean there isn’t a demon sacrificing children next door to you - so Angel set the big envelopes aside until he had three or four, and then poured himself a double shot of whisky and went through them.
He opened the second envelope of the day and felt the familiar edge of an 8x10 glossy photograph. For a moment, he suspected a desperate actor was petitioning him for help on some circuitous path to fame - in LA it was hard to pick a penny off the sidewalk without also getting a spec script. He up-ended the envelope and slid two glossies out, and a slip of notebook paper. He caught a glimpse of black sharpie block-letter but then his eyes caught something on the top photo. Angel let the paper fall and turned the stack of photos upright. He squinted, at first wondering if this were one of those optical illusion things you had to cross your eyes for, but he looked a long time and the picture didn’t shift or change. He had to slowly acknowledge that he saw exactly what he thought he saw.
Buffy and Spike.
Spike. And Buffy.
Their jaws were tensed, their faces smooshed together, both pressing hard - it was clear that this was no one-sided kiss. Angel flipped the second photo on top of the first. It was the same scene, the same kiss, a moment off, Spike had tilted his head back, a little of his lower lip now exposed. Buffy’s hand was higher on his arm.
Angel flipped the two pictures back and forth, playing the world’s shortest, most personally painful cartoon. Head left, head right. Hand up, hand down. Lip in, lip out.
He didn’t know how long it was before he looked away. He slapped the pictures facedown on the desk.
Cordelia walked by the open office door and Angel wondered briefly if she knew anything about photo retouching, if there was a possibility someone was playing a cruel joke on him.
No, he couldn’t show Cordelia THAT. He saw the note on the desk and snatched it up. “Angel - Just thought you should know what’s going on in Sunnydale. A concerned friend.”
His hand started to crumple the paper. He thought better of that and held it to his nose. The astringent scent of marker drowned out anything else. He did crumple the note, then.
Cordy poked her head in the door. “Everything all right?”
“Hm? No. Fine. I’m fine.”
“Because you were growling. Did the Kings lose again?”
Angel swept the photos and the crumbled note back into their envelope. “I’m going for a drive,” he said, and paused only to grab his car keys from the little dish by the coat rack.
Cordy followed him. “Uh, Angel? Daytime?”
Angel stood at the door to the hotel, shaking his key ring in his hand while the sun glared cheerfully off the pavement outside. He turned in place.
Cordelia had her arms crossed and that look on her face that he might as well give up and tell her everything.
Angel sighed. “It’s family business.”
“Darla?”
Angel shook his head. “Spike.”
Cordelia looked curious, but just nodded. “Do you want backup? I owe him a piece of rebar in the gut.”
Angel rather liked the image of Cordy putting a piece of steel through Spike, but he shook his head. “Thanks. I think I just need to tear his lower lip off.”
“That’s oddly specific and gruesome. I think I’ll stay here, then.”
Angel had a long day ahead of him. He walked back to his desk and told himself he was not going to pick the photos up again.
Buffy. Spike. Buffy’s tan, smooth cheek. Spike’s soft pink lip. A sharp cheekbone, a lithe neck.
Angel looked down. Without meaning to, he’d started sketching the kiss. He snapped his pencil in half. “Screw it. Cordy - find Wes. I need someone to drive me to Sunnydale right now, sun or no sun.”
He had no idea what he would do when he got there, but he certainly wasn’t getting anything done until he did.