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bookishwenchYes, I've lost my mind. No, I don't know when the next part is coming. Yes, it is what you think it is. Unless you think it's something it's not, in which case it isn't. Obviously.
Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Through "Smile Time"
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Angel's condition is verging on dangerous. Experts are called in.
Author’s Note: I'm insane.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Smile, Darn Ya, Smile
The atmosphere at Wolfram & Hart was even more tense than usual, or at least on Angel’s floor it was. Elsewhere in the massive building there was a distinct sense of lighthearted laughter coming from every steno pool, copy room, and cubicle, but the inner circle of the top brass looked strained to the breaking point as they met beside Harmony’s desk, vacant now because of one of her three hour lunches.
“It’s been a full week, and no change seems forthcoming,” Wesley murmured quietly to Gunn.
“Man, I’d hate to see this turn permanent or something,” he said, shaking his head. “Angel’s not taking it well at all.”
“Is there a way to take this sort of thing well?” Wesley asked, glancing towards the closed office door. “It’s not exactly a condition one could ever foresee having to face.”
“I take it you’re discussing Angelkin’s little problem,” Lorne said, rounding the corner with Fred to find the two men in deep conversation. “He’s been getting more depressed than I’ve ever seen him, and this is a world long-term depression champion we’re talking about.”
“You can’t really blame the man,” Gunn said, glancing at Angel’s closed door. “I mean… he’s a puppet. That’s pretty damn extreme.”
“Has he talked to anyone today at all?” Fred asked.
“Not a word,” Wesley said. “He’s becoming even more withdrawn, and in his current condition that could prove dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Gunn asked.
“Yes,” Fred agreed. “I’ve never really studied felt-based lifeforms before, but I’ve been doing some heavy research on them the last few days. They need to express emotions of excitement and happiness on a regular basis or else they revert to being, well, stuffed animals that are kind of saggy.”
“So Angel’s got to perk up or he’ll wind up a glorified pile of remnants from Joanne Fabrics?” Gunn said, concern etched on his face as he glanced at the closed office door again.
“Pretty much,” Fred admitted, frowning.
“Of all the ways that Angel could possibly meet his demise, that’s not one I would have predicted,” Wesley said, and while he appeared worried about him, the corners of his mouth seemed to be tugging slightly towards a smile as he realized the ludicrous situation his boss was in.
“Something’s gotta be done. I think it’s time we take drastic measures,” Lorne said, straightening his crimson tie.
“Drastic? That’s an understatment. He’s a freakin’ puppet, Lorne. We’re beyond drastic and right smack dab into weirdo territory,” Gunn said.
At the word “weirdo,” Lorne blinked slightly as though a lightbulb had gone on over his head, but he said nothing.
“I’m going to call one of my industry contacts to see if something can’t be done to help the big lug adjust in case he stay like this for a while, or worse, permanently,” Lorne said, striding purposefully away down the hallway.
“Who are you going to call?” Wesley asked his retreating orange and red clad form.
“I’m bettin’ it ain’t Ghostbusters,” Gunn said, giving him a wry look, then pausing and raising an eyebrow. “Unless it is.”
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Fred said with a sigh. “I hope whatever he’s planning works, though, because I’m all out of ideas.”
The three of them cast concerned looks at one another and departed silently in separate directions. None of them noticed Spike standing up from behind Harmony’s desk where he had been crouched down, originally looking for the lighter he had dropped and then blatantly eavesdropping when the conversation had begun. He too regarded Angel’s office door with a quirked eyebrow for a moment, then shrugged and walked over to it, slamming it open and leaving the hinges hanging.
“How’s it going, Pinocchio?” he asked, paying no attention to the darkened office and addressing the back of Angel’s chair, which was turned towards him.
The response was a small felt hand sticking out from behind the chair, one finger raised.
“You do realize you have only four fingers now, pet,” Spike said conversationally. “Technically, you’ve got no middle finger.”
There was a strangled moan, but nothing else betrayed that anything was in the room.
“Oh, come on! It can’t be all bad! So you’re a puppet: about two feet tall, shrinkable in the wash, so adorable stray old ladies want to pinch your cheeks and coo at you like you’re a precocious three year old, and of course you’re be the laughing stock of the vampire community, but that last bit’s nothing new,” Spike said in a sympathetic tone, though his expression was one of blatant glee.
“Shut up, Spike,” Angel said on autopilot.
“I know what we could do! I could take a snapshot of you and email it to Buffy! Maybe the new Watchers Council has an answer to your problem. Yep, sounds like a brilliant idea to me,” Spike said, expectantly waiting for a comeback.
The comeback never came back.
“You really are mopier than usual,” Spike said, and in spite of himself his brows knit in worry. He launched himself at the highly expensive couch by the window, being sure to squeak his duster loudly against its cushions.
“Hey, Angel, look!” he called loudly, though there almost seemed to be a note of desperation in his voice. “I’ve got my boots up on your precious leather couch! What you gonna do about it?”
The chair remained steadfastly in the opposite direction.
“Oh, come on!” Spike said, sitting up and leaning towards the desk. “It’s no fun yanking your chain when you just pretend to be a… a glorified lump of… of remnants from…,” he said, and in three strides he was across the room and swinging the chair around, more frightened than he wanted to admit by the idea that Angel might have turned into a completely inanimate object.
Angel simply stared up at him glumly, arms crossed, but his foot was tapping impatiently.
“Right, well, movement is a good sign, unless he’s turned into a Teddy Ruxpin. That thing always gave me gooseflesh when Dru had one,” he thought to himself, but out loud he said only, “Fine, fine, I know when I’m not wanted, not that it usually matters. I’ll have the cafeteria send you up some of those styrofoam cookies puppets always seem to eat with such abandon.”
Once out in the hallway with the door propped haphazardly in position, he sighed and pursed his lips in concern.
“Mate,” he mumbled under his breath as he strode quickly towards Fred’s lab, “whatever Lorne’s got up his sleeve had better be good.”
Meanwhile, in Lorne’s office, the green demon was pawing through his Rolodex desperately.
“I know I have that number in here,” he muttered to himself. “I still don’t get why most of them don’t have last names.”
With a flourish, he found the right card and then dialed the phone tensely, tapping an irridescent pencil anxiously. The phone rang once, twice, three times…
“Bwawk?” asked a garbled voice on the other end of line.
“Hey, sweet wings. Can you put Captain Schnozzola on the horn? It’s Lorne,” he said, then his voice dropped, “and hurry. This is an emergency.”
Author: Meltha
Rating: FRT
Feedback: Yes, thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Through "Smile Time"
Distribution: The Blackberry Patch and Fanfiction.net. If you’re interested, please let me know.
Summary: Angel's condition is verging on dangerous. Experts are called in.
Author’s Note: I'm insane.
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
The atmosphere at Wolfram & Hart was even more tense than usual, or at least on Angel’s floor it was. Elsewhere in the massive building there was a distinct sense of lighthearted laughter coming from every steno pool, copy room, and cubicle, but the inner circle of the top brass looked strained to the breaking point as they met beside Harmony’s desk, vacant now because of one of her three hour lunches.
“It’s been a full week, and no change seems forthcoming,” Wesley murmured quietly to Gunn.
“Man, I’d hate to see this turn permanent or something,” he said, shaking his head. “Angel’s not taking it well at all.”
“Is there a way to take this sort of thing well?” Wesley asked, glancing towards the closed office door. “It’s not exactly a condition one could ever foresee having to face.”
“I take it you’re discussing Angelkin’s little problem,” Lorne said, rounding the corner with Fred to find the two men in deep conversation. “He’s been getting more depressed than I’ve ever seen him, and this is a world long-term depression champion we’re talking about.”
“You can’t really blame the man,” Gunn said, glancing at Angel’s closed door. “I mean… he’s a puppet. That’s pretty damn extreme.”
“Has he talked to anyone today at all?” Fred asked.
“Not a word,” Wesley said. “He’s becoming even more withdrawn, and in his current condition that could prove dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Gunn asked.
“Yes,” Fred agreed. “I’ve never really studied felt-based lifeforms before, but I’ve been doing some heavy research on them the last few days. They need to express emotions of excitement and happiness on a regular basis or else they revert to being, well, stuffed animals that are kind of saggy.”
“So Angel’s got to perk up or he’ll wind up a glorified pile of remnants from Joanne Fabrics?” Gunn said, concern etched on his face as he glanced at the closed office door again.
“Pretty much,” Fred admitted, frowning.
“Of all the ways that Angel could possibly meet his demise, that’s not one I would have predicted,” Wesley said, and while he appeared worried about him, the corners of his mouth seemed to be tugging slightly towards a smile as he realized the ludicrous situation his boss was in.
“Something’s gotta be done. I think it’s time we take drastic measures,” Lorne said, straightening his crimson tie.
“Drastic? That’s an understatment. He’s a freakin’ puppet, Lorne. We’re beyond drastic and right smack dab into weirdo territory,” Gunn said.
At the word “weirdo,” Lorne blinked slightly as though a lightbulb had gone on over his head, but he said nothing.
“I’m going to call one of my industry contacts to see if something can’t be done to help the big lug adjust in case he stay like this for a while, or worse, permanently,” Lorne said, striding purposefully away down the hallway.
“Who are you going to call?” Wesley asked his retreating orange and red clad form.
“I’m bettin’ it ain’t Ghostbusters,” Gunn said, giving him a wry look, then pausing and raising an eyebrow. “Unless it is.”
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Fred said with a sigh. “I hope whatever he’s planning works, though, because I’m all out of ideas.”
The three of them cast concerned looks at one another and departed silently in separate directions. None of them noticed Spike standing up from behind Harmony’s desk where he had been crouched down, originally looking for the lighter he had dropped and then blatantly eavesdropping when the conversation had begun. He too regarded Angel’s office door with a quirked eyebrow for a moment, then shrugged and walked over to it, slamming it open and leaving the hinges hanging.
“How’s it going, Pinocchio?” he asked, paying no attention to the darkened office and addressing the back of Angel’s chair, which was turned towards him.
The response was a small felt hand sticking out from behind the chair, one finger raised.
“You do realize you have only four fingers now, pet,” Spike said conversationally. “Technically, you’ve got no middle finger.”
There was a strangled moan, but nothing else betrayed that anything was in the room.
“Oh, come on! It can’t be all bad! So you’re a puppet: about two feet tall, shrinkable in the wash, so adorable stray old ladies want to pinch your cheeks and coo at you like you’re a precocious three year old, and of course you’re be the laughing stock of the vampire community, but that last bit’s nothing new,” Spike said in a sympathetic tone, though his expression was one of blatant glee.
“Shut up, Spike,” Angel said on autopilot.
“I know what we could do! I could take a snapshot of you and email it to Buffy! Maybe the new Watchers Council has an answer to your problem. Yep, sounds like a brilliant idea to me,” Spike said, expectantly waiting for a comeback.
The comeback never came back.
“You really are mopier than usual,” Spike said, and in spite of himself his brows knit in worry. He launched himself at the highly expensive couch by the window, being sure to squeak his duster loudly against its cushions.
“Hey, Angel, look!” he called loudly, though there almost seemed to be a note of desperation in his voice. “I’ve got my boots up on your precious leather couch! What you gonna do about it?”
The chair remained steadfastly in the opposite direction.
“Oh, come on!” Spike said, sitting up and leaning towards the desk. “It’s no fun yanking your chain when you just pretend to be a… a glorified lump of… of remnants from…,” he said, and in three strides he was across the room and swinging the chair around, more frightened than he wanted to admit by the idea that Angel might have turned into a completely inanimate object.
Angel simply stared up at him glumly, arms crossed, but his foot was tapping impatiently.
“Right, well, movement is a good sign, unless he’s turned into a Teddy Ruxpin. That thing always gave me gooseflesh when Dru had one,” he thought to himself, but out loud he said only, “Fine, fine, I know when I’m not wanted, not that it usually matters. I’ll have the cafeteria send you up some of those styrofoam cookies puppets always seem to eat with such abandon.”
Once out in the hallway with the door propped haphazardly in position, he sighed and pursed his lips in concern.
“Mate,” he mumbled under his breath as he strode quickly towards Fred’s lab, “whatever Lorne’s got up his sleeve had better be good.”
Meanwhile, in Lorne’s office, the green demon was pawing through his Rolodex desperately.
“I know I have that number in here,” he muttered to himself. “I still don’t get why most of them don’t have last names.”
With a flourish, he found the right card and then dialed the phone tensely, tapping an irridescent pencil anxiously. The phone rang once, twice, three times…
“Bwawk?” asked a garbled voice on the other end of line.
“Hey, sweet wings. Can you put Captain Schnozzola on the horn? It’s Lorne,” he said, then his voice dropped, “and hurry. This is an emergency.”
