I like it,Connie. And it also makes me sad, but it's an angsty story so you're doing your job.

Connie rocks. Skipping ahead, because Lizard has inspired me to kickstart my Pornathology story again. This is at the beginning when Simon first meets Catherine:

Simon measured her, knew her with a raking appraisal. He listened to Catherine talk; he nodded and flirted and prodded, taking in everything that laced her conversation while letting the words themselves sluice through. He took in her arrogant little self assurances, the neurotic loops worn through her patina of charm, the caustic flashes of wit - often self-deprecating, the sophisticated nuance gliding between contraries, the rapturous sensitivity, the vulnerability and open emotion barely bridled. The bottom note, though, the thing that welled and threatened her wary equilibrium, the reason she was there, her fearsome truth, was pain. And worse, responsbility.

It was not a cold dissection. Simon braced himself as he threaded through each little tell. He felt a shrill panic rise in his chest as he felt the enormity of what he was going to do. He expected it though, the panic, he knew it, and ducked his head down momentarily as he talked, pinched the bridge of his nose, then came back up to meet her eyes, smiling. He read her like a thief going over a bank's blueprints. He was going to steal from her the thing she feared. And let it live within himself.

That is very, very beautiful, Hec.

Although t smack use the P'thology thread next time.

He was going to steal from her the thing she feared. And let it live within himself.

Damn. Those lines keep sitting on my chest. Just lovely and creepy.

Part one of...I don't know, however many it'll take. An Angel/Grendel crossover.

The hunger burns in my heart, for mine is the power, the glory…the dark.

Hee hee. How pretentious can I get?

The bastard Wolf sniffs at my heels, convinced of my unholiness. I cannot say he is wrong, but I cannot let him simply catch me, either. He is hindered by his grotesquerie and sullenly growls in his basement lairs.

Whilst I, in contrast, can dance freely in the moonlight, roof to roof to villainy.

I think that I shall have to leave the Big Apple and journey abroad. Stacy would enjoy a change of scenery, I think. Some sunshine, some warm ocean water…

The Devil shall come to the City of Angels.

....

“Donuts!”

Cordelia stood back as the ravaging pack of her co-workers lunged for the front desk that served as the reception area for Angel Investigations and tore at the pink box. Rolling her eyes, she shuffled through the “immediately pending” files piled in a disorderly heap. “Where’s Broody McBrooderson?”

“Upfhairf,” Fred mumbled, crumbs cascading down her chin.

“Really, you guys act as though the only food you get is what I bring.” She picked up a file. “Who’s got the Thurver case?”

“That’s mine,” Gunn volunteered around a mouthful of jelly donut.

“You write your report yet?”

“Uh. No?”

Cordy reached out and snagged the box off the desk. “That’s it! No more donuts until work is done! So speaks the –“

…malevolent white eyes…”I find the thrill is all the reason I need”…twin sharpnesses flashing in shadow…”Angel, watch out!”…the freedom of falling, like flight, the street rushing to crush him, laughing laughing…dust swirling in an updraft…

“…Cordelia?”

Cordelia blinked, focusing on the present. Wesley’s blue eyes stared concernedly into hers.

“Vision. Whew. Little dizzy.”

“Here.” Wesley led her solicitously to a seat. “Gunn, would you fetch some water?”

“I’m all right, Wesley, it just took me by surprise. But then, they always take me by surprise.”

“Nonetheless, rest a moment.” Gunn hurried back and pressed a paper cup into her hand. She sipped, secretly grateful.

“What’d you see?” Gunn asked.

Cordelia furrowed her brow. “A…I’m not sure. It was so vague. Something…somebody’s coming. Here. Not ‘here’ here, you know, but to L.A…”

“A demon?”

“No…that doesn’t feel right. But…”

“Yes?” Wesley pressed.

“…the Devil?”

....

The flight is dull, first-class notwithstanding. Flight attendants are usually not so easily impressed, but alas this flight had one with a literary bent.

“Hunter Rose? Are you really Hunter Rose?” she asked. I smile as graciously as possible as I help Stacy buckle up.

“Yes, I’m afraid I am.” Charm is such a difficult and unwieldy weapon at times, but I have had extensive practice.

“I loved ‘Herod’s Lovechild’. I thought it was the best novella ever!”

“Thank you. So did the National Book Critics Circle. But, of course, they didn’t buy the collection.”

“Would it be possible…?”

“Of course.”

She offers a cocktail napkin, but I wave it away and produce a proof-edition of Traitor to the Eumenides. I sign it with a flourish and hand it to her with a smile.

“Oh…my…God. Mr. Rose…”

“Hunter.”

“Mr…Hunter…I can’t accept this, this is…”

“…it’s a gift. To a fan. What would a writer be without readers?”

“If there’s anything I can get you…”

And so forth and so on. Stacy shall not want for food or beverage at any moment and I, having been so kind, will be undisturbed for the rest of the flight as though I were guarded by Cerberus itself.

As we descend into LAX I shiver.

“Are you cold?” Stacy asks.

“No, dear. I just…nothing.”

I just…

…had the feeling I was being watched.

....

“The Devil? The actual Devil?”

Cordy shook her head. “No, I don’t think…is there an actual devil?”

Angel shrugged. “Dunno. I never met him.”

“Actually,” Wesley began “it’s always been a matter of controversy in certain circles…”

“Can we skip the historical perspective, please?” Angel turned back to Cordy. “What else did you see?”

“White eyes, big, oddly shaped. Knives, or…something. You’re going to fight it, but it won’t be easy.”

She shuddered. “In fact…you may die.”

Angel shrugged. “Risk I take every night.”

Cordy shook her head. “No, Angel…I think I saw your death.”

“You have to be sure about this, Cordy,” Wesley said, his voice grave. “Did you see Angel die?”

“I don’t know, Wes. I just…”

“Cordy, this is important.”

“Oh, thank you for the bulletin, Scone Dome. I know it’s important, but I see what I see, all right? You want more details, you can call customer service at the Powers That Be.”

“Okay, settle down.” Angel stepped between them. “Look…I’ve been through every prophecy there is and dealt with every apocalypse that’s come down the pike for the past several years. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, but then we never do.”

Fred raised her hand. Angel sighed. “Yes, Fred?”

“Why doesn’t Cordy try to draw what she saw and we can research that?”

“Good idea.”

“Yeah, and you and me can check out the usual suspects, ask about ‘The Devil’.”

“Right. Start at Pat’s Bar.”

Angel beamed and clapped his hands. “See? Another job, another wrong to be righted. Standard stuff.”

He didn’t notice Cordelia shivering.

Scone Dome

Heh...

I like it... But, when is it set in Angel? Because, obviously, Wes is part of the group, so it's before the kidnapping, possibly pre-Connor, but Cordy doesn't seem to be in pain, so it would be pre-demonization... You could clear that up pretty easily...

I think your Cordy voice is good. I'm looking forward to reading the rest.

Oh. Yeah, I shold clear that up.

It's pre-Connor, post-demonization.

Memory fuzzy. Does that work?

It's pre-Connor, post-demonization.

So Connor's still a baby? She was demonized pre-kidnapping, but post-birth-by-staking.

So Connor's still a baby? She was demonized pre-kidnapping, but post-birth-by-staking.

Ah...fucksticks with tartar sauce. And I hate tartar sauce.

As I said, memory = fuzzy. I was under the impression that demonization was shortly before birth by mama-into-the-Dustbuster.

Fucksticks again.

Probably should re-write so that the vision is all debilitating and stroke-inducing and whatnot.

And, yes, a third helping of fucksticks would be great, thanks.