Kay gets to the Hyperion:

So I finally find this place, this Hyperion. Back when, it must've been very chi-chi and swank, but I worry that Detective Lockley steered me wrong, because it's just the sort of place to end up an SRO or a shooting gallery. And I was late because I got lost and had to face the Ritual Eyefuck, L.A. version. Why don't the cornerboys get some new material, huh? It's not like they're busy with advertising and public relations. That crap they're selling kinda sells itself. Anyway, these were just boys, wannabes really. One look from me and they took off, hauling ass down the street.I was all proud, but then I wondered how that happened. Time was, me and Carrie...excuse me, Carrie and I, used to get all the girly mags... Seventeen and shit, and practice our sexy faces in the mirror. Now, I'm proudest of looking scary.

Inside, there was a brunette on the phone. This had to be Angel, though the name came off a little too "outcall massage" for the young woman I was looking at. "Are you Angel?"
I hoped she was. It would be nice working with a woman for a change, although I remembered my recent experiences with Russert and Kate and tried to keep her plumbing out of it.
"One second," she told the person on the phone.-more-

"Angel Investigations...we help the hopeless, is that you? I'm Cordelia." I envied her polished manner, for about five minutes. If you can't tell, what you see is what you get with me, more or less.

"Don't know about the hopeless part, but I do need some help. Kay Howard, Baltimore Homicide."

Bye, bye, perfect admin, hello pissed-off cheerleader. "Wesley, get your skinny British butt in here! We have a client!"(This is one secretary that might be all right with a gun.) A paying client, with a per diem and everything!"

"One moment," Cordelia said. "While we're waiting, could I give you a piece of advice?"

"It's what I'm here for." I say, thinking Kate was right. These people get results.

"That Annie Hall thing? So over. I wouldn't say it if I didn't care..."

"I'll take it under advisement, huh?" I say. That was my best shirt she was ragging on. Maybe I should have brought the green suit, though I usually wear it to court." And I need to tell you something. It's just me paying, not the City of Balmer. But you'll get your money."
"But you're a cop. Cops drive old cars and pay too much alimony. I'm an actress, I know these things."
Mostly, hon, I thought, you act like an office manager, huh?

"Good, you can read. I'm 1/2 on the car/alimony deal, huh? But when it comes to murder, I'm Meryl Streep, Bridget Fonda, and Jessica Lange." And then I knock wood on the desk...I'm wicked superstitious about my clearance rate. If I promise something and don't do it, it's cause I'm dead, huh?"
I must've overwhelmed the kid cause she screamed "WESLEY!" like she couldn't be alone with me for one more minute.

At long last, Wesley shows up, looking like...a Wesley. He's cradling an old book like it's a member of his family, and he can't quite decide which hand to give me to shake. We finally pick one(Emily Post would probably say it was the wrong one, but I've lost track of that stuff since my debutante days, huh?) "Wesley Wyndam Pryce at your service," he says."Sorry about the delay. Sumerian verb tenses can be such a trial."
"Yeah, sure," I say. "Happens to me all the time."
"Really? Because I was under the impression study wasn't prized by police departments.
"Not really. Had you going, though, didn't I? Around the squad, it's hard enough to speak English...it's 'dunker', "twitch', and 'skel' most days."
"Well, despite what my young friend might have told you, my posterior is quite proportionate,"
"Wesley, do you get this uptight every time she says you have a skinny ass? Cause I'll tell you what, you go back out and come in...I'll give you an outsider's opinion, huh?"
"That would be most inappropriate. Let's get down to business, shall we?"
"In a minute, Wesley. Or are you Mr. Wyndam Pryce...I know English people are kind of formal, but you can call me Kay.Or almost anything else...the Munchkin has some pips, some I never let him use twice." Teasing Wesley brought all my feelings up again. I swallowed hard.
"Mr. Wyndam Pryce is my father. 'Wesley' is fine."

Back from signing.

To find

(This is one secretary that might be all right with a gun.)

Excuse me. I think I just swallowed my tonsils. That is so. damned. perfect...

New V!Giles. Tara and Willow, more Xander/Joyce road trip

[link]

Drabble the first. This week's theme: A sunset, in summer.

Warmth (Angel)

There is sunlight, falling on his skin.

It hits him in vagrant strands, glancing bands of prismatic colour. They edge him with a nimbus, now bright, now blurred. Los Angeles shines with the last of the day's light, those same bands moving across buildings and freeways like forgotten echoes.

This sensation, the bliss of warmth against his flesh, has the novelty of something long lost. It has been two centuries since he felt this.

As night moves in, he takes the Gem of Amara from his hand, and smashes it beneath his heel. The hope of freedom disintegrates with it.

Second drabble, same theme.

Oncoming Darkness (Buffy)

Night's coming.

She gears up for this, every day of her life. Chosen, annointed, born to it - all of this translates in Buffy's mind as "no choice". She is allowed to be alive and real, to live a life that she actually chose for herself, between sunrise and moonrise. Beyond that, she becomes what she herself has come to hate: something that treasures the hours of darkness, something that hunts, something that kills.

The long summer day begins its inexorable crawl down into the violet-tinged moment when the sun hits the yardarm.

And the graves open.

And she hunts.

Lovely drabbles, Deb. erkia, I cant wait to see what sparks fly between Kay and Wesley.

connie, comments in your lj.

Thanks. Beverly. Right now, she is giving him a lot of shit, as you can see, because he's awkward and talking about his butt...I could see a fascination developing.Especially cause I wanna "hear" him pick up words like "whodunit" and "yo". As always, Deb, perfect description. And I have to join the legions of people bitching about "Wyndam" Pryce...it's never gonna look right. Connie, comment in your lj.

Just a little bit more...but I'm still feeling like vanity gal, in here taking up the thread space.

"OK, Wesley," I say. "I grew up on an island, too. Probably not as nice as yours...I've never been, just seen the photos."

"It has its moments," he said, smoothly. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"Ok, then, meter's running, huh? I'm here cause my friend, John Munch, another detective, came here on vacation, and hasn't been back or called. And he's the kind of guy who announces himself...tells you more than you want to know, honestly."

" I think I know something about that," Wesley said, shooting Cordelia a look.

"Excuse me for living, Mr. Stiff Upper Lip."

"If you'd shut up sometimes, I might not have to!"

"I try to give the benefit of my experience, and all I get is grief."
"What?" I ask. "More clothes advice?" I'm just asking cause I want a few minutes to get my story straight...it's weird on this side of the desk...the only other time it happened was about Crosetti, and I didn't know anything, so that was cake, in a depressing sort of way. But thinking about Steve makes me think of the Munchkin pulling a "Final Exit'(He can be a real miserable bastard sometimes...although some of it's just talk...I can't always tell.) And if I think about that now, I'm just gonna lose it right here, and I can't take any tips about cry-face.
Luckily Cordy does run her mouth a lot. " No! Bad hair(she says in a tone reserved in my family for uterine fibroids and such) You don't have to worry about that. Although, nobody is wearing it that length this season, you might want to consider a cut."

"No, no, she won't," Wesley says...I have to strain to hear him.
"I'm sorry?"
"I meant that you have more important things to consider, with someone missing...did your friend have enemies?"

"Yeah...of course. The enemy thing with the Munchkin is complicated. Because he has whole lists of people he hates that don't even know he's alive. Newt Gingrich, Strom Thurmond, that Alanis girl on the radio...guess he doesn't wanna know what he "Oughta Know" huh? And that brings us to his Pissed-off Exes. Felicia, an artist named Brigitte something.... Gordon Pratt, the wannabe cop-killing asshole, who I hope is in a gunshop in hell right now, may God forgive me."

"Brigitta Svendson?" Wesley says. "I saw her work when it came to LA...it was a revelation about the dark side of decadence."

"Well, think about if it was your...revelation that the hometown crowd was looking at, huh?"