Thought so. I know what's good, right?

You know what's good, and you write what's good, and happy.

I loved that "gimme a quarter" deal from first season H:LOTS. It took me a second to ping it, because of the switch Kay made to dimes.

In the book, it takes the squad almost a whole year to find out why the Big Man wants the quarters...the Munch-a-like is like "You want cigarrettes...I'll buy you goddamn cigarrettes. Just quit holding me up...it's not dignified."
"No, I don't want cigarrettes. Give me a quarter."
Then finally, at Christmas, he wishes his partner a Merry Christmas without adding "you miserable sonofabitch" like at Thanksgiving and doesn't ask for one, and the partner finally asks why. Kind of heartwarming, in a fucked-up way.

“Could you...give us a minute, Cordy?”

“If it means I don’t have to share my conditioner...gladly.” And she’s gone. I don’t even mind that she takes the last eclair, and I love those. As she would say, it’s totally worth it. “You know, Pryce, “ I say. “It occurs to me we have a situation here.”

“Wyndam-Pryce,” he corrects automatically. “It’s hyphenated.”

“Ok.... that was nice. That little trick in there. You really are the magic man, aren’t you?” I pace around a little...it’s habit when I’m on to something.

“I’m sorry?” It’s a shame he’s so smart, really. He’s cute when he’s puzzled.

“You want to make our kiss disappear. It’s not demons you’re chasing here...it’s cooties. Or temptation. I’m not vain enough to guess which. Temptation doesn’t stop being tempting cause it’s light out. Well, unless you’re tempted by a v...vodka tonic. Then, of course, everything looks different in the light of day. After your head quits throbbing, anyways.” Jesus, what am I babbling about? He probably thinks I’m crazy now. And I was thinking this would be awkward. You took care of that, didn’t you, Kay?

“So, is this Cordy thing negotiable? Cause I could stay somewhere else? I think you have more space than either Cordy or Gunn...you could Watch me...that was your old job, right? Watcher.” I start to see why Munchkin loves talking like that. Wesley starts scrubbing the shine off his glasses. I think I made him blush, too.

I thought Tim Bayliss was the only man in my age bracket to still blush. It’s kind of...touching. But after that, I don’t have the heart to press the point about Cordy. Let him feel like he’s taking care of me for a while...of course, I can take care of myself, and I’m not at all worried about some little freak that cuts out notes...hello?

I know Munchkin used to say the country was looking the same and losing its soul and stuff, so it could be a coincidence, but the building in this ad could be the spitting image of the Waterfront.

Heh.

WICKED Kay!

Yeah, well I was reminded of that time she told Frank that Ed Danvers was hung like a stallion, and she couldn't touch him in public and all this stuff, and Frank says "You're kidding." And she says "Yeah, yeah, I am." And then she smiles and says "No." So, being Frank, he keeps asking, and she says" I guess you'll never know."

ah, yes, Fictis Interruptus. But there's at least the setup for the next part

In a lonely part of France was a very ancient cave. Painted on the walls were pictures hidden away from the world's eyes for millennia, strange scenes of hunters in pursuit of their prey. Unlike the mysterious caves of Lascaux, however, it was not only the hunters in these scenes who went on two legs. In this cave, the humans fled from fearsome creatures with long, clawed fingers and hungry fangs. The ancient vampires ran down their prey, ravaged and fed and gloried in their mastery over the world.

In the deepest cave, other pictures told another part of the story. A human figure fought back, attacking with a long spear as another group of human figures stood by. The warrior was smaller than the observers, as if the human who dared defy the vampires was a youth, or even a girl.

The only lights permitted were small lanterns barely capable of breaching the primal dark. The only vampire who usually occupied the caves was one so ancient he'd forgotten what his human face had looked like. He tended the paintings, speaking to them as old friends. Every few hundred years he added new ones in his own private section of the caves.

Tonight he had more mobile company, important company. Or, at least, important to themselves. The elders of the Order of Aurelius met in council, to discuss who would become their new leader.

And something that came to me this morning here at work. There is more to this, but it'll have to wait till I get home.

If there was anything Wolfram & Hart was good for, it was having the resources to create exactly the memorial necessary for a departed friend/comrade/loved one/sister in arms. Forest Lawn only dithered for five minutes before finding space in the celebrity section of their cemetery for one more resident. Not that they argued that seriously. The lady obviously was loved by someone with power and money, no matter if no one recognized the name Cordelia Chase.

The finest mausoleum space near Hollywood names that people still looked for, flowers in perpetuity, plus an evening service with a request for exceptional privacy. Normally such requests didn't extend to the cemetery staff--there were perks at working at the place--but the large men in suits and sunglasses that arrived before the cortege suggested that the staff should mind their own business for once. As usual, though, the groundskeepers were overlooked, and they paused to watch the line of limousines that rolled through the gates at sunset.

A brief argument appeared to break out as the mourners got out of their vehicle and gathered at the hearse. The man whose subdued grey suit didn't really go with his green complexion glared at the bleached blond man in the long leather duster and muttered something.

"I did too know her," the blond protested quietly. "Known her longer than you have."

"But she called me friend."

The brown-haired woman tugged on the blond's arm. "It's all right, Spike," she said softly. "Stay with Harmony and me."

The one called Spike glanced uncomfortably at the blonde woman who was trying to cry quietly, then sighed and put his arm around her shoulders and around the woman who had spoken to him.

The two men standing close together turned away from the discussion to look at the last member of the group. A large man, whose broad shoulders couldn't seem to support the bowed head as he rested one hand against the rear door of the hearse.

"Angel?" the one with the English accent said softly. "We should ..."

The man nodded slowly. He waved away the attendant who had come with the hearse and opened the door himself.

The four men took up positions as pall bearers, with the large man at the head. He held his end easily, but the others had to strain to lift their portions of the bronze casket. The blond man started to step forward, then subsided with another sigh. Finally the casket was raised to position, and they slowly carried it into the mausoleum, out of sight of observers.

• **

Inside the mausoleum, a black-draped catafalque stood near one wall. One of the tombs at eye level had been opened, and a bronze-colored curtain hung over the opening. They placed Cordelia's casket on the catafalque and stepped back.

"Should we have gotten someone?" Fred said after several silent moments. "To, you know, say something?"

Wesley managed a slight smile. "I can't think of anyone who would know what to say that isn't already here."

Harmony wiped her eyes. "Did anyone call the others? I meant to, but . . ."

Gunn frowned. "The others? What others?"

"The Sunnydale crowd," Spike said. "The ones who grew up with her and lived to tell the tale." He stared at the casket, not looking at anyone.

Wesley winced. "Oh, dear. Yes. They should be told."

"They didn't care when she got sick. Why should they care now?"

Everyone looked uneasily at Angel, who was also staring at the casket.

"I told them last spring," he went on in a flat voice. "Giles said, 'Oh, dear, please keep us posted.' And that was all that bunch ever said." He glanced up at the others. "She's ours."

Gunn stepped forward and rested a hand on the curved top of the casket. "I thought she was just this annoying girl trying too hard to be hip. But she just kept insisting she was there to protect me. And damn if she wasn't. Always."

Wesley joined him. "Even when she was frightened, she never complained--" He glanced up at the noise of protest wrung out of Angel. "All right," he added with a faint smile, "maybe a few times. But she never gave up. Even when she had the chance."

"She didn't let me hide," Fred said softly. "She made me come out into the world. She was my friend."

Harmony sniffed. "She was my hero. Everything I ever wanted to be. And she even liked me when I tried to kill her."

Lorne smiled at the casket. "Even when covered in muck, she was always in style."

Silence fell. Fred nudged Spike, who looked startled, then glanced at Angel, who simply stared at the casket, lost in his own thoughts. Spike swallowed, then grinned, though he toned it down a little for the occasion. "I don't think she knew how to back down. Didn't seem to get the concept of someone else holding the cards. And heaven help the poor bugger who thought he did."

The next silence was longer, until everyone was giving Angel uncertain looks. He never raised his eyes. "She gave me hope," he finally said.

After several moments, Fred looked around. "What now?"

Wesley looked around as well. "I imagine the staff is just waiting for us to leave, so they can finish . . ." He nodded at the curtained alcove waiting for its occupant.

"We can't just--leave her here--just sitting there."

Lorne came over to put his arm around her shoulders. "It's OK, Freddles. It's never easy to walk away."

Angel shook his head. "No, Fred's right. We can't just leave her here."

Wesley frowned in concern. "Angel, what are you suggesting?"

Angel managed a small smile. "Cordelia Chase does not wait for anyone to get around to her." He looked at Spike, who cocked his head, then grinned.

"'Scuse me," he said to Lorne as he maneuvered past to the foot

"'Scuse me," he said to Lorne as he maneuvered past to the foot of the casket.

Angel gave him a look of warning, but Spike only raised a dismissing eyebrow in return. Angel relaxed, then nodded. They lifted the casket easily.

Gunn quickly pulled the curtain over the opening to one side, wincing at the cold breath of air that drifted out of the deep, concrete tomb. Wesley tugged him out of the way.

Spike lifted the end and guided it onto the rollers inside the opening, then he stepped aside and let Angel push the casket slowly in. The casket suddenly stopped, and he looked at Angel in concern. He kept his questions to himself, though, when he saw Angel was resting his head against the cold metal of the casket. The expression on his face was not something other people should see. Spike looked away.

Finally Angel took a deep breath and pushed the casket the rest of the way in. He rested his hand on the surface. "Good night, sweet princess."

"And angels sing you to your rest," Spike finished, just as softly. Angel looked at him suspiciously, then nodded briefly. He touched Angel's arm for a moment, then went to the others. He didn't protest when Harmony attached herself to his shoulder.

Angel finally looked up. "Do you guys mind if I just . . . stay here a while?"

"Of course not," Wesley said. "Shall we leave one of the cars?"

"No, I'll get back OK."

"Especially if you use that cell phone in your pocket to call for a car when you're ready to come back."

"Huh?" Angel reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone. "Oh, yeah. Makes sense. I mean, I finally learn how to use one of these--" He broke off and closed his eyes.

Wesley swallowed hard. "Yes," he said in a tight voice. "She'd be proud of you." He turned away and looked at everyone else. "Let's go."

Meep Connie. I have no words. Thanks.