Rating : PG
Setting : Late Angel season one.
Summary : Not all cases ever reached Angel. First they had to get past Cordelia.
Author's Notes : Written for larinzia, based on the word "Glory" in her Alphabet Challenge.
Cordelia somehow managed to smile politely at the lady sitting across the table from her. It was that or hit her head repeatedly on the desk. God, they’d managed to attract a complete lunatic this time.
Not actually rolling her eyes in exasperation (those acting lessons were paying off), she repeated the client’s words, “You’ve lost your key, and you want Angel to find it for you?”
Glory sighed loudly and examined her perfectly arranged nails. Humans were so stupid. “Yes, that is what I said,” she said in the most bored tone she had.
“You doubt Her Radiance’s words?” spluttered Dreg, one of her minions. “The Great One does not lie!”
“Shut up, Dreg,” sighed Glory, and hit him hard across the head. Glancing closely at her nails, she glared back at the now prone Dreg. “You better have not ruined my manicure. Or there will be consequences.”
Cordelia found herself torn between agreeing totally on the importance of good nail care, and just wanting this well dressed madwoman and her scruffy hobbit wannabees out of the office. In the best tradition of all secretaries, she compromised. “Um… and what does your key look like exactly?”
“I have no idea whatsoever,” sighed Glory, still irritated, and hit another minion with her Gucci handbag. “It’s highly annoying.”
“Thank you, O Magnificness” came the slightly muffled voice from the floor. “We are here but to ease your pains.”
“Damn straight,” said Glory, smirking. “Now, where were we?”
Cordelia smiled weakly, her mind intent on trying to think of a way to get these people out of her office. “And where did you see this… key last?”
Glory just waved the question aside with an airy motion of her hand. “Like I should know. That’s the trouble with these mystical keys – never around when you want them.”
Her minions all nodded in unison. “Most true, o tingly and sagious Glorificus,” ventured the nearest, only to find himself the subject of a particularly filthy glare from Glory. The remaining minions immediately started beating him up.
Cordelia was suddenly very glad that this was the middle of the day, and Angel was asleep. Dirty brawling leprechaun monk thingies in his office wouldn’t go down too well. Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, she desperately hoped that the rising headache was a forthcoming vision.
No such luck. Time to fall back on Plan B.
“Oh! A mystical key!” she chirped brightly. “Oh, you don’t want to be in LA for those.”
Glory looked up, nail file still, interested for the first time. Even the minions stopped fighting in mid-blow and looked up at her.
“You want Sunnydale for that,” Cordelia said, putting as much cheer into her voice as possible, “Everything mystical ends up round there.”
She leant forward and whispered confidentially, “The Hellmouth, you see.” Five small heads nodded back solemnly at her.
Glory just looked confused and pouted. “Hellmouth? Why has no-one ever mentioned this to me? Jinx!”
The scabby minions all rushed over to Glory and began bowing and scraping before her. “Forgive us, o supremely magnificent one, for we worthless and lowest of the low have failed your creamy coolness in the very matter that most concerns your marvellously merciful one.”
“Hey!” yelled Cordelia, finally losing her temper. “Will you just please get out of here and do your apologising where the paying customers can’t see your filthy deviant faces?”
Glory smiled and stood up, smoothing down her very expensive looking dress. “I like your style, kid. Pay her for her time, Dreg – we’re off to Sunnydale.”
She strode off out of the office, minions fussing around her. Dreg looked torn, then pulled out a small sack from under his habit and dropped it on Cordelia’s desk. He rushed after Glory and the others while Cordelia yelped “Ewwww! Where exactly has that been?!”
Five minutes later, while Cordelia was trying to open the sack without actually touching it with her fingers, Wesley strolled into the office. “Even for LA, that has to be the worst transvestite I have ever seen,” he said shaking his head and glancing back into the street.
Spotting Cordelia trying to open the leather purse’s straps with a pen and her nailfile, Wesley sighed, and picked it up. Ignoring the horrified expression on her face, Wesley quickly undid the purse and tipped it out onto the desk.
A single crumpled five dollar bill floated out.
“Cheap bitch!” exploded Cordelia, and glared furiously at the bill.
Wesley raised one eyebrow. “Do I really want to know?”
Cordelia leaned back in her seat and fumed. Fixing Wesley with a deathly glare, she bit out between gritted teeth. “This afternoon never happened. Got it? Stupid want-to-know-it-all British dumbass watchers.”
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had learned quickly during his short stay in LA. Number one being to never approach Cordelia in that mood. He just smiled and decided to brew some more decaf.
And oddly enough, the subject of that afternoon’s visitors never came up again.
Oh, and you do find some fun stuff out there every now and then. For example, Kennedy/Riley/Sam: Dare You to Move.
And it works. *blinks in amazement*