Lar ||| Buffy & Angel

Breakfast Club Redux
by Lar

EMAIL: HERE
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Angel/Wes
DISCLAIMER: They belong to M.E., not me.
SUMMARY: It ain’t breakfast at Tiffany’s, either.
written for mireille719 for the maleslashminis Angel round. Apologies for lateness!
Requirements: Angel/ Wesley; Cordelia, snark/banter, scrambled eggs ; no Angelus or unrelenting angst; any rating
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“What is that?” Wesley asks in a voice tinged with equal amounts of suspicion and dismay.

“Tofu turkey sausage patties,” Cordelia tells him, one hand on her hip, one hand clutching the pan from whence the offending item emerged. “Healthy and organic. So shut up and eat them. With a smile.”

“Yes, of course,” he says and sits at her table, books pushed aside, glasses removed to perhaps ease the oncoming ordeal by denying at least one of his senses the exposure. “Are the eggs real eggs?”

“Fresh from the chicken’s butt,” she tells him and looks up as Angel walks into the room. “Hey you. Your cup of blood’s warm and waiting.”

“Please tell me that’s not what’s fresh from the chicken’s butt,” Angel says and catches Wesley’s quick grin from the corner of his eye. He’s been doing more of that lately. More than Angel can ever remember. And all it took was an explosion, some time in ICU, a stolen scroll and some badly translated prophecies.

Not a bad trade as far as Angel’s concerned.

Cordelia turns and arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow at him. Angel is still amazed at how quickly she’s gone from near death to this self-assured woman again. It’s a little scary, truth be told. So is the expression she gives him now.

“Would I ever serve you chicken blood? Please. This is Grade A piglet. I never skimp on the important things.” She gives him a smile when he reaches for the mug and watches as he sniffs it. “Do you love it? The cinnamon was a bust but that fresh vanilla bean and nutmeg is a serious winner.”

“Yeah, it’s just that I like my blood a little less-“

“Less lovingly made with my own two recently healed hands?” she says with a wide eyed look that would have fooled anyone else but Angel and Wesley, who wisely keep quiet. “That’s what I thought,” she adds as she turns back to the stove to fix her own plate.

Angel sits at the table, forehead wrinkled as he stares into the mug. He glances over at Wesley’s plate, and the wrinkles set in a bit deeper. “Is that haggis?”

“Would that it was,” Wesley murmurs as he pokes it with a fork. He clears his throat and speaks up loudly and quite distinctly. “This is a very healthy serving of a most excellent cut of… of…” He can’t bring himself to say the words turkey, tofu and sausage strung together in one sentence, let alone as the name for something he is now expected to eat. “Breakfast goodness made lovingly by Cordelia. She is certainly looking after us. How’s your blood, Angel? Yummy?”

Angel blinks, looks at Wes in a wounded manner, as though he’s been thrown under the wheels of a large bus by his trusted friend. Which, in fact, he has been. It’s the Cordelia Express and it churns over him with the sound of a thousand repressed gag reflexes as he takes a careful sip. “Yummy,” he says when she peers over her shoulder. He lifts the glass and nods, pained smile on his face. “I’m gonna savor this. It’s too good to drink right down.”

“It’s like a vampire version of French toast, right?” she says as she sits down and looks across at them. They both look back at her, identical smiles in place, not particularly convincing but in this case, it seems the effort is good enough.

“Right. Good old vanilla nutmeg and O-pos French toast,” Angel tells her and because he’s trying here, really making the effort as Wesley has asked him to do, he takes another mouthful and forces it down. “Just like mom used to make. Well, the cook made all the meals. And without the blood.”

“Precisely,” Wesley says and nods. “Must have made for a spectacular plating on Sunday mornings.”

“Pushing it,” Angel mutters under his breath and clears his throat. “Thanks, Cordelia. For doing all this.”

“What’s family for?” she asks brightly and takes a big bite of her seven grain whole meal toast. And promptly spits it out into her napkin. “Oh dear god, that’s not bread, that’s like the unholy remains of an evil loaf of cardboard.”

She pushes her plate to the middle of the table, and in two seconds’ time it’s joined by Wesley’s own and Angel’s mug. No one says a word for a long moment, the only sound the tick of the clock and the soft shuffle of Dennis opening the lid of the trash bin in preparation for what comes next.

“Anyone for Starbucks?” Cordelia says brightly as she stands up and reaches for her purse. “Double mocha, caramel espresso, French roast, I’m down with all of that.”

“My treat,” Angel says and pushes a few folded bills across the table towards her, watching them disappear into the purse before he can blink. “We’ll just wait here.”

“You bet your ass you will,” she says, sunglasses pulled out with a showy gesture. “No one’s bursting into flames over some half-caf, double vanilla latte on my watch, buddy.” Cordelia walks to the door, which Dennis opens for her. “Oh and if you two think you’re getting away with doing it in my room again? Don’t bother. I burned those sheets. And Dennis tells me everything.”

The door closes with a soft thump, leaving Angel and Wesley staring at it. Wesley is turning a shade of red that Angels’ almost forgotten existed. He clears his throat and covers the abandoned plates and the mug of blood with an unfolded napkin.

“That went well,” he says and looks over a Wesley. “How far to Starbucks?”

“Twenty minutes each way if she goes to the one with the young man who gives her the free extra shots,” Wesley replies smartly and he stands up, already tugging at the neckline of his shirt. “I’ll even have enough time to change the sheets before she gets back.”

There’s a beat and then Angel’s disgruntled protest, which is lost to the conveniently loud sounds of Dennis’ plate clearing. He may have a tendency to tell tales but it doesn’t mean he lacks discretion entirely.

-end


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