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The Warehouse (Angel's HQ)
June 12, 2005

Someone knocks, and the door opens before the echo even fades, much less before a normal human could get across the room to answer it. "Packagefor MISTER CharlesGunnEsquire," the bike messenger says. Clearly he says that a lot, in the exact same lack of tone.

Gunn automatically scrawls the usual jumble of letters -- CHGUN, is what it more or less comes out to -- and is handing back the pen when the "Esquire" sinks in. He hasn't been Esquire since LA. Also, the messenger's helmet? Isn't. It's horns, curled back like a ram's, with a faux hawk down the middle. And the guy's tattoo is moving. Gunn isn't sure whether to be creeped or impressed or yeah.

Doesn't matter, he's already out the door as Gunn puts the envelope rip cord and pulls out a single sheet of expensive paper. There's a couple lines of type on it -- no signature, no salutation. He half-reads it in the couple seconds it takes to fold the thing up into a thick, tight rectangle.

"Anything interesting?" Angel asks, not looking up.

"Just junk mail." Gunn says, and jams it into his back pocket.

Comments

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She's waiting when he gets there, seated on a park bench under a tree with her briefcase perched beside her.

As he approaches, she stands and smiles.

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Gunn's already standing, and sees no call for smiling. He turns his hands palm up in a half shrug to show he's unarmed -- which in this situation means no briefcase, no briefs, not even a fountain pen. (Other kinds of weapons can be stashed a whole hell of a lot of places. With luck, they can stay put.)

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It may become apparent as he gets closer that it's not the same smile. This one's sharper, more brittle. Less self-satisfied.

"Mr. Gunn."

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"Ms. Baldwin." Gunn's got his game face on -- the lawyer one, that is essentially a poker face, unreadable without being immobile. It's been a while. It feels good, and that feels dirty. There's a barest hint of contempt edging his tone. He's not sure if it's for him or for her, but it doesn't matter, he can use it.

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"I know it's been some time since you've worked in the business, but surely you still have at least a layman's understanding of the term restraining order?"

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"Yeah," Gunn says flatly. "Got some understanding of standing, too. You don't have any. She's not your minor kid and she's not your client. You got no grounds to restrain us from jack and or shit. She gets one, that's different. But since she came to us I'm thinking that'll be a long time coming."

He sits loose limbed on the bench next to her, like a man with nothing much to do and no place better to be.

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She looks at him sharply.

"She came to you."

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Gunn tilts his head to the side, to give her the "oh please" look. "You already knew we talked to her or you wouldn't be sending demon bike messengers with memos. You thought we stalked her and dragged her back to our lair? Wolfram & Hart's pre-trial discovery used to be better than that."

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"As you've pointed out," and her tone's gone brisk, "there isn't likely to be a trial."

She's looking at him with a measuring stare, and her smile's all but gone.

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"What's interesting," Gunn says conversationally, "is that you got a judge so deep in your pocket he signed that fairy tale. And now we know his name."

Actually Gunn could give a shit; bent judges aren't exactly news and New York has a D.A. already. But it's something to say to keep the ball in the air until Emma drops a hint of why she's really wasting her highly billable hours on this conversation.

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"Not bad." The look she's giving him goes up a notch, from measuring to appraising.

"I expect you're wondering why I asked you here."

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It's a quote from something; Gunn can't remember what. Not Gilbert and Sullivan.

"Yeah," he says, simply. There's a crack in there somewhere about his boyish good looks, but he doesn't want this to turn into that kind of fight. He's trying not to want this to turn into any kind of fight -- get hooked on that kind of onedownsmanship and next thing he knows, he'll be played for a sucker like Wesley was.

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"You're not a vampire. And you're not a Watcher."

She's hardly smiling at all, now.

"So I wanted to ask you, Charles Gunn: what's your interest in Slayers?"

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Gunn blinks. Whatever he expected, that wasn't it. "Don't have one," he says.

She's still looking at him and it takes him a couple seconds to connect up the question with the girl. "I help people," he explains. "I want fighters to choose the right side, regardless of why they get in the game."

He smiles, and it's actually not a nasty one. She'd get this part if anyone would. "And I don't trust Wolfram & Hart further than I can throw that thing." He nods in the direction of the ever-looming Empire State Building.

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"Hm." The smile crooks up at one corner. "That's funny."

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"Thanks. Or should that be why?"

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The look she gives him is ironic, and amused, and contains perhaps a little bit of the same sentiment: you'll get this if anyone will.

"That's not too far off from my reasons."

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"You don't trust Wolfram & Hart? You know what works real good for that? Quitting. Blowing the place up is optional." Possibly not the brightest sentiment to voice in a New York City park, but too late now.

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Smoothly: "I didn't say it was Wolfram & Hart I don't trust."

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"Who, then?" With the circle of the black thorn a little pile of ash and splinters, who else was left?

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"Oh, but now we're getting off the subject."

The professional smile is back, and not about to show anything sincere again anytime soon.

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Gunn didn't want to find this woman tolerable, but truth is, she's not a bad break from living in a warehouse of vampires and nerds. And guys. When was the last time he talked to a real live girl that wasn't a client? At least, for a second it seemed like they were talking. Now it's back to whip it out and measure. Gunn's annoyed that he's annoyed.

"What is the subject, again?"

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"Yeah, we've kind of been all over the place, haven't we."

She glances around, taking in the pleasant weather with every sign of enjoyment.

"If you were from the Council, I'd be saying something like: you got this one. Don't expect to get another."

A beat.

"But you're not. And I might tell you and your boss to stay out of this one, except knowing Angel, he'd take that as an engraved invitation."

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Gunn nods, because Angel, yeah.

"You got a shot at talking me out of it if I know what it is." Not a big shot, goes without saying.

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Emma doesn't answer that right away, studying him speculatively again.

"Has it occurred to you to wonder," she asks finally, "why the Senior Partners haven't tried to wipe you out again?"

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Gunn's grin is rueful. "Only every night." Not much point in denying that one; she'd have to be dead and stupid.

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"The last guy to advocate coming down on you in force? Lost a promotion over it." A pause. "And a few other things, but they're the kind that stand a better chance of growing back."

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Gunn blinks. "Why?" He holds up a forestalling hand. "Why is wanting our ass on a plate a bad career move? Don't wanna know about starfish on the payroll."

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"Best we can tell, the Senior Partners don't want you in the game anymore. Official policy towards Angel Investigations is live-and-let-live." She pauses, apparently reviewing the last few words, and smiles. "Or the equivalent."

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"Good to hear," Gunn says. It's not much of an answer, but Gunn isn't gonna make an issue of it. It's as much as she's gonna give him; it might even be as much as she knows. Assuming, of course, that it's not just bullshit start to finish.

"Why tell me?"

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Emma looks at him sidelong.

"Because you're smart enough to know that it's in your best interests to keep it that way. Yours and Angel's."

A beat.

"I don't know how the three of you survived last summer, but I'm guessing it's not the kind of trick you can pull off twice."

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Gunn tries to look mysterious, or at least noncommital. He doesn't know what aces they could pull out their asses if they had to; he knows he doesn't want to find out, and for damn sure he doesn't want to speculate with Ms. Top Ten Evil Lawyers Under 40 just 'cause she doesn't smell like blood or gym socks.

He can tell her this much, though. "I like my skull in one piece, yeah. But we're not in the business of looking the other way anymore."

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"So I hear." Still smiling. "But you know, the thing about looking both ways? Is sometimes it tells you when not to step out in front of a speeding city bus."

Half a beat, not long enough for him to formulate an answer, and she picks up her briefcase.

"Have a great day, Charles. Give me a call if you ever get past that right-side-wrong-side block of yours."

And she turns to go.

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Gunn's got nothing. He could use a little courtroom eloquence right now. He used to have a closing argument like an axe blow: strong, sharp and simple.

She's already a couple feet away and accelerating when he manages to mutter, "Already got past it. Just got back."