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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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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."