She'd finally moved onto the kitchen when he went into the bathroom to inspect the damage.
It was worse then he'd imagined.
The soap he kept in the drawer under the sink was now filming in the soap tray, and two washcloths hung over the side of the tub, dripping water on the floor.
When he moved closer to the tub, there was hair at the bottom, trailing into the drain, along with remnants of conditioner. The container for which was now crammed next to his shaving gear on the protruding lip mounted on the wall next to the showerhead.
He swallowed hard and trailed the spots of water into his bedroom, where he found a wet towel on his leather chair, and her suitcases opened and spilling clothes in the corner next to his closet.
He stared, dazed at the mess. She'd been awake an hour. Just one hour, and his apartment now resembled a dorm room in a college sorority house.
When he'd looked in on her during the night, she slept in such peaceful repose, he couldn't begrudge letting her stay. It was obvious that feeling safe had been a rare thing since she'd come to L.A., and he wanted to do what he could to help.
He turned with a sigh and walked into the kitchen, sitting heavily at the table, staring at nothing.
He'd come to L.A. licking his wounds, planning on staying in the shadows while trying to figure out how to make his existence mean something.
He came looking for some peace.
Two cans slammed down onto the table in front of him suddenly, and he blinked at them before raising his eyes to his robe clad secretary, standing on the other side of his kitchen table.
His irate-looking, robe-clad secretary.
"What?" He asked, immediately feeling like whatever it was, was his fault.
"You have no can openers," she replied, irritated.
"I don't eat food, Cordelia."
He winced at his defensive tone.
It was hiskitchen.
"Well, I do, Broody McBrood, and there's no can opener."
"What would you like me to do?" He asked, deliberately infusing his voice with exaggerated patience.
"Open them," she indicated the cans on the table.
He didn't respond and she rolled her eyes.
"You know," she mimiced biting something,"open them."
"Cordelia-!"
"What? It's not like you don't have the teeth," she protested with wide eyes. "Not to mention the whole vamp strength thing."
She stared at him expectedly.
He stared back up at her, arms crossed over his chest.
The standoff lasted for a few seconds, then Angel sighed.
"Would you like some eggs, Cordelia?"
Her answering smile was blinding and he blinked again, dumbfounded for an entirely different reason.
She sat down.
"I like them scrambled, with a little cheese if you have any."
How's this?
It was worse then he'd imagined.
The soap he kept in the drawer under the sink was now filming in the soap tray, and two washcloths hung over the side of the tub, dripping water on the floor.
When he moved closer to the tub, there was hair at the bottom, trailing into the drain, along with remnants of conditioner. The container for which was now crammed next to his shaving gear on the protruding lip mounted on the wall next to the showerhead.
He swallowed hard and trailed the spots of water into his bedroom, where he found a wet towel on his leather chair, and her suitcases opened and spilling clothes in the corner next to his closet.
He stared, dazed at the mess. She'd been awake an hour. Just one hour, and his apartment now resembled a dorm room in a college sorority house.
When he'd looked in on her during the night, she slept in such peaceful repose, he couldn't begrudge letting her stay. It was obvious that feeling safe had been a rare thing since she'd come to L.A., and he wanted to do what he could to help.
He turned with a sigh and walked into the kitchen, sitting heavily at the table, staring at nothing.
He'd come to L.A. licking his wounds, planning on staying in the shadows while trying to figure out how to make his existence mean something.
He came looking for some peace.
Two cans slammed down onto the table in front of him suddenly, and he blinked at them before raising his eyes to his robe clad secretary, standing on the other side of his kitchen table.
His irate-looking, robe-clad secretary.
"What?" He asked, immediately feeling like whatever it was, was his fault.
"You have no can openers," she replied, irritated.
"I don't eat food, Cordelia."
He winced at his defensive tone.
It was hiskitchen.
"Well, I do, Broody McBrood, and there's no can opener."
"What would you like me to do?" He asked, deliberately infusing his voice with exaggerated patience.
"Open them," she indicated the cans on the table.
He didn't respond and she rolled her eyes.
"You know," she mimiced biting something,"open them."
"Cordelia-!"
"What? It's not like you don't have the teeth," she protested with wide eyes. "Not to mention the whole vamp strength thing."
She stared at him expectedly.
He stared back up at her, arms crossed over his chest.
The standoff lasted for a few seconds, then Angel sighed.
"Would you like some eggs, Cordelia?"
Her answering smile was blinding and he blinked again, dumbfounded for an entirely different reason.
She sat down.
"I like them scrambled, with a little cheese if you have any."
She paused.
"Please."
His lips quirked up at the corners.
"Okay."
~~
end
~~
::pets DS2::
Better?