SHEILA DAY fic

Like thete1, I go by my own time zone, man. (I may well be unconscious before midnight reaches the West Coast, anyway.)

Title: More Than Memory
Fandom: Angel
Rating: PG
Notes: For Sheila, who brings a handful of glitter to my fannish existence. Hope things look up for you, hon.
Summary:

He's flying, higher than high, looking down at the stepped ziggurat of Wolfram & Hart's office building, and it's nothing more than a piece of a Fisher-Price Little People set to him. Just part of LA, burning and burning. There's a pain in his chest he can't breathe through, and an ache in his heart that's something else. There's a lot of shouting around him, but it's getting fainter.

Black man always dies first in this kind of movie. Like Jim Kelly in *Enter the Dragon*. He should've known better.

Once upon a time, he didn't even know what "ziggurat" *meant*. He bought his way in, traded his soul for power to help, and somehow it ended up counting against him in a way that it never did, never *would*, for Angel. That's an old story, too.

What's next? More hell on layaway? He would be more angry if he wasn't so tired. He can't even keep his eyes open. Blood loss, probably. Not like he hasn't felt it before.

It's a shock when he lands, on what feels like a *truly* crappy couch. There's pleather under his hands, and an old spring poking into his back, and something smells of cheap urinal cakes. The landing's shocked his breath back, and after a minute he opens up his eyes.

Walls peeling paint, light a dim yellow-grey. An ugly old office. No, *the* ugly old office. Angel Investigations, without the Angel.

"What...?" His mouth is so dry he has to stop to swallow.

"It's about time," Cordy says while she lights a candle, and her hair is long, it swings as she looks at him, and her shoulders are bare.

"Not that Cordelia wanted you to die," Wes interjects from his desk, and there's something unfamiliar in his eyes. A smile. "She simply missed your company."

"If it was fated anyway, I don't know why it had to be fated so *late*."

"Gee, thanks, Cordy," Gunn says, sitting up. Not even a twinge. "So this is...uh..."

"Being dead," Cordy says chirpily.

"The next phase, if you will," Wes adds.

Gunn takes a minute to let that settle in as they look at him. And look at him. "O...kay. Does the next phase involve just sitting around here all day? 'Cause I remember that smell did *not* go away. I might rather be in hell."

"Oh, no," Wes nods at the door. "We're still needed out there. We're just between cases right now."

"The afterlife has hopeless folks, too?" Damn. He had kind of been hoping for that arms-of-baby-Jesus thing. Or at least a trumpet and wings, and a nice fluffy cloud to sit on to watch the girls go by.

"Some peoples believe that the vocation you take in life determines the sort of place you enter after death. I *suspect* this is our Happy Hunting Ground, so to speak."

"So we get to run around solving cases."

"They're a little more metaphysical now, but yes." Wes pushes his glasses up his nose, and suddenly the smile's all over his face. Gunn *has* to grin back. It's like stretching muscles he'd forgotten he had, and it feels good. "It's really quite enjoyable."

"Great, but"–the thought hits him, kills the grin–"for how long? Til Angel shows up and takes over again? I really don't think I'm ready to hop on that merry-go-round again."

Wes and Cordy exchange glances. "He won't be coming here."

"What? He's just not going to die?" The unfairness of that smacks him in the head.

"Oh, he's going to die. And quite soon, if I understand the signs. It's just that–"

"No shoes, no soul, no service," Cordy cuts in. "Humans only around here."

"We get what we paid for," Wes says quietly. "'We are not bound forever to the circles of the world.'"

"Oh." Gunn shuts his eyes, and he's surprised to find that he has it in him to feel sorry for the guy. And for Spike. Even for Blue Girl.

And with that, the phone rings.

"Ready?" Wes says to him, as he opens his eyes again.

"Ready."

"Angel Investigations," Cordy tells the receiver. "We help the hopeless..."