Fic info.
Just Another Friday Night
It was a dark and stormy night.

Well it WAS, okay? I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.

So anyway, it was dark and stormy, and I was pretty mad cause that meant I couldn’t go clubbing tonight. When you’re cooped up in a dinky office for most of the day, you want your nights to be spent somewhere, you know, FUN.

I let go of the curtain I was holding and moaned. “Did it HAVE to rain tonight? It’s Friday night, for God’s sake. This is way unfair. Couldn’t we go out anyway?” I pleaded. Ugh. Begging was so trite, but I was desperate. I so wanted to go out! I could swallow my pride for a bit. Angel would deal.

My best friend looked up from the magazine he was reading on the couch and smiled, used to what he calls my “little tirades.” “We can’t. The rain would sweep us both away. You don’t want to ‘sleep with the fishes’ tonight, do you?” He chuckled at the weak joke and I rolled my eyes.

“That’s why some genius way back when invented these useful little things called umbrellas,” I told him, crossing my arms over my chest impatiently. “C’mon, Angel, you are so boring! I know you’re like centuries old and all, but you can still have some fun with us hip young ones, can’t you?”

I batted my eyes at him, hoping to appeal to his ego. “Besides, you wouldn’t let a little rain sweep me away, would you, Angel? You’d protect your Cordy, wouldn’t you?” I purred, coming up to the couch and leaning over the side to face him.

“That’s what I’m trying to do, honey,” he drawled, not bothering to look up from the magazine. He seemed suspiciously engrossed in its contents . . . I quickly checked the cover. Nope, not Playboy. Newsweek? He’s ignoring me to read Newsweek?

I scowled. “I don’t need your protection,” I told him, forgetting that I had just told him I did. “I’m sure Doyle wouldn’t mind taking me. And if he doesn’t, well then I’ll go out by myself.” I went to grab my car keys from my room, but Angel’s hand shot out and grabbed mine before I could go any further than a step from the couch.

“You’re going to stay right here with me, Cordy,” he said calmly, turning the page with his free hand.

I stared at him incredulously. Was he trying to tell me what to do? I tried unsuccessfully to pull away. “Let go, Angel. You’re being ridiculous.”

He grinned and maintained his vicelike grip around my fingers. “I’m being ridiculous? You want to go clubbing on the worst night of the year and you’re telling me I’m being ridiculous?”

“Yes,” I told him stubbornly.

He sighed, and gave me a little tug so that I toppled over the side of the sofa and onto the seat next to him. “Oof,” I said, getting a mouthful of couch cushion.

“Why don’t we stay in tonight and have some quality time instead?” he asked, after helping me up from my ungraceful position face down on the couch.

I glared at him, my ego bruised from the way he was treating me. “No.” I proceeded to push myself off the seat and stalk off, but then he gave me that puppy-dog look he’s perfected so well . . .

“Pretty please? Stay in with me tonight, Cordeeleeah . . .” he crooned, the corners of his mouth turning down in a pout.

I tried not to smile. “And why should I do that?”

“Because . . . hmm . . . cause . . . I’m afraid of the storm!” His eyes grew round as a loud crash of thunder was heard, and he clutched my arm to his chest mock-fearfully. “It’s gonna come in my window and eat me all up and you have to stay in and take care of me!”

“Eat you all up?” I cracked, laughing hysterically. “What?”

“Eat me all up,” he repeated seriously. “With mustard. And maybe some relish on the side. And only beautiful best friends o’mine can stop it from coming to get me . . .” It was his turn to bat his eyelashes in a horrible attempt to woo me into agreeing with him.

“Beautiful best friends, huh?” I sat down next to him again and raised an eyebrow. “Tell me more.” I was weakening.

“Only the brave and strong uniquely Cordy-ish capabilities of my loving, beautiful, warm-hearted, beautiful . . .”

“You said that,” I interjected.

“. . . drop-dead gorgeous best friend with impeccable taste can protect me,” he confirmed.

I laughed again. “I see.” I flopped back onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “Okay . . . you win. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Did my amazing wit and clever use of flattery convince you to stay in for tonight?”

“If that’s what you want to believe, then okay.” I didn’t want to tell him that the howling winds and the lightning/thunder combo were starting to get to me. ‘Brave and strong,’ huh?

He picked up the Newsweek again and smiled knowingly to himself. “Okay.”

Time passed and still he sat quietly.

I turned my head towards him and frowned. “Well?”

He glanced up. “Well what?”

“You have been privileged with the pleasure of my company,” I told him. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Enjoy it,” I said huffily. “I’m bored. What can we do around here for fun?”

“Read. This Newsweek is pretty good. Do you want me to tell you all about the interesting article on Cape Town international terrorists, or maybe about that new Latino American priest who’s the host of his own talk show? Or . . .”

“WHAT?”

He laughed. “I’m only joking.” He put down the stupid magazine and caught my gaze. “What do people normally do when they’re home on a Friday night?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s never happened to me.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot who I was talking to.” He gave a little mock-bow. “Cordelia Chase, Boy-Slayer.”

I grinned. “That’s right. And don’t you forget it.”

“I’m sure we can think of something. Let me see . . . I think I have a couple of board games in the back. Hmm . . . Pictionary?”

“There are only two of us. It won’t work.”

“Oh . . . right. What about Operation?”

“You lost the pieces, remember?”

“That was Doyle!”

“Sure it was . . .” I teased. “Anything else?”

“Do you wanna play Monopoly?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Not particularly. I mean, gaining money is all very well, but I’ve had some bad experiences in the past when I went bankrupt all of a sudden.” I bit my lip at the sudden rush of memories.

Angel noticed and a look of sympathy flashed in his eyes. He squeezed my hand briefly and went on. “How about Clue?”

“Mr. Green in the Library with the wrench,” I said immediately, then laughed. “Nah . . . no real entertainment value.”

He was getting impatient, I could tell, but I didn’t ease up on him. Hey, he was making me stay home on a Friday night!

“Dominoes?” he asked desperately.

“Ugh, no.”

“Scrabble?”

“Nope.”

“Twister?”

My eyes lit up. “Okay.”

“Go Fish?”

“Hello, I said okay.”

“What?”

“I said, okay. To Twister.”

“You did?” Relief was evident in his voice. I’ll bet he was wishing he let me go out tonight . . .. “So, Twister it is?”

“Twister it is.”

* * *
Angel unfolded the mat as I chewed on an apple and re-read the instructions.

“Listen to this,” I laughed. “‘A new stocking-foot game that everybody will flip over. Twister can be played indoors or outdoors by Boys or Girls or Mixed Groups of all ages. The perfect fun starter for every party.’ God, who wrote this?”

Angel was frowning as he tried to smooth down one corner of the mat that had been folded the wrong way. “I don’t know.” He tugged at the corner unsuccessfully and let out an expletive. “Stay, damn it!”

I ignored Mr. Perfectionist and read on. “It says here that you have to remove your shoes and stand facing me on the opposite end of the sheet . . .hmm . . . ‘a third person called the “Referee” spins and reads aloud both the limb and the color the arrow points to.’ Oh no!”

Angel was still frowning intently at the mat in front of him. “What?”

“We need a third person! Should I call Doyle?”

He scowled even further. “No. We’ll manage.”

“Okay, but it says in the rules . . .” He wasn’t paying attention. “Angel, will you stop agonizing over that stupid mat? ‘We’ll manage,’ remember?” I said, throwing his words back at him.

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll stand on the red side.”

I didn’t want to tell him that that was the side that I had wanted too. He was uptight enough as it was. “I’ll take green.”

I walked over to that side of the mat and carried the spinner along with me. Slipping off my shoes, I stood on the circles and smiled at Angel shrewdly. “I used to be a Twister champ back in fourth grade, you know. I’m going to kick some vampire butt, so just watch out.”

He raised an eyebrow and eyed me with a dangerous look on his face. “Don’t count on it, Twister Girl.”

We faced off like those old gunfighters do at high noon. I swear, you could almost see the saloon in the background and the lone . . . what do you call those dustball things that always roll past the screen? Anyway. Keeping my eyes focused on his face, I reached over and spun the spinner.

Left hand green.

I put my hand down triumphantly and watched as Angel reached for a spot by my foot. I flashed him a cocky grin and spun again with my right hand.

Right foot green.

I moved my foot over a circle and tried not to laugh as Angel stretched to reach a green circle. Here I am, in a very comfortable position and he’s all over the place after two spins. I’m going to win. I always win.

Right foot blue.

Left hand yellow.

Right foot green.

Right hand red.

Left foot blue.

Right hand . . .

The spinner swung around merrily, and Angel and I were getting Twisted into all sorts of funny positions already. I wasn’t kidding when I had told Angel I was a Twister champ. Even with my one hand and the opposite foot stretched behind me and the other two limbs on God knows what circle by now, I still managed to hold my place. Angel on the other hand, was looking shaky. I struggled to balance myself on one hand to push the spinner again.

Left hand green.

Uh oh.

I reached for the closest and most comfortable green spot I could, but Angel was moving to the same one. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I muttered, leaning over a little to block his movement, but Angel was too fast for me.

“Got it!” he yelled in triumph, laughing at his small victory. “Go find another green circle, Champ.”

The other one was all the way on the OTHER side of me. I glanced at Angel out of the corner of my eye. He was still smiling over what he THINKS is a sure win for him. Keep dreaming, Fang Boy. Let’s see what kind of a Twister player I really am . . .

“HA!” I cheered as my fingers grazed the circle. Hold it . . .! I was tipping . . . no . . . steady . . . YES! “HA HA! See if you can beat that, Angel!”

Problem. Now how was I supposed to spin the spinner?

I eyed the thing that was so close, yet so far from my reach. I was already shaking dangerously and if I moved any more I would surely fall.

“I’ll spin it,” said Angel, noticing my plight. I nodded and narrowed my eyes as he leaned over and flicked the spinner with his fingers . . . have to make sure he doesn’t cheat or anything.

Right hand red.

Whew.

This made my life so much easier. I was back on a comfortable position. But Angel . . .

“Having trouble, Best Bud of mine?” I crowed as he shook precariously on one hand.

“No,” he said gruffly, but I could see him straining. Just then the wind gave an awful shriek and lightning and thunder crashed in a manner worthy of a horror movie. I started a little, but kept my position.

However, just as Angel’s hand was reaching over me to get to the circle . . . the lights went out.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed as he lost his balance and crashed down on top of me.

“OW!”

God, he’s heavy!

I thumped what must have been his chest . . . it’s hard to tell when it’s pitch black. “Get off me, you jerk! You made me lose my place! You can’t just fall on me and . . .” I stopped hammering when I realized what that meant.

“I won? I won? I WON I WON I WON I WON! Ha ha ha!” I was so happy for maintaining my title as reigning Queen of Twisterdom that I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a squeeze. “Did you hear me, Angel? I won!”

He was silent for a while, and I was beginning to think that he was just being a sore loser when he finally spoke. His voice sounded awfully funny. . . “So does the lucky lady get a prize?”

That’s when I realized . . . Angel was still on top of me.

It only took a split second for understanding to dawn. Or at least what I thought was understanding. Does he mean what I think he means or does the meaning I mean for it to mean mean something else?

I wonder . . .

“Um . . . what . . . kind . . . of prize?” It was a little hard to concentrate when he was nibbling on my ear like that . . .

He chuckled seductively. “If you have to ask, you’ll never know . . .”

Oh. That kind of prize . . .

* * *
Hmm . . . if I didn’t know better I’d swear that he planned all this . . .

END