Disclaimer: I own nothing. Angel the Series belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt. Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.
A/N: Another FFA response, this time for Charles Gunn - Harry Potter. I’ve really found these things to be a lot of fun to do when I want a break from all of my other stories.
A/N 2: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.
Charles Gunn turned his head a bit and looked at the man blankly for a moment.
“You’re lookin’ for who now, man?” he asked straightening up from where he had been trying to clean the latest mess one of the kids had made.
The apocalypse had drained them all and they shouldn’t have lived. They really shouldn’t. Him least of all. He was still healing up and if Anne saw him bending over (with the stitches in his gut wound still not out yet) there would be some yelling.
But one of their group didn’t make it through the whole let’s poke the hornet’s nest, set the whole damn thing on fire (perhaps hit the fire-y nest with a baseball bat a few times) and hope for the best plan.
Then again, he didn’t think Wesley had much left to live for – had probably welcomed death in the end.
But that was one of the reasons why the man’s accent threw him for a second.
The other was that they might have survived the alleyway, but now they had a shit load of pissed off stinging insects with a grudge for knocking their house down, ready to fly at them when they least expected it (and he really needed a new metaphor, but they had just had to deal with some of those nasty buggers that had set up shop in front of the shelter the other day and he was still annoyed that one had stung him). And he can never be too careful with strangers who very obviously don’t fit in this part of town.
Strangers who look at him seriously and earnestly and repeat in a British accent, “Justin Finch-Fletchley. I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley. He's a man my age. Has brown hair. White,” he stumbled. “Ah, British, of course.”
Gunn smirked at his discomfort. “Yeah, English like you. Alright. Right now you’ve basically only just described yourself, ya know?”
A stuttering, bumbling Brit actually made him feel nostalgic. Made him remember the good times of his friendship with Wesley before it all went to shit there near the end.
“Yeah,” the other many sighed, smiled fleetingly and put a hand through his already scruffy dark hair (which was really more black then brown he conceded mentally. But as far as descriptions go, that one the other man had given still really sucked). Gunn’s eyes caught an odd shape scar on his forehead before his hair flopped back down to cover it again.
“Have you seen him, though? There was ah – a lot of things that happened where I come from and some people had to, well, go away for awhile. It was my fault, in a way,” he grimaced and pushed up his glasses harshly. “And now that it’s over, I’m trying to find some of them. Let them know they can come back if they want to.”
“No one by that name,” Gunn shook his head – he could definitely see the huge gaps in the man’s story (and hear the weariness and that sorta hero-guilt thing that reminded him of Angel). It wasn’t like he hadn’t been in the business of talking around things before.
“But,” he added at the man’s look of disappointment, “a lot of folk around here aren’t exactly going by their God-given names, if you know what I mean. Especially
if they're runnin’ from something,” he added.
His eyes lit up hopefully and Gunn sighed knowing he would have to help this man. Between the echoes of who Wes used to be before he spiraled down and the whole old ‘Help the Helpless’ vibe he was getting….
“You gotta picture?” he asked. Gunn already had an idea in his head anyway of who it was – there weren’t really too many super posh English dudes in L.A. that hung around homeless shelters.
The man dug around in a small satchel that was slung over his shoulder and his arm seemed to go much deeper than it should, like it was a Mary Poppin’s bag or something. Fred had been fascinated by the idea of that – she had talked to him late into the night more than once about creating something that stretched the laws of physics. Was bigger on the inside than the outside (“Like the TARDIS!” she had giggled. And he had just smiled at her and made interested noises as her ramblings got more and more scientifically complicated between yawns).
As if summoned by his thoughts Illyria was suddenly there, striding into the room looking like Fred. She stood very close behind him, not at all worried about personal space (he was to used to this by now to even be bothered by it either) and stared over his shoulder at the other man still searching his bag which, form the noises it was making, seemed to be very full.
After a moment she leaned in a bit more to whisper in his ear, “He contains magic.”
Gunn was actually first just damn happy to note that she was whispering. Hadn’t stated it blatantly and loudly. There had been many many talks all of them had tried to have with her about discretion and subterfuge, and apparently they were starting to take.
She leaned back and walked around him to stand in front of the Brit. “You contain magic,” she stated to the startled man in an utter monotone.
Or maybe not.
Green eyes darted up in surprise and panic while his entire arm was still inside a bag that looked like it should only be able to contain a woman’s powder stuff – make up. Shit. Now he missed Cordelia. She would have known exactly what he was going for there, would have made fun of him for trying to use it so badly as his example and failing. Then she would have schooled him in much more detail than he would have ever wanted to know about women’s beauty products.
Illyria glanced over her shoulder (blue eyes the only concession to using this form but an odd comfort not to see warm brown, hers were such a distinct difference from Fred’s) at him.
“I can smell the grief on you – that is unacceptable. There is a threat to deal with,” she demanded.
Gunn sighed, he knew that this was just her being protective in her own way. She seemed to constantly trail all of them (Spike and him most of all). But she always appeared when she sensed a threat of some sort.
Illyria refused to lose anyone else.
He wasn’t immortal like the others though, and Gunn wondered how she would handle him dying of old age if he ever got there. With how he lived – had lived his whole life - he sincerely doubted that would have to be something the Old One would have to bother her little blue head with.
“Lyri, he’s here to find someone. We help people who like to get their ‘ole hocus-pocus on, too,” he reminded her.
She cocked her head in a totally alien movement made more so in a body looking so human at the moment. Her eyes fluttered closed and she murmured, barely a whisper: “We help the helpless.”
“Yeah,” he said carefully.
Her eyes popped back open and she stared at him for a long moment, electric blue eyes boring into him and he could practically feel the stranger’s green eyes looking at him in total confusion as well.
“Very well,” she finally conceded and left again her sundress flowing behind her.
“So,” Gunn clapped his hands breaking the tension and causing the other man to startle. “Picture?”