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11 October 2006 @ 08:48 pm
 

Just like Willow threatened, I wake up the day after the murder with a lousy cold taking up residence in my head, tickling at the back of my throat and making my skull ache when I finally manage to open my eyes. Ain’t that just perfect? Serves me right for walking all the way back to the office soaked to the skin, instead of flagging a hack when I had the chance. Just like the penny-pinching nobody that I used to be. I’ll never learn.

There are a couple long minutes where I can’t make myself throw off the blanket quite yet and I find myself just staring up at the ceiling, trying my best to will away the chills. Somehow, I wind up thinking about Callaghan instead. Who’d he pay off around here to get it so damn good? Great job, perfect little Liam Junior fixing to follow in his daddy’s footsteps, and a loving wife to make him chicken soup and fluff his pillow when he gets laid up with a head cold from hell.

The thought of the Darla that I used to know whipping up chicken soup for anybody makes me chuckle and I force myself to roll out of bed, laughter turning into a fit of coughing as my feet hit the cold floor. It’s only the dread of what Lilah will have turned out for the front page of today’s paper that keeps me from heading right back to bed and letting somebody else deal with this case.

Coffee hot enough to scald my mouth wrestles the cough into submission, but the unexpected loneliness stays with me a little longer. Hell, maybe I should look into settling down one of these days. Two against the world instead of just one, a nice little family like I had before the Crash…

When the image of Miss Chase drifts into my thoughts, I know that I’m delirious. A high-class dame with dreams as big as her smile? She’s not the marrying type. Not yet anyway. Putting the idea out of my head, I make myself decent for a visit to the Pryce office, making sure to steer clear of awning on the way over. Seein’ as they’ve got it in for me these days.

I slip into the office a couple minutes later, not bothering to knock. Cordelia’s not in until Monday… and if I just happened to take a glance at their current files for activity on this case, I might save myself a bit of money. Two steps past the threshold, I sneeze loudly before I can stop myself and thwart that plan entirely. Some graceful entrance that was, Slick.


[Knock-knock, Pryce.]
 
 
Current Mood: sicksick
 
 
 
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on October 12th, 2006 10:02 pm (UTC)
Going out with Cordelia had been…. Strange, but… and I have a hard time admitting this, fun. We went to some jazz club where they had not so loud music and the place wasn’t infested in the smoke of cigarette’s. She even convinced me to dance, once, and luckily that had been a slow ballroom kind of dance. I really don’t know any others. They look very strange anyway, more like they’re doing some kind of war dance, or a rain dance.

I came home much to late, much to my dismay, that also meant I nearly overslept. Alright, I overslept. Luckily, Cordy wouldn’t be in until much later, and William was never in early. Willow had classes, so the only one who’d know was…well me. I picked up some of that dreadful coffee under way, parked the car and rushed into the office. The streets were still wet and it looked at if more rain was going to come down today.

Bloody lovely. It reminded me a little bit to much of England, days like these.

The free hours I had before Cordelia showed up I used to righting those files. Again. Would it kill the woman to use the normal alphabet everyone else uses? Good lord. I has just slipped behind my desk with my cup of tea when the door opened. A glance at my watch revealed it couldn’t be William, I doubt it was Cordelia, unless she has taken up sneezing like a packhorse. Sliding from behind my desk, cup of tea in hand, I walked to the front and leaned again the doorjamb. Ah. Our neighborhood lawyer.

“My goodness, McDonald. You look like the buggering crap.”
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on October 13th, 2006 02:37 am (UTC)
I fumble for my handkerchief, cursing the rain under my breath and blowing my nose. Swell thing Cordelia isn't around today. This isn't one of my finer moments. Which Wesley Pryce is all too eager to point out, leaning in the doorway with a mug and a barely veiled expression of amusement.

"Cut the sweet talk," I grumble, shoving my handkerchief back into my pocket. "It'll go straight to my head."

I glance around the place, comforted to see that I've still got the nicer office. I've got lackeys that know their place, and fetch my jacket when I tell them to, and don't leave dog-eared Nancy Drew novels on their desks. Pryce Agency has... what? The smell of Cordelia's particular perfume hanging in the air and a couple wilting plants on the windowsill? (So why does it seem like I spend more time over here than I do at my own office?)

"I'm here on business," I assure him. "Bad business." Another sneeze threatens and I fight it back, knowing I must look ridiculous. Damn rain. "What kind of place is this? You gonna invite a potential customer in, or do I have to pay for that too?" Not waiting for his response, I shoulder past him into his office, in no mood for the usual run-around that I get from this bunch.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on October 13th, 2006 09:58 pm (UTC)
“Yes,” I remark dryly as I push myself a way from the door and walk back into the office. “No doubt it will. There’s plenty of room for such up there.” Biting my lip at his expression of thunder as he pushes past me, I quickly move back to my desk and wonder if I should lay off the teasing for today. He really does look as though he should be in bed and tucked away warmly.

Automatically getting out a second mug, I pour some tea for him as well and put in some honey from the jar. Willow likes it with honey, but it’s good for colds too. Alright, well, good for sore throats. He looks at though he has one. Good fortune, maybe he’ll talk less then and get to the point without the constant dancing around it.

“Is there ever any other kind of business you come here for?” I ask, sitting down in my chair and looking at him through narrowed eyes. Oh my, someone is in a grumpy mood today. He’s lucky Cordelia is not around. Or William for that matter. “You never write, you never call and when you come by, you get all grumpy.”

Letting out a mock sigh, I point to the chair but have to pause to look at the numerous amount of funny faces he’s able to pull off to keep from sneezing. “Americans,” I scoff, “you lot really aren’t used to anything are you? Drink your tea like a good little boy, McDonald. And then you can tell me what business you’re here for.”
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on October 14th, 2006 04:03 am (UTC)
You know, I'm pretty sure I just got insulted. But I don't have the energy to do much more than sniff grumpily and will some germs in his general direction as he retreats to the safety of his desk. And then he goes and fixes me a cup of tea. Well, that's something new. Either I've reached a whole new level of 'pitiful' or (be still my heart) Cordelia's put in a good word for me.

I take the warm mug with a grateful nod and a mumbled thank you, inhaling the sweet steam and settling back in my chair as Wesley exercises his wit. "Lonely, Pryce? Ought to swing by Caritas sometime. Plenty of friendly faces 'round there." For a man of his means, there's no reason for him to feel lonely in a city like this. Even if what you find in the clubs and speak easys ain't exactly romance and forever after.

I glower at his condescending tone and bristle outright at the 'good little boy' crack. The guy knows how to push my buttons. "I'm looking to buy your brains, old man," I shoot back. "You know somebody clipped a librarian the night before last, and I can't get make heads or tails of it. No motive, no leads..." (And Callaghan and Morgan have their damn paws all over my case.) "Your girl Willow said you were the guy to talk to. Said you had a hunch."

Alright, so she didn't say exactly that, but it'll get him talking. He's not the only one around here who knows how to push buttons. "I'm willing to pay good money for hunches," I add lightly, "If they turn out to be worth anything."
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on October 14th, 2006 11:49 pm (UTC)
“Caritas? No thank you. I’d rather take my chances with Cordelia and jazz clubs. They turn out to be much more fun,” I tell him when he tries to get a dig in. Which is so much below his usual standards, I’m almost feeling sorry for him. Almost. If Willow were here, she’s probably be fawning all over the poor boy and giving me pissy looks for daring to tease her hero.

Seriously. I do not know what she sees in the fellow.

“Why?” I ask, when he tells me he’s here to buy my brain. “Has yours finally giving up on the pretence then?” Oh this is to easy and really no fun. It’s much more amusing when he’s actually a challenge. Poor man should be at home and tucked into bed. Alright, maybe I should lay off the teasing till then. I mean, till he’s better.

Wait. *My* girl, Willow? “When did you see Miss Rosenberg?” I ask hotly, sitting straighter in my chair. If the bastard has used the poor girls crush on him to squeeze some information out of her I’m going to get very cross. “And I do not have any hunches,” I lie, “since I’m not working on that particular case. I only happen to be in the neighborhood when the body was found. Furthermore, I’d rather you not ‘pump’ Miss Rosenberg for anything.”
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on October 15th, 2006 05:22 am (UTC)
I pause with the mug halfway to my mouth and do a lousy job of masking my jealousy when he mentions hitting the clubs with Cordelia. I do make a mental note of that though. Next time she tries her 'it's not really my scene' line on me, I'll be armed. Oh yes, I will.

"You'll never make it to Vaudeville if you keep going for the easy jokes," I mutter into my tea. But the hot liquid does wonders on my throat, so I'll forgive him his fun. This time.

He gets dead serious and amusingly overprotective at the mention of Willow though. Honestly, does he think I've got bad intentions towards the girl? Hell, it'd be Spike I'd worry about keeping on a nice short leash around the ladies if I were Wesley. "Miss Rosenberg," I amend, imitating him, "didn't tell you who bought you boys your coffee yesterday? She didn't tell you who escorted her through these dangerous streets when you sent her out all on her lonesome?" I press my hand to my heart and shake my head like I really am cut to the quick.

Dropping the melodramatics before he loses patience with me, I shoot him an amused look at his choice of wording. "Don't go jealous on me now, Pryce. You're the only one I'm pumping." I reach for my wallet and hold it up like a promise. "And I think you're just looking for an excuse to get your teeth into this case. So let me give you one."
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce: Wes b/w (remember_nomore)_wes_pryce_ on October 15th, 2006 08:17 pm (UTC)
“And yet, you keep making it so easy for me to do so,” I observe amused, hiding a grin behind my cup. Alright, I shouldn’t tease when he’s, but it’s an automatic response that’s out of my mouth before I can help it. He just brings that out in me without even trying. That has to be a special talent. Wonder if he has that effect on everyone.

Certainly not on Willow, I realize as I watch him through narrowed eyes. He’d better stay far, far away from her. The girl is to naïve and sweet for her own good. And that crush she has on him isn’t helping in the slightest.

My eyebrows raise in a very un-amused way when he imitates me. Badly. He really ought not give up his day job yet to become an entertainer. Of course then he has to go all Drama Queen on me and I roll my eyes. “We are actually busy in this firm,” I tell him snippily, “we don’t have time for idle chit chat every five minutes.” Well, if he bought the coffee and then donuts, that would explain why the money was put back in the petty cash. I had been wondering about that.

Of course then he nearly has me choking on my tea and I wonder if he realizes how double *that* little remark sound. Giving him an incredulous look over my tea, I narrow my eyes and suddenly see him in a whole different light. Couldn’t be. No, no, not the way he’s constantly trying to get Cordelia to give him the light of day. No way. No, I’m certain it was a wrong way to phrase things. Painfully, embarrassingly wrong.

“Are you saying you wish to hire us to work on this case?” I ask one I have myself under control again. “What exactly do you wish for us to find out? Aside from whom killed this poor woman. Or would that be enough for you, which I doubt if you need legal facts and details to win any case.”
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on October 19th, 2006 02:35 am (UTC)
His hackles go up when he thinks that I'm implying something about his precious agency's clientele... or lack thereof. Business is tough all around these days, what with most people just clamoring back to their financial feet, so I don't blame him for getting a little uppity about it. What sells these days seems to be confidence, and how confident can a guy be with some big-mouth lawyer hanging around pointing out that the Emperor's in his birthday suit?

He pulls a face or two at my remark (Yeah, I know how it sounded, bo. You said it first...) before getting back to the topic at hand.

"Sounds like it," I agree. He doesn't jump on the idea of payment right off the bat, either exercising some serious British self-control or else worried about what I'm going to ask him to do. Come on. Would I drag them into a messy deal just because I needed a sleuth that I could trust to come through? Just because things have turned out less-than-pristine a time or two in the past...

"Your confidence in my swindling warms my heart, Pryce," I tell him, smug smile giving way to a minor coughing fit that about ends up with my tea in my lap. I haven't got the breath for this banter today. Pity. Some days I think it's the tag-team efforts of the Pryce brothers and Miss Chase that keep me sharp for the courtroom.

"A 'who' would be top rate," I assure him hoarsely, once I've caught my breath. "It's the 'why' that's got me stumped. Lilah Morgan's going to take the drug angle... she tried planting some mesca on the body at the scene before Callaghan got wise on her. But I can't figure it out." It physically pains me to admit that I need their help... or maybe that's the cold... but this is one case where I may not be able to bluff my way to a verdict. "That's where you come in, if you're ready to deal."
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce: Wes Glare_wes_pryce_ on October 21st, 2006 04:50 pm (UTC)
My confidence in him would be slightly… no, a lot more if it weren’t for some ‘mishaps’ which have this habit of following him around everywhere. Or maybe it’s just when he hires me, I’m not sure. I am sure that the combination of putting McDonald here and my brother on the same case, or even working marginally together is a bad idea. A very bad idea, it leads to nothing but trouble, guarantied.

A smug smile is aimed my way with his words and my eyebrows raise in a for him by now very familiar way. And once again I find myself hiding behind my cup of tea when he isn’t even capable of pulling of the smug look today without coughing and snottering and sneezing. I certainly hope he has no court appointments today, or he’ll be blown over by the law. Unless, of course, he uses the poor ickle me look to win cases.

Wouldn’t put it past him. But well, if you have it, use it, that’s what my….father always said. Right, never mind that then.

“Did she now?” Typical of that woman. Anything to get some exciting story. “From what I’ve seen this woman didn’t look like someone who’d use drugs,” I observed, eyes narrowing as I think back to the scene I’d seen at the library. No, that woman wasn’t a drug abuser. But I have to wonder just how far off Miss Morgan had been when planting that. Or would have been.

Brining the tea back to my lips, I keep playing it over in my mind from the moment I entered until I left again. Only to have the cup freeze halfway up to my lips. “Did you just say that you can’t figure it out?” I can’t help but mention gleefully. Usually when he comes to us, he has some suspects. And if McDonald has nothing to go on, then I have very little doubt our good detective Callaghan I’ve seen on the case hasn’t either. Not that either of them would ever admit it, but those two really think alike remarkably at times.

“How about you telling me what you’ve found out thus far,” I ask, putting my tea down and picking up pen and paper. If he’s here and sounding that desperate - aside from the flu - it can’t have been much.
Lindsey McDonald: Thinking prettyrogue_lawyer on October 23rd, 2006 02:38 am (UTC)
He takes the bait when I mention Morgan... well, maybe he doesn't 'take the bait', but the unwavering look of complete disinterest that I've received from him so far fades a little in the wake of some mild curiosity. I'll take what progress I can get.

Of course, he has to go and cheerfully rub my nose in the fact that I've gotten myself absolutely nowhere with this case on my own, despite my very best dastardly attempts to manipulate Willow a smidge. "Yeah, yeah," I mutter, setting down my empty cup and bracing my boot against the side of his desk, just to see if he's in a snippy mood. "Rare occasion. Better get your kicks in while you can."

But he gets down to business quick enough, asking me what I know. Which is almost nothing, unfortunately. He's fixing to hurt himself if he gets any more smug. "I saw what you saw, Wesley. One shot, right in the pump. I figure she didn't struggle. If they were fighting, it wouldn't have been so clean. Maybe it was somebody she knew..."

The Pryce brothers may be aggravating as all hell when a guy isn't in the moods for games, but they get the job done and (aside from the presence of Miss Chase) that's got to be the reason that I find myself over here time and time again. You start bouncing ideas off Brainy here and before you know it, you've got yourself a motive.

"I've talked to the family, but they aren't giving me much. Just saying that she shouldn't have been working alone at night" I pause, mulling over the facts as Wesley's pen scratches across his notepad. "I promised them we'd find the creep who did this and put 'em behind bars, but it's the library they want strung up. Like they knew she was in trouble before it happened, knew she needed to be protected. There's something about this job that just doesn't jive..."

I glance over at him as I trail off, reassured to see him with his thinking-face on. "This is the part where you stop making fun of me and start working your magic," I remind him with a grim smile. I may be stumped, but I'm still working with the best this town has to offer. This case won't go unsolved.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on October 23rd, 2006 11:26 am (UTC)
My eyes pointedly move to the boots he puts against the desk. Wet, mud tracking shoes. It’s bad enough he doesn’t know how to wipe them on the doormat - barbarian really, just like William, it’s a generation thing I’m sure of it - now he has to ruin my furniture with it as well. Oh how I wish Cordelia was here right now. He’d have gotten an earful since she hates the place untidy and muddy.

I aim a very stern and not fond look his way when he doesn’t move those damn feet for a moment. Of course he’s already moved onto the whole case and is blathering about what he didn’t see. Now if only I could have a look at the files the good detective has on this case and some more inside information. I suppose I could as… Mickey, about that. Callaghan’s men are loyal to the bone, but they all need a little on the side at times. And the information I ask is never jeopardizing the case.

“Hmmm,” I mumble, narrowing my eyes at the boots still not where they should be. “There is no such thing as magic, McDonald,” I scold him, “only facts and these aren’t many facts to go on. No signs of a struggle, so either she was taken fully by surprise or she knew whomever did this to her…” And was probably still taken by surprise. Either way, she’d not gone there with the thought that she might get killed. “First thing we need to find out is why she was there so early, from what I could see of the body she’d been dead for several hours and I was there only seconds after the library opened.”

Interesting. Why would anyone let a woman work alone at night? No, I don’t think she was there the whole night, just exceptionally early. I wonder if there are any signs of breaking and entering, because if not then either the murderer was already there, so she’s let him or her into the building. And there is also the question of…

“Pardon?” I blink myself out of my thoughts and look up at him, “Jive? What does a dance have to do with this?” I swear, sometimes these Americans are talking an entirely different language then English.
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on October 25th, 2006 04:06 am (UTC)
I get a disapproving stare when my dirty boots touch his precious desk, but he's obviously in a patient mood tonight and that's a very good sign for yours truly. I mean, he didn't even call me an uncivilized git like the last time that I used the boot-trick to judge his temper. I wait for the look to shift almost impercetibly from disapproving to slightly murderous before I pull them away with a not-quite-apologetic smile. (I'd feel worse if I didn't intend to pay him so damn much for his help with this...)

He calmly insists that there's no such thing as magic, right before he starts working it. I settle back and leave him to his musing, stifling a scoff when he mentions that he was at the library just as soon as they opened the doors. Incurable book-worm, this one. Don't know why Cordelia wastes her energy trying to force a social life on the guy.

He's distracted by a figure of speech and I roll my eyes, flapping a hand at him to forget it. "Spike will explain it later if you ask nice," I tell him. "You just keep doing what you're good at." But his train of thought has long since left the station and I can tell he's just barely repressing one of his 'bloody Americans' rants.

"What about the family?" I suggest, trying to get him back on track. "Sometimes it's the people yellin' the loudest for blood that did the deed. Or knew that she was in some sort of trouble anyway. I could talk to them again, as suspects this time." Not that I'd tell them that, of course. I'd be risking a nice fat paycheck if my clients had any idea that I put them on the list of suspects. "If you think it's a good idea, of course," I tack on with a charming smile. I'm just scrambling to come up with a lead before the family gets antsy... or Callaghan swoops in to break the case, the smug bastard. If Wesley's got a better idea, I'm all for it.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on October 25th, 2006 09:17 am (UTC)
William, will do no such thing. You people only talk in that code around me to annoy me aren’t you?” William does exactly the same, which is why he wont be explaining anything to me. As if I’d want to spend another afternoon get laughed at, called old man and then have other words explained to me in detail. And I do wish William wouldn’t insist on people calling him ‘Spike’. It’s just not proper. I mean, even Willow does it. Of course everyone calling him William gets the look of murder if not a fist in the face.

Except I, of course.

“There’s nothing wrong with the English language, it works fine as it is. So I fail to see why you Americans find it so bloody needed to taint the Queens English with words that make no sense what so ever, are completely irrelevant and… what about the family?” What? Family? Oh! The victims family. Well, they’re always suspicious by default, no doubt our good detective has looked in on them.

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I tell him dryly, “Since I had no idea she even had family until you mentioned the. So if you an give me any kind of information you have on her family, then I’d be much helped. I’m sure you’ve already compiled a file of useful facts I can have?” When it comes to that, he’s very thorough. Even if he does look like the cold got the better of him and he should be at home in bed.
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on October 29th, 2006 03:19 am (UTC)
"Alright, you got me," I tell him with a grin. "American English is just a big ol' conspiracy to make you squirm, Pryce. And it's working, isn't it?" I raise my eyebrows at him, just barely resisting the urge to stick out my tongue too. What is it about him that makes me want to act about twelve just to make him sigh like that? Spike's never been this much fun to tease.

Of course, he joins the acting-like-a-twelve-year-old club when he sulks that he hadn't been let in on my first meeting with the victim's family. "What? You never heard of client confidentiality?" I ask primly. 'Course, that's when I have to stifle another round of lung-busting coughs, taking the wind right out of my sails.

Damn. Best case I've had all year and of course it has to come just when I'm fixing to get laid up with the chills.

Getting myself back under control and refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me look sheepish about this ridiculous situation, I reach into my jacket, pulling out an envelope and sliding it across the desk to him. "Names, occupations, general impressions from yours truly. I got the boys at the office looking for criminal records." I fix him with a deliberate smile. "Goes without saying that you and Spike don't approach any of them without asking me first. Even if one of 'em is the shooter, I still intend to get paid for this job."
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on October 30th, 2006 06:39 pm (UTC)
Sometimes I wonder if Lindsey McDonald actually graduated any university or if he just went on from kindergarten. Really now, how old is he again? I give him a dry look and quirk my eyebrow at him to let him know that ‘we are not amused’. At all. And if he keeps this up, I’m giving the case to William and then see how he likes that. Both of them actually, they can bicker about Cordelia.

Who went out with me, I can’t help but think smugly, and not them. My smugness is short lived when I recall that my going out with her was actually more of a charity case on her side. Despite her protestations.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say when he makes a dig about client confidentiality. “I meant your assumption that I know everything already, when in fact, I know nothing because I’d not been there for any kind of meeting, clue searching or facts finding. Really, McDonald, are you sure you should be working with that cold?” Five. I think he’s about five today.

After he sniffles a lot he then continues to lay down the law, just as with any case. And just as with any other case I just look at him sharply. “It goes without saying,” I shoot back, “That you don’t tell me how to do my job. If I feel the need to ask any of them questions I will do so. You, by now, should know I will be discreet,” which is more then one can say about a lot of other wankers around here. “If you start putting restrictions on me now, you can take your case and move it elsewhere, I want full freedom to work.”

Why is it we have this negotiation every bloody time? He puts down his law, I overrule it, and then we compromise. It’s getting boring, we should come up with another game.
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on November 9th, 2006 03:32 am (UTC)
I don't know if he's honestly concerned for my health or just being his usual patronizing self when he inquires about my cold. "You think I'd let Callaghan and Morgan have all the fun just because they didn't get rained on?" I mutter. And alright, I may not be at my most logical at the moment, but does he have to look at me with the patented 'Oh, you poor, poor idiot' face?

Of course, any misguided sense of pity that he'd been working his way towards is dropped like a hot potato when I lay down the rules. My head is swimming (Oh Jesus, don't let it be a fever...) and I struggle to keep up with his rationalization. He'll follow my rules, just so long as we pretend he's following them because he wants to. Got it. I think.

I wave my hand at him mildly, getting to my feet with an effort that makes every damn muscle ache. "You're the boss," I tell him. "I'm not taking my business anywhere else. You just work your voodoo, Pryce... right, sorry, no such thing as magic... and I'm a happy customer."

I'll head over to my office, tell the girls to hold my calls and see how long I can get away with napping at my desk. Hell, maybe I'll just head back to bed...

"Give Miss Chase my best," I add, knowing he'll do no such thing. "Hope her audition went well." Eying the long distance between his office and the front door of the building, I hesitate, knowing that hell will have to freeze over before Wesley lets me hang around this joint any longer than necessary. The image of a gloating Lilah Morgan in my mind's eye, I straighten up and start walking.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce_wes_pryce_ on November 9th, 2006 07:30 pm (UTC)
I’m the boss? That easy? Oh my, he really must be feeling bloody awful. I didn’t even get to threaten with the usual ‘keep this up and I’m giving William the case’, much further nor am I allowed to take on any other angle when it comes to teasing McDonald. Which is really a pity because he’s extremely easy today.

Even if he does give it a good try with the voodoo remark. Its’ so pathetic however that I don’t have the heart to make a snide comment back as he struggles out of his chair and onto his very wobbly feet. Hell, even if Cordelia was here she’d feel sorry for the chap. Well, not that she’d show it, but she would. I know Cordelia and I will most certainly not give her his regards or his anything for that matter.

It’s a good thing Willow isn’t here because she would’ve kept the McDonald here, fed him hot tea and the likes and ordered him to lay down on the sofa in my bloody office. Women, they seriously confuse me sometimes. “Right well,” I sigh, getting up from behind my desk like a good little host. “I’ll let you know if there are any lead on the case and what I may find out…” My voice trails of as I watch him stagger toward the door with what I think is a common cold, or the flu.

Cordelia would only be to happy to point out how much of a man he is right now, acting as though he’s dying when he only has the flu. However. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call a cab?” I ask, giving him a dubious look that clearly states how much I think of his ability to even make it back to his office. “To get you home, you look as though you’re about to keel over, McDonald.”
Lindsey McDonald: Playback - Slickrogue_lawyer on November 12th, 2006 08:27 pm (UTC)
The door is maybe five feet away and that's about four feet further than I feel like walking today, but I make it there in one piece while Wesley promises me that he'll keep me in the loop on anything he finds out. "You'd better," I warn him, no real threat behind my words. Wesley's the reliable brother. If I were dealing with Spike, I would've taken the time to extract a tighter promise than that.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call a cab?” he offers after a moment. Damn, do I really look that bad? Maybe I should just head home after all. But my pride overrules my better judgment, and that's nothing new.

"As touching as your concern for my well-being is, Pryce, I'm sure I'll live to annoy you another day," I shoot back with a grin. Hacks are expensive and Cordelia would never give me the time of day again if she knew Wesley was throwing around dough for my sake. So I pause at the threshold with my hand on the door frame, trying to think up a parting shot so that it's not blatantly obvious that I have to catch my breath before going any further.

"If you come up with anything, ring me at the office," I tell him instead, collecting myself and starting out towards the street. At least it's not raining today.