FIC - Could You Please Hold?
title: Could You Please Hold?
pairing: none. Features Spike, Angel and Harmony
rating: R for language
a/n: This is an expansion on my drabble for this week’s open_on_Sunday prompt.
summary: Harmony hates Monday.
The phones don’t stop. Stupid stupid stupid Monday, crazy demon clients who’d thought of all kinds of urgent matters over the weekend that “must be discussed right away” or “needs immediate handling”. They were all so…what’s that thing that Angel always says about Spike? Sufferers. Insuffers? Insufferable! Yes! Whatever that is, that’s what these incessant callers are. No care for a poor overworked secretary - no, executive assistant to the C.E.O - who’s just doing the best she can to keep up after spending the entire weekend tirelessly volunteering at a soup kitchen (or partying at bars) and not getting nearly enough rest.
“Wolfram and Hart, could you please hold?”
Patiently waiting for the caller to agree before actually placing them on hold was the rule, and she thought if she had to do it once more she might use the handle to her earpiece to stab someone to death, or possibly just grab a random staff member walking past and drain them completely dry right there in front of the big boss’ office.
And the faxes. Invoices. Dictation requests. Messages. They pile up faster than she can count them.
Spike begins to saunter past her desk, but of course, on this occasion when she’s not just surfing the net for the next great party planned at her favorite club or making an appointment to have her hair and nails done, he decides to stop for a chat.
And she can’t resist. She just never can. Not that she’s ever really tried before. It would be useless effort anyway, Spike is like a damn magnet. She doesn’t want to be with him like that anymore, it’s something long gone, not forgotten, but no longer something she’s interested in. Especially since she knows (And seriously? Does he think she doesn’t know? Everybody knows.) that no matter how he might flirt or make off-color comments or pretend to leer suggestively at every woman he encounters, Spike’s heart belongs to someone already. None of his I’m Mr. Macho-Vampire-Dude act is going to convince anyone of anything, because the faraway look he gets in his eyes when he sees his love and thinks no one is watching is a dead giveaway. Undead giveaway (heee, she’s so clever and witty).
So she lets the calls sit and ring back over and over while they’re on hold for a minute or two and returns his flirty looks and saucy comments. But reality kicks back in, and she’s got to get this Chaos demon on the phone with someone, anyone, in the acquisitions department, and there’s dictation piling up in her email that Angel needs done, like, half an hour ago.
“Move along, Spikey, find another pretty girl to molest, you big faker. I’ve got people hopping mad for having been put on hold while I sit here chatting with you. My job is important, you know?”
“Oh, all right, love, go on back to your typing and your special “I’m answering the phone at work” voice. Lots of pretty girls to…”
“Thank you for holding, how may I help you?”
“Oi, who you calling a faker? I don’t fake-molest anyone. I mean, I don’t…”, Spike finishes his sentence with a hearty British two-fingered salute as she shoos him away with her own decidedly American one-fingered salute.
It’s like this every week. Harmony fucking hates Monday.
pairing: none. Features Spike, Angel and Harmony
rating: R for language
a/n: This is an expansion on my drabble for this week’s open_on_Sunday prompt.
summary: Harmony hates Monday.
The phones don’t stop. Stupid stupid stupid Monday, crazy demon clients who’d thought of all kinds of urgent matters over the weekend that “must be discussed right away” or “needs immediate handling”. They were all so…what’s that thing that Angel always says about Spike? Sufferers. Insuffers? Insufferable! Yes! Whatever that is, that’s what these incessant callers are. No care for a poor overworked secretary - no, executive assistant to the C.E.O - who’s just doing the best she can to keep up after spending the entire weekend tirelessly volunteering at a soup kitchen (or partying at bars) and not getting nearly enough rest.
“Wolfram and Hart, could you please hold?”
Patiently waiting for the caller to agree before actually placing them on hold was the rule, and she thought if she had to do it once more she might use the handle to her earpiece to stab someone to death, or possibly just grab a random staff member walking past and drain them completely dry right there in front of the big boss’ office.
And the faxes. Invoices. Dictation requests. Messages. They pile up faster than she can count them.
Spike begins to saunter past her desk, but of course, on this occasion when she’s not just surfing the net for the next great party planned at her favorite club or making an appointment to have her hair and nails done, he decides to stop for a chat.
And she can’t resist. She just never can. Not that she’s ever really tried before. It would be useless effort anyway, Spike is like a damn magnet. She doesn’t want to be with him like that anymore, it’s something long gone, not forgotten, but no longer something she’s interested in. Especially since she knows (And seriously? Does he think she doesn’t know? Everybody knows.) that no matter how he might flirt or make off-color comments or pretend to leer suggestively at every woman he encounters, Spike’s heart belongs to someone already. None of his I’m Mr. Macho-Vampire-Dude act is going to convince anyone of anything, because the faraway look he gets in his eyes when he sees his love and thinks no one is watching is a dead giveaway. Undead giveaway (heee, she’s so clever and witty).
So she lets the calls sit and ring back over and over while they’re on hold for a minute or two and returns his flirty looks and saucy comments. But reality kicks back in, and she’s got to get this Chaos demon on the phone with someone, anyone, in the acquisitions department, and there’s dictation piling up in her email that Angel needs done, like, half an hour ago.
“Move along, Spikey, find another pretty girl to molest, you big faker. I’ve got people hopping mad for having been put on hold while I sit here chatting with you. My job is important, you know?”
“Oh, all right, love, go on back to your typing and your special “I’m answering the phone at work” voice. Lots of pretty girls to…”
“Thank you for holding, how may I help you?”
“Oi, who you calling a faker? I don’t fake-molest anyone. I mean, I don’t…”, Spike finishes his sentence with a hearty British two-fingered salute as she shoos him away with her own decidedly American one-fingered salute.
It’s like this every week. Harmony fucking hates Monday.