-------------------------
Summary: After a typical battle with a typical demon, a casual remark Angel makes sets Cordelia to thinking and things are revealed.
Disclaimer: The usual.
Notes: I originally had a bit more planned to this story, but decided to leave it open to your interpretation. My beta said it had "interesting subtext and delicious undertones" which means what, exactly? She assured me it's a good thing. You decide if she's right.
Feedback: Despite Nikki's reassurances, I'm still a little shaky on this one.
-------------------------
1 Reassurance
Cordelia lay still and unmoving in the stagnant water of what had been the demon Gerishain's sacrificial altar. Still . . . and unmoving.
Angel's first response was a rush of panic, and he stumbled over to her side and took her cold hand in his to feel for a pulse. When he felt the steady, rhythmical throb, he could barely mask his relief.
He saw no apparent cuts or bruises on her, save the three shallow grooves on her upper arm that had been caused when Gerishain had not-so-gently shoved her aside as she ran to Angel's aid. They were not serious wounds, and Angel for the moment was more concerned about her unconscious state.
He slipped one arm under her knees and the other carefully beneath her head and lifted her out of the pool. Then, being careful not to jostle her, he carried her to his car and drove home.
* * *
Cordelia coughed, and the last remnants of the altar water flowed out of her mouth and spilled over into her shirt. She blinked her eyes once, twice, before opening them fully and looking around to see where she was. She was in Angel's apartment, still dressed in the sopping wet Hilfiger ensemble she had chosen to wear to the battle, which she realized wryly was a mistake, considering it was now stained with some sort of . . . goo . . . and quite possibly ruined. She sighed mentally and looked around for the vampire.
"How are you feeling?"
She turned her head in the direction it came from. "A little out of breath, but no lasting side effects, I don't think."
"You had me worried." Angel stepped into the light and she took in his slightly-less-than-impassive face and the clothes that were still damp around the ankles from having stepped into the pool to carry her out. He did not wear a shirt â€" presumably it was drying somewhere. She gave him a brief but sincere smile.
"Oh, thanks, by the way. You know, for saving my life." Her lips twitched slightly. "Again."
"No problem," he said, returning her smile. "I'm sure you'd do the same for me."
"Of course." Her eyes clouded over for a moment at some thought.
"Do you want anything? Some coffee? Tea?"
She tugged at the shirt still sticking to her skin. "How about a hot shower and some clean clothes?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Go right ahead. You know where the bathroom is. There's a robe behind the door. I'll toss your clothes in the washer with mine. The stains should wash out, but I'm not sure."
"Demon slime?"
"Demon slime," he confirmed.
She shuddered, "Ick," and practically ran into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her and Angel laughed.
* * *
Cordelia stepped out of the shower, mist escaping from the stall and joining the soft fog that enveloped the room. She dried her hair with the towel Angel had thoughtfully left by the sink for her, and slipped on the robe that did, indeed, hang behind the door.
She felt infinitely better, but there was still a thought, some worry, nagging at her peace of mind.
She stepped out of the room, still toweling her hair.
"Angel?" There was no answer, so she padded over to the kitchen to see if he was there. "Ang . . ."
"I'm right here," came the voice from behind her.
She jumped. " Oh, for . . ." She turned around and punched him in the stomach. "Don't scare me like that!" She issued him a glare, but there was no real fire behind the expression. Her eyes betrayed the fondness she felt for him.
"It's your turn. I hope I didn't use up all your hot water."
"I don't mind the cold."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself."
* * *
Cordelia ran a comb idly through her long hair and thought about the events of the day. It had been a typical sort of fight with the typical kind of evil scum that they typically battled. Angel had, if not exactly saved her life, for she could not remember the extent of her plight while unconscious, had helped her out and taken care of her, as he had done many times before. Nothing special about it, really. The scratches on her arm throbbed suddenly, and she winced, momentarily distracted by the pain.
Then the intensity of her thoughts forced her back on the issue.
How many times had she saved his life, exactly? Or helped him out of a situation as he had done for her today? She knew she was not useless â€" she and Wesley did the research, and after all, she was the Seer, and hardly easily replaceable. Still, she felt uncomfortably like a burden on the few occasions she had tagged along to witness or help out with the actual killing-of-the-demon. Help out? Often times, she just got in the way.
The realization depressed her. Her hand stopped combing her hair and dropped to her side.
She thought of all the times, even back when she was a reluctant member of the Scooby Gang, that she had been used as "bait," because of her slightly less than skilled attempts at actual combat. In fact, it had been the only reason she was even with Angel today, because Gerishain had a particular weakness for brunettes. Need bait? Call Cordy. She's experienced at this sort of thing.
She recalled a particularly humiliating episode that took place pre- Homecoming of her Senior year, when she had attacked a yellow-skinned demon with . . . a cooking spatula . . . and Buffy's exasperation when she saw that it was a more suitable weapon for her than even a gun.
Oh, she wasn't exactly helpless. She was a regular visitor to the gym, and her body was well toned with muscle. She took self-defense classes, and she had been a cheerleader, plus she had learned a bit of martial arts in P.E., but . . .
But.
If she had been more capable, and not on the physical level, either, she could have fought side by side with Buffy. She was . . . a wuss.
Even the more delicate Willow and the slightly clumsy Xander had been of more use in combat than she had. She was the one who usually stood in the back and tried not to scream.
She had not changed as much she thought.
Her face burned with embarrassment, and she ran the comb through her hair furiously, paying no heed to the tearing sensation that normally would have horrified her.
When it was plucked from her hand gently, she looked up and saw Angel staring down at her in concern. "Is something wrong?"
She shook her head and evaded his gaze. "Just thinking. About stuff."
"Stuff." He was quiet for a moment. Whatever was going through his head did not appear in his expressionless face, and he finally nodded. "Okay."
He handed the comb back to her and watched as she tried in vain to get rid of the tangles in her still-wet hair. He sighed, and took the comb from her again. "Let me do it."
She said nothing, but bent forward a little to accommodate him as he took over the task. He was infinitely patient with the snarls that had so frustrated her, and she was thankful for his help. Her shoulders relaxed a little as she reveled in the new sensation of having another person brush her long and often difficult to manage hair."
You're pretty handy with that thing, Angel," she said at last.
His hand stilled. "My . . . sister . . . used to like it when I brushed her hair for her."
She bit her lip. "Well . . . looks you've still got it."
He resumed his task, combing each lock silky smooth before setting it aside. "Thank you."
There was another silence, as each became lost in their own thoughts.
"Angel . . ." she began again hesitantly, and then stopped.
He waited patiently for her to continue.
"I'm . . . I'm not . . . useless, am I?"
This being said, she rushed on before he could speak. "I mean, I know you need me cause I'm your link to the Oracles and all, but I'm not really . . . well . . . you go out and do the dirty work and usually I just sit back and . . . be all wussy . . . and when I actually come along, I always seem to get in the way . . ."
"Cordelia," he interrupted. She fell silent.He took hold of her shoulders, gently turning her around to face him. "I have fought with and against all sorts of people . . . and demons . . . before. Some of them were excellent warriors, and I respect their skill and experience, and some . . . some were not so excellent."
She looked away, but his hand took hold of her chin and forced her to look back. "Listen to me." His eyes were dark and intense, and she looked into them and saw only sincerity. Sincerity and . . .
"I would rather have you sit safely in your apartment or hang back during the battles than to ever . . . to ever know that it was my fault for not protecting you enough that . . ." He paused and drew in an unneeded breath. "The thought of you getting hurt . . . or . . . or killed . . . it terrifies me."
"It terrifies me, too," she joked, but her eyes glittered suspiciously, and the hand that moved the strand of hair away from her face trembled.
He picked up the comb and began running it through her hair again.
If his hand was a little less than steady, or if her breathing became slightly irregular, then neither of them noticed, or chose not to comment.
FIN
Summary: After a typical battle with a typical demon, a casual remark Angel makes sets Cordelia to thinking and things are revealed.
Disclaimer: The usual.
Notes: I originally had a bit more planned to this story, but decided to leave it open to your interpretation. My beta said it had "interesting subtext and delicious undertones" which means what, exactly? She assured me it's a good thing. You decide if she's right.
Feedback: Despite Nikki's reassurances, I'm still a little shaky on this one.
-------------------------
1 Reassurance
Cordelia lay still and unmoving in the stagnant water of what had been the demon Gerishain's sacrificial altar. Still . . . and unmoving.
Angel's first response was a rush of panic, and he stumbled over to her side and took her cold hand in his to feel for a pulse. When he felt the steady, rhythmical throb, he could barely mask his relief.
He saw no apparent cuts or bruises on her, save the three shallow grooves on her upper arm that had been caused when Gerishain had not-so-gently shoved her aside as she ran to Angel's aid. They were not serious wounds, and Angel for the moment was more concerned about her unconscious state.
He slipped one arm under her knees and the other carefully beneath her head and lifted her out of the pool. Then, being careful not to jostle her, he carried her to his car and drove home.
* * *
Cordelia coughed, and the last remnants of the altar water flowed out of her mouth and spilled over into her shirt. She blinked her eyes once, twice, before opening them fully and looking around to see where she was. She was in Angel's apartment, still dressed in the sopping wet Hilfiger ensemble she had chosen to wear to the battle, which she realized wryly was a mistake, considering it was now stained with some sort of . . . goo . . . and quite possibly ruined. She sighed mentally and looked around for the vampire.
"How are you feeling?"
She turned her head in the direction it came from. "A little out of breath, but no lasting side effects, I don't think."
"You had me worried." Angel stepped into the light and she took in his slightly-less-than-impassive face and the clothes that were still damp around the ankles from having stepped into the pool to carry her out. He did not wear a shirt â€" presumably it was drying somewhere. She gave him a brief but sincere smile.
"Oh, thanks, by the way. You know, for saving my life." Her lips twitched slightly. "Again."
"No problem," he said, returning her smile. "I'm sure you'd do the same for me."
"Of course." Her eyes clouded over for a moment at some thought.
"Do you want anything? Some coffee? Tea?"
She tugged at the shirt still sticking to her skin. "How about a hot shower and some clean clothes?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Go right ahead. You know where the bathroom is. There's a robe behind the door. I'll toss your clothes in the washer with mine. The stains should wash out, but I'm not sure."
"Demon slime?"
"Demon slime," he confirmed.
She shuddered, "Ick," and practically ran into the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her and Angel laughed.
* * *
Cordelia stepped out of the shower, mist escaping from the stall and joining the soft fog that enveloped the room. She dried her hair with the towel Angel had thoughtfully left by the sink for her, and slipped on the robe that did, indeed, hang behind the door.
She felt infinitely better, but there was still a thought, some worry, nagging at her peace of mind.
She stepped out of the room, still toweling her hair.
"Angel?" There was no answer, so she padded over to the kitchen to see if he was there. "Ang . . ."
"I'm right here," came the voice from behind her.
She jumped. " Oh, for . . ." She turned around and punched him in the stomach. "Don't scare me like that!" She issued him a glare, but there was no real fire behind the expression. Her eyes betrayed the fondness she felt for him.
"It's your turn. I hope I didn't use up all your hot water."
"I don't mind the cold."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself."
* * *
Cordelia ran a comb idly through her long hair and thought about the events of the day. It had been a typical sort of fight with the typical kind of evil scum that they typically battled. Angel had, if not exactly saved her life, for she could not remember the extent of her plight while unconscious, had helped her out and taken care of her, as he had done many times before. Nothing special about it, really. The scratches on her arm throbbed suddenly, and she winced, momentarily distracted by the pain.
Then the intensity of her thoughts forced her back on the issue.
How many times had she saved his life, exactly? Or helped him out of a situation as he had done for her today? She knew she was not useless â€" she and Wesley did the research, and after all, she was the Seer, and hardly easily replaceable. Still, she felt uncomfortably like a burden on the few occasions she had tagged along to witness or help out with the actual killing-of-the-demon. Help out? Often times, she just got in the way.
The realization depressed her. Her hand stopped combing her hair and dropped to her side.
She thought of all the times, even back when she was a reluctant member of the Scooby Gang, that she had been used as "bait," because of her slightly less than skilled attempts at actual combat. In fact, it had been the only reason she was even with Angel today, because Gerishain had a particular weakness for brunettes. Need bait? Call Cordy. She's experienced at this sort of thing.
She recalled a particularly humiliating episode that took place pre- Homecoming of her Senior year, when she had attacked a yellow-skinned demon with . . . a cooking spatula . . . and Buffy's exasperation when she saw that it was a more suitable weapon for her than even a gun.
Oh, she wasn't exactly helpless. She was a regular visitor to the gym, and her body was well toned with muscle. She took self-defense classes, and she had been a cheerleader, plus she had learned a bit of martial arts in P.E., but . . .
But.
If she had been more capable, and not on the physical level, either, she could have fought side by side with Buffy. She was . . . a wuss.
Even the more delicate Willow and the slightly clumsy Xander had been of more use in combat than she had. She was the one who usually stood in the back and tried not to scream.
She had not changed as much she thought.
Her face burned with embarrassment, and she ran the comb through her hair furiously, paying no heed to the tearing sensation that normally would have horrified her.
When it was plucked from her hand gently, she looked up and saw Angel staring down at her in concern. "Is something wrong?"
She shook her head and evaded his gaze. "Just thinking. About stuff."
"Stuff." He was quiet for a moment. Whatever was going through his head did not appear in his expressionless face, and he finally nodded. "Okay."
He handed the comb back to her and watched as she tried in vain to get rid of the tangles in her still-wet hair. He sighed, and took the comb from her again. "Let me do it."
She said nothing, but bent forward a little to accommodate him as he took over the task. He was infinitely patient with the snarls that had so frustrated her, and she was thankful for his help. Her shoulders relaxed a little as she reveled in the new sensation of having another person brush her long and often difficult to manage hair."
You're pretty handy with that thing, Angel," she said at last.
His hand stilled. "My . . . sister . . . used to like it when I brushed her hair for her."
She bit her lip. "Well . . . looks you've still got it."
He resumed his task, combing each lock silky smooth before setting it aside. "Thank you."
There was another silence, as each became lost in their own thoughts.
"Angel . . ." she began again hesitantly, and then stopped.
He waited patiently for her to continue.
"I'm . . . I'm not . . . useless, am I?"
This being said, she rushed on before he could speak. "I mean, I know you need me cause I'm your link to the Oracles and all, but I'm not really . . . well . . . you go out and do the dirty work and usually I just sit back and . . . be all wussy . . . and when I actually come along, I always seem to get in the way . . ."
"Cordelia," he interrupted. She fell silent.He took hold of her shoulders, gently turning her around to face him. "I have fought with and against all sorts of people . . . and demons . . . before. Some of them were excellent warriors, and I respect their skill and experience, and some . . . some were not so excellent."
She looked away, but his hand took hold of her chin and forced her to look back. "Listen to me." His eyes were dark and intense, and she looked into them and saw only sincerity. Sincerity and . . .
"I would rather have you sit safely in your apartment or hang back during the battles than to ever . . . to ever know that it was my fault for not protecting you enough that . . ." He paused and drew in an unneeded breath. "The thought of you getting hurt . . . or . . . or killed . . . it terrifies me."
"It terrifies me, too," she joked, but her eyes glittered suspiciously, and the hand that moved the strand of hair away from her face trembled.
He picked up the comb and began running it through her hair again.
If his hand was a little less than steady, or if her breathing became slightly irregular, then neither of them noticed, or chose not to comment.
FIN