The phone fell through his loosened grip back into the cradle. The
puzzle of how she had been here, her acknowledgement of feelings towards
him he had wished for- all lost, in a sea of grief. She was, forever, gone.
Angel felt an anguish he never remembered feeling before, tearing at his heart. Even during the many tangles of his relationship with Buffy, there had always been hope that she and he could- that they would- eventually be together. Any dream of a life with Cordelia, any hope of Cordelia's recovery, was dashed.
She was dead.
Breath he no longer needed caught in his throat; out of reflex, he struggled to fill his lungs, failing to do anything but muffle the sobs that rose from the depths of his being and tore out into the empty Wolfram and Hart offices, out over the shimmering lights of LA, out over the world.
There was no one, nothing, left for him now. His son no longer knew he existed. The people he worked with, considered family, he had allowed to be duped, courtesy of the big evil, with their minds remembering only an altered past year. Doyle had died bravely, boldly, in place of Angel- forever a hero. Buffy had long since moved beyond her feelings for him. Darla was, again, dead- with little chance of being reborn. Mad Drusilla had been driven away, once and for all, by the stink of Daddy's soul.
The only one left, if you counted him- which Angel didn't- was Spike. Hardly warm and fuzzy, Spike would probably be glad if Angel was lost and forgotten forever.
Angel was more alone than he had ever been. ***********************************************************************
The sun, the miraculous sun, stole slowly over the horizon, tingeing the clouds of LA smog pink. It crept minutely over Angel, slumped on the floor at the base of his bed, caressing and warming his dead flesh into a facsimile of life. The heat raggedly pulled him out of his drunken stupor, causing him to startle awake and spill the few dregs remaining in his scotch bottle.
Angel had spent the night- or what remained of it after Cordelia had.left- drinking, hard and fast, as he had when a youth in Galway. He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to feel. That required a lot of drink, quickly downed. And when the numbness began to wear off, it required him to drink more.
But the supply was gone, and it was the beginning of another day at Wolfram and Hart. The thought of rising from his position on the floor made him nauseous; the trip from floor to bathroom left him weak and sweating on the tiled floor. It took three tries to pull himself into the shower and turn on the cold blast.
He sat there for the better part of an hour, his mind slowly clearing as he considered the ramifications of last night's events. There was more than Angel's feelings to consider. He had been apart from the details of human life for so many years that he needed to think. What had all those human families done after he had left one of their members dead? Well, of course, there was the funeral, but that took days. What had they done first?
Yes, that was it. Spread the news of the death, tell the rest of the family.
The others must be told, yes. He would tell them first thing this morning, as soon as he could get himself together enough to go down to his office and have Harmony gather them. Angel considered that he should try and contact Cordy's parents, but he didn't remember her ever talking to them, at least not since she had left Sunnydale, and well- there wasn't any Sunnydale anymore. They certainly hadn't tried to reach their daughter in all the time she had been incapacitated and hospitalized. Angel had no clue how to contact them. The only other people who might want to know would be the Scoobies. Although Cordy and the Scoobies had not always gotten along, there were ties there; despite the years that had passed, Xander, at least, would mourn her.
That was a phone call that would just have to wait. Angel didn't think he could make it through a conversation with Buffy. If h didn't talk to her when he called to let them know, she would call him later. She would ask him if he was okay, out of courtesy to their past, and he didn't think he had the strength left in him to play his part and say yes. He also didn't think that Buffy would want to hear about the woman he loved after her, and lost as well.
As the cold of the shower began to chill even him, Angel rose unsteadily and peeled off the sopping, stinking clothes he had mourned Cordelia in. Wrapping a cotton towel around his waist, Angel stood in front of his steamy mirror. As usual, his gaze met with a flawless reflection of the room around him, minus him. He wiped his fingers roughly across the glass, almost scrubbing the surface with his flesh in an effort to make the mirror reflect anything about him, even the blood seeping from a fresh scratch on his index finger.
Futile, as always. Angel decided to forgo even trying to shave; he had perfected mirrorless shaving over the years, but his hands were too unsteady and his mind too befuddled to try this morning. He mentally reflected on how apropos his wardrobe was- very little to choose from except for black. He carefully picked out dress pants and a button down shirt, then hurriedly switched the black shirt for a red one. Cordy had always been on him to break up the monotone monotony.
Dressed, barely fit to walk a straight line yet, Angel pressed the button for his private elevator and stepped into the small square. He slumped heavily against the wall, as much from a physical need for support as a mental one. \
He had a meeting to call.
Angel felt an anguish he never remembered feeling before, tearing at his heart. Even during the many tangles of his relationship with Buffy, there had always been hope that she and he could- that they would- eventually be together. Any dream of a life with Cordelia, any hope of Cordelia's recovery, was dashed.
She was dead.
Breath he no longer needed caught in his throat; out of reflex, he struggled to fill his lungs, failing to do anything but muffle the sobs that rose from the depths of his being and tore out into the empty Wolfram and Hart offices, out over the shimmering lights of LA, out over the world.
There was no one, nothing, left for him now. His son no longer knew he existed. The people he worked with, considered family, he had allowed to be duped, courtesy of the big evil, with their minds remembering only an altered past year. Doyle had died bravely, boldly, in place of Angel- forever a hero. Buffy had long since moved beyond her feelings for him. Darla was, again, dead- with little chance of being reborn. Mad Drusilla had been driven away, once and for all, by the stink of Daddy's soul.
The only one left, if you counted him- which Angel didn't- was Spike. Hardly warm and fuzzy, Spike would probably be glad if Angel was lost and forgotten forever.
Angel was more alone than he had ever been. ***********************************************************************
The sun, the miraculous sun, stole slowly over the horizon, tingeing the clouds of LA smog pink. It crept minutely over Angel, slumped on the floor at the base of his bed, caressing and warming his dead flesh into a facsimile of life. The heat raggedly pulled him out of his drunken stupor, causing him to startle awake and spill the few dregs remaining in his scotch bottle.
Angel had spent the night- or what remained of it after Cordelia had.left- drinking, hard and fast, as he had when a youth in Galway. He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to feel. That required a lot of drink, quickly downed. And when the numbness began to wear off, it required him to drink more.
But the supply was gone, and it was the beginning of another day at Wolfram and Hart. The thought of rising from his position on the floor made him nauseous; the trip from floor to bathroom left him weak and sweating on the tiled floor. It took three tries to pull himself into the shower and turn on the cold blast.
He sat there for the better part of an hour, his mind slowly clearing as he considered the ramifications of last night's events. There was more than Angel's feelings to consider. He had been apart from the details of human life for so many years that he needed to think. What had all those human families done after he had left one of their members dead? Well, of course, there was the funeral, but that took days. What had they done first?
Yes, that was it. Spread the news of the death, tell the rest of the family.
The others must be told, yes. He would tell them first thing this morning, as soon as he could get himself together enough to go down to his office and have Harmony gather them. Angel considered that he should try and contact Cordy's parents, but he didn't remember her ever talking to them, at least not since she had left Sunnydale, and well- there wasn't any Sunnydale anymore. They certainly hadn't tried to reach their daughter in all the time she had been incapacitated and hospitalized. Angel had no clue how to contact them. The only other people who might want to know would be the Scoobies. Although Cordy and the Scoobies had not always gotten along, there were ties there; despite the years that had passed, Xander, at least, would mourn her.
That was a phone call that would just have to wait. Angel didn't think he could make it through a conversation with Buffy. If h didn't talk to her when he called to let them know, she would call him later. She would ask him if he was okay, out of courtesy to their past, and he didn't think he had the strength left in him to play his part and say yes. He also didn't think that Buffy would want to hear about the woman he loved after her, and lost as well.
As the cold of the shower began to chill even him, Angel rose unsteadily and peeled off the sopping, stinking clothes he had mourned Cordelia in. Wrapping a cotton towel around his waist, Angel stood in front of his steamy mirror. As usual, his gaze met with a flawless reflection of the room around him, minus him. He wiped his fingers roughly across the glass, almost scrubbing the surface with his flesh in an effort to make the mirror reflect anything about him, even the blood seeping from a fresh scratch on his index finger.
Futile, as always. Angel decided to forgo even trying to shave; he had perfected mirrorless shaving over the years, but his hands were too unsteady and his mind too befuddled to try this morning. He mentally reflected on how apropos his wardrobe was- very little to choose from except for black. He carefully picked out dress pants and a button down shirt, then hurriedly switched the black shirt for a red one. Cordy had always been on him to break up the monotone monotony.
Dressed, barely fit to walk a straight line yet, Angel pressed the button for his private elevator and stepped into the small square. He slumped heavily against the wall, as much from a physical need for support as a mental one. \
He had a meeting to call.