Spoilers / Timeline
AU, sometime in the future after season one. Obviously "Hero" didn't happen.

Disclaimer
This is an original, unauthorized work of fiction featuring characters from the series Angel and is not intended for profit of any kind.

Warnings
Sexuality, buckets of angst.

Notes
Takes place in a "what if?" type of alternate universe where my little shipper heart was not torn from my chest and crushed. (Yet, anyway.) I owe all the chocolate and my soul to my betas, Terra and hufflecas, for helping me iron out the kinks.

(This is a repost of a fic I wrote under my old pen name, Jessica Knorr.)

I lie there and breathe her in. Her bare back is to me, and I watch the muscles under her silky skin twitch. I lean over and kiss an area between her shoulder blades, and as my lips meet her body she tenses. I do it again, at the base of her neck. This time, she scoots a few inches away. She knows I can tell when she's sleeping. I reach out and trace designs across her spine with my fingers.

"Stop," she orders. Her voice is forced and weak. For as long as I can remember, her entire body has been like that - fatigued, like she's dragging around weights tied to her ankles. She still looks better than any of those stars wandering around twenty miles from her door.

In the early days, we would tease each other about being stuck in some dead - end, worse - than - minimum - wage paranormal investigator gig that would kill us both. She always insisted that she would some day be Tom Cruise's leading lady, leaving the two of us to our "disgusting demons" and "Sabrina magic tricks". (I'd like to see that wannabe summon the Oracles.)

Cordy gave up that dream years ago, when she realized her destiny would always lead her to the blood and grime swept under the glitz. But something else died along with her dreams of stardom.

Neither Angel nor I ever recognized just what was missing; frankly, I don't think either of us ever wanted to.

My eyes fall onto the back of her head, and I dig into it with my mind, searching for the girl I've loved for so long.

Has LA stolen another soul for its collection?

My thumb strokes her shoulder blade near the spot where I kissed her. I want to know what's on her mind, why she doesn't babble and smile as much as she used to. She's lost what little enthusiasm she ever had for the job, and I notice everyday the same thing is happening to her zest for life.

It's the little things, really: moving slower, bantering with Angel less, withdrawing from things that used to make her happy like shopping, mochas at the Pier.

And me.

She always said she was more offended by the fact that I'd carried on for so long - not my demon heritage. Not all demons are evil, she told me once.

She fell into my arms that night. I'm not sure if she was desperate for love, contact – something other than the perpetual chill of the office. By the looks of things lately, it's as if she regrets everything.

I rub her neck, feeling the goose bumps rise up under my fingertips, the muscles shift. She squirms away from me even more. I drop my hand and stare at her, wondering.

Where did you go, Princess? Who are you now?

I lean over and kiss the side of her neck, where my fangs would go if I were some undead mosquito preying on the weak. She still pretends that she's sleeping, but I can see and feel that she's very much awake.

She's just not peaceful enough.

She's cold. Once upon a time, she would have pushed me away with a growl or a giggle, and I would have ignored her until she flipped me out of bed, or let me bestow the type of royal treatment she has always deserved.

Now I catch the look in her eyes and stop.

She doesn't even look back at me; keeps focused on the wall across from us. I crane my neck up, expecting a ghost, a demon, even a cockroach. There's just beige paint, no reason for her to be so frozen. I look down at her. Blood rushes through her living veins, giving her deep golden skin a pink flush, but inside, she's completely cold.

"Cordy?" I prod, hoping to find some life remaining. She blinks, but doesn't acknowledge me. "Princess? Cordelia, what's wrong?" She turns her head into the pillow. She doesn't bother to answer me, so I sit up and take her hand, trying to get her to face me.

Cordelia rolls over and pushes me back. Her eyes go right past me, through me. I'd take a glare, a scream, anything, over what she gives me. At least if she yelled obscenities and threw me out on my ass, I'd know she were still Cordy.

There's nothing, not even a frown, just an emotionless void.

She finally sits up and looks me in the eye. She doesn't blink, or try to cover herself when the covers pool in her lap. I still have her hand, but she doesn't try to pull away.

I search her face, hoping to find some semblance of Cordelia. For a beat, I think I do, but the thing realizes this and buries her further beneath her own skin. I hold her hand tight and shake it, trying to coax her back.

"C'mon, Princess," I plead, my voice cracking. "We can talk. Please answer me?" She stares, but her hand firmly grips mine. I see something stir within her, a miniscule hint of some great internal battle, and my breath catches.

"What did we do wrong?" I ask with guilt. Moisture slowly works its way into her beautiful brown eyes. "Cordelia, what the hell happened?" I swallow the desperation creeping into my voice. I can't stand to see her like this, especially after so long without so much as a peep about anything that bothered her. "I love you, y'know? I've loved you since we first met.

"You have Angel, and you have me. We'll always be there. I can't believe . . . ." Tears streak down her face. She doesn't sob, and her chin doesn't quiver, but mine does. I shake, hold her hand tight and kiss it, then put it to my chin and let it collect the tears. Her fingers spread across my face, her nails and rings very gently scratch my skin.

I can't believe you don't trust me enough to tell me what's hurting you.

She pulls away again, slower this time, her fingertips lingering on my wet face. She takes a heavy breath and folds her arms over her bare chest, contemplating. The sudden movement when she climbs off the bed startles me.

She's as much of a goddess as ever and her body barely showing signs that she's nearing thirty. The sun tattoo on the small of her back is still taut and intact. I remember her wanting it done for a long time, back when we first started going out, saying that casting directors were looking for actors with appeal; ink or metal in near forbidden places was "in". She tried not to cry when we left the place, very much like she tries not to now.

Except back then, she welcomed my kissing and adoration.

Cordelia stands with her back to me, and finally a sob escapes her. She quickly covers it, and crosses to the bathroom. I scramble out of the covers, and nearly trip over my own feet but I manage to catch her.

"For God's sake, Cordelia! Would you actually listen to me? I'm trying to bring you back from the abyss, but you're throwing yourself towards it now!"

I've never yelled like this before.

Of course, this is only the second time I've had to be in a situation like this; last time, I was the one teetering on the edge, and the only thing that finally got me out was the promise of a proverbial sledgehammer to the brain every couple of days.

"Where is the Cordelia Chase I fell in love with?"

My heart pumps erratically, fury and pain working overtime to rip me apart from the inside. Cordy sobs again, and guilt joins the team. I put my arms around her, but she shoves me off violently. I drop back on the bed and she towers above, shaking.

"Doyle?"

She's finally acknowledging me. My heart and stomach jump into my throat together. A single drop dangling on her chin falls onto my knee. I try to ask her another question, but she stops me to drive final nail home.

"Get out."

I peer up at her, feeling dizzy and nauseous, like I'm on a bad trip. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm at my apartment with a needle jammed in my arm. Maybe I'm in Hell, doomed to have my heart and soul ripped to shreds by this empty thing posing as the most cherished person in my life. Will Harry be around any minute to slam another flaming sword into me?

"I said," Cordelia seethes down at me, "get out." I still don't believe it's her. She'd be screaming at the top of her bloody lungs if it were, I keep reminding myself.

"Leave, Francis."

She never calls me by my first name. I swallow a sob of my own and clamber around for my things under her glare. Her eyes and face are bright red, betraying her soulless cover. I only bother to pull on my trousers for modesty's sake.

"Remember, Princess, I love you."

"Now," she demands, so soft I can barely hear. I almost wish she were screeching her head off. Instead, there is no emotion, no Cordelia - esque dramatics, and my heart shatters again.

"Please -" I'm pretty much begging at this point. Cordelia turns her back on me and walks into the bathroom. I wait for the door to slam in my face - hell, I'd welcome it at this point, but it clicks softly instead. A moment later, water erupts from the shower. I just stand there in the hall, half naked and numb, still wishing that I could actually get into her head, so that I might have some clue as to what I could have done to keep her soul from fading away.