Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners, and the author claims no ownership of anything except the original storyline. No profit is made and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: A quick little note to tell you of the setting: Season 1, post The Ring. A simple, sweet little thing..Angel thinking about a certain brunette. APOV. Obviously pre-non-relationship, seeing as they never got together (I'm still working on the letter of outrage to J. Whedon and Co.), but I couldn't resist adding some light flirting and a hint of promise, even though it's a smidge too early for the series itself. That's why it's called fiction.
Thanks go out to cmol8806 for pushing me to post. :) She rocks.
Angel sat in his usual setting of dark and gloom, mulling over what had recently happened. Aside from the residual pain of his recent foray into his own world of demons, the only pain that he could brood on was that of killing demons who had done nothing but get caught in the tangled web of two very cunning spiders.
Though he knew it was wrong to do so, Angel prided himself for being able to ferret out the truth of matters that are usually invisible to the eyes of others, even the eyes of those in the world he lived in as a demon. This facet of himself was the reason he was angry at the fact that he felt he should have known better, exercised better and wiser judgment, rather than plundering ahead at every opportunity to attempt to redeem himself from his past. He knew Wesley had such an ability, but the man had no confidence in himself. Cordelia, also, had the ability to smell out when something had been hit with "whammy." And money, but that was neither here nor there.
Cordelia. The woman-child Angel had befriended (much to his surprise and, sometimes, exasperation) was a breath of fresh air, even to one who has no breath nor a need for air. She was, as Doyle mentioned when she was first hired, his personalizing factor: the connection he needed to the world of humans, a world he had not truly been a part of in over two hundred years. Her irritating yet endearing habits left Angel smiling in wonderment, and her statements and way of thinking was a cross between bluntness and single-entendre, as Wesley had stated. He could easily see why she would be unfavorable to the idea of tact and discretion: the woman was truth on legs.
The sounds of the fighting arena, the cheering fans of such an ugly sport, and the seemingly endless calls of, "Slaves!" resonated inside Angel's head, driving out most every thought of Wesley and Cordelia. With the sounds came visuals: images Angel would rather not see at all, let alone a second time. The feel of the band around his wrist was a ghost feeling...he knew it wasn't there, yet he could still feel the silky smooth texture of the silver cuff as if it had never come off.
With the thoughts of the cuff, his thoughts once again circled back to Cordelia's sharpness. The ingenuity of her actions left him stunned: not only did he find out that she had come up with "the key to the key," which had helped Wesley come up with the actual key that unlocked every band in use, but of procuring the cuff in the first place. As Wesley had been able to describe very little to him, not having realized she had taken one until after they had exited the building, he could give Angel little to no detail as to how the feat was managed. Angel smiled slightly (though more than he usually allowed himself, feeling comfortable in the quiet, private darkness) as he remembered the forced and awkward conversation he and Cordelia had shared.
Angel found her at the coffee maker, muttering a few choice words about the machine. Apparently, the "damn coffee machine can't even make a damn decent cup of coffee. Damn piece of...Angel!" Cordelia cut herself off as her boss sidled up to her, careful to avoid the small patch of sunlight streaming through the window and onto the floor. Angel could tell that she was beginning to get used to him being silent, as she neither flinched, jumped, nor squealed in surprise...he'd have to work on that.
"Cordelia, what did that poor coffee pot ever do to you?" Angel couldn't help but tease.
"It's not making me my coffee. I like it a certain way, and it's just not up to par. You should buy an espresso machine, like the one in the coffee shop a few blocks down," came the reply, a perfectly sincere look on her face. Angel knew that she meant every word she said. He also knew that she had no expectations of him actually doing so. After Doyle gave her the visions, Angel began noticing a bit of a change in the young woman, a new quality that she persistently tried to play close to the vest. Compassion.
Angel realized that she was genuinely concerned for him, evidence showing that she was willing to part with such an important piece of her life for him. The "key to the key," as Wesley called it, was a piece of hair from the tail of the palomino she had in Sunnydale, before her parents' tax fraud (and subsequent evasion) became known to the IRS. Cordelia had few possessions from that life, and what she did have she kept very close to herself, sometimes literally. Angel knew that the horse hair in question had previously inhabited a charm on a bracelet she wore, signifying that it meant something very dear to her. Angel would always be reminded of that sacrifice she made for him when he needed it the most.
Impressed with her selflessness, Angel felt a strange sensation in his chest. He had been experiencing it more and more frequently, usually when he was around Cordelia and at times like this: random, unsuspecting moments in time when he least expected it, though Cordelia was usually the cause of the stirring. Angel could only describe the feeling to himself, and even then not very well. It was almost as if his undead heart was trying to come back to life. He remembered how it felt and sounded, even if he purposely made it so others wouldn't, and even this fluttering, shadow of the feeling was enough to shock Angel out of the usually dark haze he presided in, even if it was only in his own company.
At another recent memory he linked with the strange flutterings, Angel allowed his smile to become fuller than it already was.
"Umm...Cordelia?" Angel started as he walked into the main part of the office, unsure of how to proceed.
"Hmm?" Cordelia answered, content to continue laying on the couch, basking in the light glow of sunlight shining through the thin curtains hanging in front of the window. It was enough to prevent her sun-avoiding boss from combusting into flames, and yet also enough to allow her to feel the warm, lazy feeling that lounging in the sun provided.
Angel cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of what he was doing. He was exceedingly grateful that she had yet to open her eyes, as he was desperately trying to get the words out. "Why, umm..." he began. "Why did you give up your last tie to your palomino? I know he was important to you..."
At first, the only reply he received was a small smile. "Angel." The word was spoken as a patient explanation. "The key phrase there is 'was important.' Past tense. You are far more important to me now. Present tense." That was followed by a wide smile, one that seemed to be reserved for a very select few. Angel had been on the receiving end more and more often lately, and he had even seen her grant the privilege of the vision to Doyle once or twice. Angel was unsure if Wesley had been deemed worthy of the smile, but he really had no idea.
Angel smiled almost as brightly himself at the memory of the explanation. It was a simple one, and left so much unsaid, but he would accept Cordy's answer.
For now.
A/N: Yes, there's another note. I usually don't put author's notes at the beginning of a piece, but I felt it needed for this one. It's a short, sweet little thing that popped into my head and demanded to be written. Oh, how fickle these stories can be.
I plan on writing a second chapter to this, getting a little bit of Cordelia's POV on the subject. However, I do not anticipate it being written within the next few days, although it is entirely possible. To err on the side of caution, I would say not to expect it soon, and leave it at that. I will, however, leave this story as incomplete, because there WILL be a second chapter. I have the beginnings of it, but I'm not certain as to when it will be finished. Summer classes are killer.
I'd like to thank everyone for reading this, and I'd like to invite you to take a minute (but probably less) to leave a comment. It is every author's hope to write to the liking of the audience, but how can any of us hope to know what our audience likes if we are not told by the audience themselves? Therefore audience (whomever you may be), I would love to hear your thoughts.