36. Waiting in the Wings, Part III
"I don't understand how we lost him!" Cordelia griped, as she shuffled along beside Angel, holding tightly to the vampire's elbow so she wouldn't accidentally lose him, too. "Only Doyle could get lost in a hallway that has no doors."
"Something must've shifted." Angel replied, as his eyes continuously scanned the ceiling, the floors, the walls all around them. He was searching diligently as if there was something there to find, which there wasn't as far as the eye could see.
"Well, I hope it shifted him through the exit so he can go get help." She grumbled. "No offense, but being stuck in a never-ending hallway with you is not how I wanna spend the next eternity."
"Here!" Angel's voice grew louder with excitement as they finally came to a portion of the hallway that looked slightly different from the rest. For one thing, it actually featured a door, which Angel pushed through eagerly, leading them into an ornate dressing room.
Cordelia elbowed past Angel to walk deeper into the beautifully decorated room, which obviously belonged to the prima ballerina. "Ooh, loving all the vintage. This ballerina has style." She said admiringly as she sat herself down at the vanity and toyed with some of the old-fashioned perfume bottles that were displayed there. "Did I ever tell you about the dressing room I had in that alternate universe I visited on my birthday? Most of that place sucked, but that part I could've gotten used to."
"Is it warm in here?" Angel wondered, yanking on his shirt collar. He was wandering around several feet away from where Cordelia sat in front of the mirror; his face looking unusually flushed. "I feel…"
She looked up toward the mirror in front of her, seeing only her own reflection, but somehow, it was enough to send a tingle of energy up her spine. "Me, too." She answered as she looked herself directly in the eye. Slowly she swiveled her body to face the vampire behind her. "I feel it."
"Something happened here." Angel said, his eyes lingering a little too long on Cordelia's face. "Maybe the something that caused all this."
"Uh huh." She murmured her agreement as she felt herself slowly rise from the chair. "Angel?"
"Yeah?" He replied.
"I want you…" It was Cordelia's voice that had come from Cordelia's lips, but somehow it didn't feel like she was really speaking. "…to undress me."
"You what?!" Angel gasped, his eyes going wide with something akin to fear. "Uh… Cordy." He swallowed hard as he took a step back. "It's not that warm."
"I want you to see who I really am." Cordelia found herself persisting, stalking deliberately across the room in Angel's direction. "You're the only one who can."
Angel shook his head slightly, even as he stood frozen in place. He could have continued to back away, could have moved away entirely, but instead he stood there. Waiting. "Not me." He breathed in reply, closing his eyes as she approached. "Not us."
"No." She said, stopping herself for a moment. Wavering in her tracks, she tried to regain control over her limbs, which seemed to be acting of their own accord. She was only a few inches away from Angel; teetering in place, she fought a silent battle. "We can't. This-this isn't right…"
The spell or possession—or whatever it was that had caused Cordelia to speak out of turn—seemed to falter for a moment. There was a chance to run. She wanted to run—flee the room before something that really shouldn't happen happened.
But, then Angel swiftly bridged the gap between them, gripping her tightly and pulling her body flush against his. "Nothing has ever been more right." He insisted, his cool breath hitting the side of her neck. "You want me to make love to you right here?"
No. The answer was no.
The answer should have been no. The teeny tiniest voice in the recesses of Cordelia's brain knew that and wanted to scream it aloud, but her traitorous lips disagreed. "You know I do."
His fingers lightly caressed her cheek, running downward over the sensitive flesh of her neck and finally tracing through the dip in her shoulder. He was whispering to her tenderly, like a lover would. "But you're afraid."
And she was. The butterflies in her stomach were flapping wildly, beating inside her chest from both the anticipation of this man's touch and the knowledge of what could happen if they were discovered touching. "What if he finds us?"
"I'm not afraid." He insisted. "I'm not afraid of anything."
Her head dropped back as she felt his lips come within millimeters of her skin, and then she was pleading in a breathy whisper. "I'm only alive when you're inside me."
That was when his mouth claimed hers, passionately taking the breath from her lungs. Kissing her deeply until her head was spinning from the lack of air. And she wanted more. So much more.
They were moving backwards, toward the chaise lounge that adorned the center of the room. He eased her down so that she was lying on her back, stretching her body over the piece of furniture as her lover continued to kiss her senseless... he moved from her lips down to her neck. He didn't stop.
"This is wrong." She mumbled into the open air, as she felt the gentle love bites along her throat and his hands moving over the curves of her body.
"Hush." His voice vibrated from below her, increasing the sensation of his mouth against her skin.
"You don't know him." She whimpered, feeling the fear building up again, despite the heady distraction of the hot, wet kisses. "He has power."
His hand slid under her dress, running over her thigh, seeking the warmest depths of her. "The power to do this?" He asked, causing her to gasp.
"Stephan." She murmured her lover's name as if it were a prayer on her lips. "His power is unnatural. He could..."
"What? Kill us?" Her lover scoffed, his hands were now moving upward, over her breasts, toward the slender straps of her gown. He slipped the material from her slender shoulders, first the right side, then the left.
"Worse." She warned him. Afraid, so very afraid. Afraid that the kisses would stop. Afraid that someone would make them stop.
"Kurskov owns the company." He reminded her, as he continued to peel off her dress. "He doesn't own you."
She held out a hand, pushing against his chest to make him pause. As she sat up her gown slid even lower, pooling around her waist. Looking her lover directly in the eye, she tried to warn him—tried to explain how very dire this situation was. "He doesn't know that. He thinks I'm his." She said sadly, her hand planted over her lover's heart. "He thinks I love him."
"Come away with me." He replied, lifting a hand to cover the one she had planted on his chest, gently stroking it with his thumb. "Now. Tonight. We'll disappear. Even he won't find us."
She hesitated, feeling the tear in her heart. The man she loved pulling in one direction, her life's work in the other. "I... Stephan. Help me." She pleaded, desperate to have him light her soul on fire once again, and extinguish her fears in the flames. "Help me be not afraid."
Closing her eyes, she once again gave herself over to her lover's kisses. Down, down, down he went, setting every inch of her bare skin ablaze. She sighed with pleasure as she felt his tongue tease the skin right below her belly button. "Oh… " She moaned, letting her eyelids flicker open. "…no." She muttered, still half in a daze as her eyes happened upon a new sight. She sat up sharply, her eyes going wide with alarm. "Oh, no! It's him!"
A man loomed in the doorway—a furious man. His face was contorted with rage, his pale eyes blazing with hate. They burned so hard they turned a fiery red. His whole face changed, into the face of a demon. And then there was a snarl as this unhinged creature lunged across the room, his seething words being spit from his demonic lips. "I'll kill you!"
A moment later, Angel was tackled to the floor and pummeled repeatedly by several demon fists—all of which seemed to belong to one singular demon. There were growls of anger and grunts of impact, as the demon attacked and Angel tried desperately to defend himself. When he did manage a defensive strike, he instantly regretted it. "Ow!" Angel cried shaking out his fist, which had met with a sharp row of quills.
The blow wasn't enough to stop this beast, fueled by wrath and jealousy—he slammed Angel backward into the wall, grabbing the larger man by the tuxedo lapels and spinning him around to slam him again. Angel's head bounced off the wall with a thud, but he managed to gain some leverage and knee his attacker in the gut, causing him to falter. Finally, Angel was able to even the score. He unleashed his own demon—vamping out—turning the one-sided attack into an all out demon brawl.
As the two romantic rivals distracted themselves with trying to tear each other apart, Cordelia leaped up off the chaise lounge, trying to get her bearings. First question first, what the hell had just happened? More important question—why was her beautiful dress in a shimmering ball at her feet?! She hastily snatched up the garment and began yanking it back over her skimpy black underthings, cursing all the while.
Just then she heard a sharp cracking of wood as Angel and Doyle went crashing into a chair in the corner. She gaped at the two best friends, beating the snot out of each other. And then watched in muted horror as Doyle's hand wrapped around the leg of the broken chair, and aimed toward Angel's chest in one fluid motion.
"Doyle!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, causing his makeshift stake to freeze mid-air, inches from impact. "Angel! Stop it, both of you!"
Both men halted at the sound of her voice, breathing hard and staring at each other with an air of confusion. Angel's face morphed first, letting go of his visible vampirism. His eyes focused first on the weapon in Doyle's hand, and then darted up to his friend's eyes—his face was nearly unreadable, but a trace of panic betrayed him. Opening his fist, Doyle let the sharp piece of wood clatter to the ground. He, too, morphed from the demon into his human face, but the hardness in his eyes didn't recede—his breathing didn't slow.
Wiping his forearm across his sweaty brow, Doyle slowly began to pick himself up off the floor. Angel did the same, but both men kept an uncomfortable distance from one another. "What just happened?" Doyle gritted out, his eyes skirting toward Cordelia, and wincing when he got there. "Were you two...?"
"It wasn't her fault." Angel answered hastily, averting his eyes to the floor. "It wasn't… anyone's fault."
"We were possessed." Cordelia explained matter-of-factly, holding a hand to her stomach as she replayed the entire sordid episode in her head; it felt so different now that the spell had been broken. Like something she'd watched on a movie screen rather than experienced first hand. Her face lit up with excitement as she replayed the curious dialogue. "Oh, oh! And now we know what's really going on here!"
"We do?" Angel asked skeptically.
"Yeah! See, Kurskov, the guy who owns this company must be, like, an evil wizard or something." Cordelia chirped enthusiastically. "The prima ballerina—she was terrified of him."
"For good reason." Doyle mused, pointing to his own head as he reflected on what he'd learned from the possession experience. "Insane jealousy wouldn't be putting too fine a point on it—he was obsessed with her. Wanted 'er all to himself."
"Right. Stalker-fan to the max." Cordelia agreed, bobbing her head as they fit the pieces of the puzzle together. "So, when he discovered that she was planning to run off with her lover, he created this time capsule thingamajig to trap her soul for all eternity—talk about boundary issues."
"We need to figure out how to break the spell." Angel stated the obvious. His head was still bowed low, so as not to risk eye contact with either Cordelia or Doyle.
"Sooner we do that, sooner we get the hell outta this prison, yeah?" Doyle agreed, also having trouble looking directly at either his girlfriend or his best friend.
They all moved in unison toward the open door of the dressing room, but stopped short as the doorway was filled by several stocky masked men holding pointy stiletto knives. From behind the carved faces—some smiling, some frowning—there was the accompanying sound of both laughter and weeping.
Comedy and tragedy, in the flesh.
"I am gonna have nightmares about this place for a long time." Cordelia remarked facetiously, as she tossed a beleaguered expression at the two men on her heels.
At least this time, they wouldn't be fighting each other…
Doyle watched Cordelia move quickly but stealthily in front of him, leading the way through the winding hallway. She looked like a warrior princess, dressed in her glistening evening gown, brandishing a stiletto she'd procured from one of the comedy/tragedy minions. In her hands, it was wielded expertly against the seemingly endless stream of opponents, the months of training having paid off in kind… but it also paired quite nicely with the stilettos on her feet.
Neither Angel nor Doyle needed to borrow a weapon for this fight; each relying on their brute demon strength and attributes. Truthfully, Doyle felt safer behind the quills at the moment—as if they could mask his deluge of feelings. As if it wasn't readily apparent that Doyle's head was barely in this fight.
How could it be after what he'd just seen? After what he'd just felt?
He wasn't sure how much of the rage and jealousy belonged to him, versus that which was courtesy of the wizard, Kurskov. He suspected there was more of Allen Francis Doyle than he'd like to admit. Especially since so much of it lingered inside him. Burning its way through his stomach lining.
Even now as he followed in her path, watching the way her lithe body moved in battle, he was envisioning the jarring sight from the dressing room. Cordelia, almost completely undressed, save her barest essentials. Angel's hands and lips running all over her. And, worst of all, the look of rapture on her face as it was all happening—her head thrown back, her moans of encouragement…
It forced Doyle to relive other moments—moments he'd dismissed as nothing. Moments he'd tossed aside as paranoia on his part. Angel's hands all over Cordelia's body in the training room. Them laughing together, whispering together, sharing secrets. Had Doyle been a fool all along to think all that was nothing? To think it was just them sharing a friendship—a familial bond, strengthened by the fact that Doyle and Angel were practically brothers.
There was a voice in the back of Doyle's head, arguing that he was being irrational, egged on by the role he'd played in their mystical affair. And then there was the other voice… the one that had been whispering to him for quite some time now. The one that knew things.
If two people are meant to be together…
"You guys alright?" Angel's voice snapped Doyle out of his silent ruminations. They'd turned a corner and come face to face with their friends. Beaten and battle weary. Bodies of dead minions littering the floor nearby.
Fred and Gunn alone, the smaller one holding up the much larger one.
"Charles got stabbed." Fred explained. Something in her voice was different. It wasn't that she'd called him "Charles," since she had always done that. But there was a familiarity between the two that hadn't existed a few hours prior. If Doyle had any lingering question about the direction Fred's heart had taken her, it was answered in the way she looked up at Gunn in that moment.
Supplemented by the look of anguish on Wesley's face—quietly, hidden in the nearby shadows as if he wasn't present at all. Doyle could see him lurking there, looking as if he had a stab wound of his own. It was a look Doyle could identify, because it was one he shared.
Gunn yanked his bloodstained shirt out of the way, revealing the deep gash in his side. Cordelia was quick to step forward, evaluating the wound with the practiced eye of a veteran battlefield nurse. "Oh yeah, that'll need some stitches." She stood up straight, patting Gunn on the shoulder reassuringly. "Could've been worse—a few inches over and you'd be down a set of kidneys."
Fred's eyes went wide, although Gunn merely laughed as he let his bloody shirt drop back down to hide his wound. "Any idea where we are or what the hell?"
"Your second question is the answer to the first." Doyle grumbled, sensing that they were about to have more company. "In a manner o' speaking."
"It's a spell." Angel answered more coherently. "Cast by a vengeful wizard—we need to figure out how to break it."
Wesley stepped forward, finally revealing himself to the entire group. "He's still here, maintaining it. This kind of temporal shift can't just exist on it's own—he must be close."
"Of course, he's close!" Cordelia huffed. "He did all this because of his obsession with a woman who had zero interest in him—you think he was just gonna walk away? Nuh uh, I bet psycho-boy's had a front row seat for the last century."
Angel nodded his agreement, taking a few steps in the direction he hoped would lead him to the stage. "I'd better go find him and introduce myself." He paused, tossing an awkward glance over his shoulder in Doyle's general direction, perhaps intending to ask for backup.
But Doyle didn't let it land—turning his head away, and welcoming the distraction that came in the form of a half dozen comedy/tragedy masked minions barreling in their direction. "Incoming!" He announced to his comrades, as they each took up their battle stances, and prayed that Angel would put an end to this before anyone else was stabbed through the gut… or the heart.