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Part III

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Once again I'm in trouble with my only friend
She is papering the window panes
She is putting on a smile
Living in a glass house
Life In A Glass House~Radiohead
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Four points of a compass. He was a star in human form, pointing in all directions. North (clink), south (clink), east (clink) and west (clink). Falling angel. Fallen Angel. Falling for Angel.

***

Ever notice how pain - subliminal or otherwise - makes you a complete bitch?

Not an accident.

She kept having to remind herself her visions were not an accident. So her entire life was hot-wired to the Powers? So that prophecy wasn't science? She had said her last goodbyes to Groos on a frosty morning in Pylea with a wreath of wild flowers, and tears. Tears. The more painful ones she kept inside. And the old grief of looking death in the face again, being around after someone else was gone, never stopped being awful and new. She left her crown on his grave, and swore she would never see this space again. Numbed.

Sure, there was no fairness about it. Slay girl Buffy gets to come back but not Doyle. Darla gets to come back not Groos. Again her life was hot-wired to faceless prophets. Spineless wizards. After she had thawed out, after she was raw again with pain, after another vision had made her head spin near clear off her shoulders, she started to think. Really think. Perhaps, perhaps, Groos had not been the true brave and undefeated champion the trionic texts had foretold. What if her saviour was closer to home. What if these visions that just would not quit kept ringing her chimes? Then what? What if *he* had thought of that already? God, then she just wanted to die. Then again not her choice in the matter.

Sure she had caught it. The looks, the deep concern and occasionally the extended stay in Angel's arms post vision was kind of oddly comforting - for a cold, old dead guy. And sometimes, if she was honest, went beyond consolatory. But come on - the com-shuk? Were the Powers insane? Scratch that. They make him their champion, a guy who has "lurk" as his middle, no last, name, can't get laid for awakening his homicidal instinct and they stick her with the visions: a human who has done little more then work his last nerve for the last six years and they expect them to...to...to do what exactly? It was double suicide, that's what it was and she wasn't going to do it. God she had seen the set up on the bed. Now she was no whiney little sniffler but this set up was straight out of Seven. Sloth much? She understood sacrificing for the greater good of humanity and this could have worked if she was some weird mutant variant along a James Bond movie theme (Yes, the things I do for my country!) but she'd just about had it with the long-standing cosmic joke that said if there wasn't some sort of mating ritual between her and a demon of her choice the very fabric of reality would suffer. No way. Not this, not ever. Never again.

***

There were many, many imaginable ways to spend her Friday evenings - some of them mundane, a lot of them grotesque - but being seranaded by a small party of drunken Frat boy zombies to the tune of We Care A Lot was not on the list. And having sat through an extended performance (with encore - were those demons deaf?) it was *never* going to be on the list. How many ways did she hate her life at the moment? Let me count the ways. There were not enough fingers in sunny California, let alone within a five mile radius - even if the demon to her left looked as if had looked as if he had a few to spare.

Still, it was nice (if that was the actual word) to have command of her own senses - the last vision had shook, rattled and rolled. And she thought the one before that was bad. She came to from that one barely able to see in front of her; all the colours had split open, and when the four Wesleys and four Gunns before her had asked her what she had seen it was a full minute before her motor reflexes would let her speak. She had kept it from them - who was she kidding? - the only thing she had kept from them was the fact that she had come to from her most recent vision unable to see. Anything. The voice of Angel had not so much come out of the blue as come out of the black to surround her.

Freaked wasn't the word.

It had worn off eventually. A minute or three. But how long before she was like a post-carbonite Han Solo? The demon's in front of me, Chewie? Yeah, right. So as collectively weird, wonderful and goddamned hideous as the mob of unusual suspects at Caritas was, she was just grateful she could choose to sound them out or not.

To be or not to be. That was the question. She had come, she had seen, or rather, she had seen so she had come, *then* she had sang. Yesiree, the vision girl had spoken, formed actual notes, and it was soo much better than when she had had to sing The Greatest Love Of All in highschool. Even minus the lo-fi prelude. If she had cared she would have been embarrassed but in times of peril your own personal idaho very often put things into perspective. You see the big picture, and demon heckling - not that they would, seeing as Angel was just *looking* for an excuse to start ripping heads - kind of faded into the background. What did she sing? Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper. Her original intention had been to go for something up tempo, you know, maybe a little Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, but she had canned that idea the minute she had got through the door; and sure, she used to wail Time After Time into her mother's ivory hairbrush, so no big. Just inflict it on a bigger, badder audience (ha, and they thought they knew the meaning of hell).

***

No hell was here. A place called home.

He could smell her right? He was going to know where she was, even if she made one insane, abortively stupid, lame-ass attempt to high-tail it out of here - he would know where she was and follow her. And if Plan A went to home-run then it would be in a place less safe then this, a back-up free zone. Not sure if she wanted that. Just the old walls of her appartment and a phantom room mate and a hot cup of cocoa. So mundane but so what she wanted right now. She was running, sure, but there was way too much to lose here tonight. And yes, the stress on her cranium was long time past too much but this was...com-shukking your ex-boss, losing your visions, and possibly any chance of ever looking him in the eye again. Plus, an added bonus prize of, if the worst came to the worst, losing him too. To the Dark Side. And then how long before Darla and Dru re-appeared. It was all going to hell in Wes' handbag, that was for sure.

***

Angel looked stiff. Not rigor mortis stiff but I'm-not-big-in-a-social-context stiff. Looking for a life line. Aren't we all. She ate cherries, the bar guy had given her a martini with cherries, sweet with the bitter. Whatever, she had said and passed on the apple schnapps. No doubt Lorne had just given Angel the skinny - the sugar-free version. Again, whatever. Let's just get out of here, her ears were starting to bleed. OK, *sarcasm*.

He *was* trying to tell her something. It was the I'm-trying-to-attract-your-attention-so-look-me-in-the-eye shuffle. So she made him stop the car. And go to a coffee bar. The clock on the wall said 11:10. She sat with his coat around her shoulders, and diverted straight to the big talk.
"What is it you want so badly to tell me? As if I can't guess already."

Ooh that was short-tempered of her. Except, her head was *really* hurting. Sometimes the visions left residuals, kind of like a low humming in her head. Not so good vibrations on frequency Cordy. If she could relax she could handle it. If not? Well, best not to be there. Right now she was in Hummersville, United States of Hummsylvania.

So he told her. But she was not really listening, just staring occasionally at the door, noticing that he had concerned-face written all over him, body slightly haunched - still *towards* her, new colours in his eyes along with the new shadows. Just as she had suspected really.
"What does The Host think? With his anagogic whatsit?"
"He thinks...um...that the odds of...ah, Cordelia?"
"Mmm?"
"Are you even hearing- "
"What is this song that they're playing?" It was wigging her out.
He paused - kept one eye on her, the other seemed to have a memory all of it's own. Came back with an answer in short order:
"Wonderful, Wonderful by Johnny Mathis."
What was so damn wonderful about it, she wondered.
He started again.
"I really think that we should- "
"What? Tell Mr Fussypants and the cult of positivity that they can mark the end of life as we know it on their calendars?"
"Actually...I think he..."
She rolled her eyes. Oh, right. So this had all been sorted out *before* they got round to telling her.
"OK."
"What?"
"I said OK. Let's do it. Do what ever The Powers and their heinous minions tell us to do. After all, it's not going to be hurting just me is it?"

So he explained. The Scrolls said nothing, The Host was getting nothing, The Powers were giving nothing.
"So what we're left with is..."
"Nothing."
That was a blow. She had expected demonising spells not "nothing"s. She looked at him again and saw it.
"I think...I need to go now." she said, and left the table. Left him there.

Outside she sat on the trunk of the Plymouth until he came with the car keys. She should have had Giles show her some of his nifty lock picking. Get the hell out of this town. He was almost in her orbit when the chill invaded her. My God, I sound just like...

She slid off the car.
"Let's just go home, OK. I can do anything once."

***

She didn't say a word. Hovered for a moment at the foot of the stairs, noticed everyone else hovering and decided to move on. Then caught sight of a stricken Wes, flashed him her Miss America smile and left it at that. Kept on moving. Let the dead man sort it out. The key to the room was pressed so tight to her palm that it might just burn there. On the third floor, she passed a mirror - did not like what she saw. The feeling sorry for herself riff was already getting old. She had two choices: do or not do. But she wanted to think, to feel, to wonder what the hell was going on.

She knew somewhere along the line she had unresolved feelings Angel. Unresolved, fuzzy, never-to-be-defined. A popular line of thought says that whatever you repress will come back to you tour de force - like keeping a balloon under water. Now she had thought about it, she had imagined it, even in some of her more embarrassing moments she had dreamed about it - not difficult when he was *always* there. But there had always been a fine line of separation between them - something to be feared - a bloodthirsty nature, a volatile temper, a mutual irritation factor, a blonde affliction, big, mopey and cheap, something. Except there had never really been anything there...apart from the curse, and that was real enough - in a big visual Angelus-rushing-straight-at-you-in-a-crowded-cemetary-while-the-Slayer-just-sneezes kind of way. Xander's emotional fallout had sucked, it had left scars, medical bills, and a temporary lack of fashion equilibrium - it had *not* left dead bodies (which had been possibly the only plus-side).

Suddenly the quizzical, almost knowing face of Doyle swam into focus. So sad, so bizarre, so...fashion impaired. She imagined them sitting at a table somewhere laughing their asses off. He touches her hand, it's kind of soothing.
"So what did you tell him?"
"Goodbye."

The key was in the door.
"And he said what?"
The key was turning.
"Well you know that look he gets when he's convinced he's right and he's too angry to think of the right words?"
Door sliding open.
"Yeah?"
Door sliding shut.
"He didn't have it."
Then Doyle was gone.

She was standing in a dark room. The curtains were open so she could see the city lights. The light of a neon sign was slowly changing from blue to red. In the corner a pocket radio buzzed lightly to itself - probably Gunn's. She made out the shape of a candle on the bedside table, in front of a mirror, another mirror. She crossed the room and turned it on the table, face down. Lit the candle with the matches next to it, sat down on the bed beside her and noticed the chains.

Of course, this changed everything.

A certain anger rose in her, a kind of indignance at yet another ritual of her humiliation. Why? Why? Why? And then it clicked into place and her anger evaporated. Went out the window. Her every mental voice went quiet. She understood. Blue Hotel was pouring out the radio, static-y and wheezy, and...kind of poignant. Thank you Mr Chris Isaak. At least it wasn't Wicked Game or she'd just start crying here and now; sliding down to her knees at the side of the bed. What had Willow once said?

"Pray."

So she had stayed in her cupboard, clutching a broom and hoping that a demented 80's-punk, peroxide terror with teeth didn't become her final outcome.

"And if you get me out of this, I swear I'll never be mean to anyone ever again. Unless they *really* deserve it. Or if it's that time of the month, in which case I don't think you or anyone else can hold me responsible..."

That had worked hadn't it?

She rested her head against the soft sheets, so soft and smooth and tempting - made her want to lie there - good, old Fred. Closed her eyes. Let God hear her, if He was out there. Of course, *He* could be part of the cadre giving her the mortal headache.

"Ask for some aspirin."

Willow again.

She was not getting out of this one, was she? Want to know the truth? She didn't want to. Leaned to the side, noticing that they had bought her satin sheets. Satin. Closed her eyes, as the pain in her head ebbed a bit. Listened to the radio and the lazy traffic outside.

Blue Hotel, every room is lonely //
Blue Hotel, I was waiting only //
The night is like her lonely dream //
Blue Hotel...
Blue Hotel...

Not an accident. No way. He was going to come up the stairs and find her there. And she wasn't going to have it in her to resist.

She loved him.