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Part IV
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I'll give you strength
But I cannot give you keys
Three Doors ~ VAST
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He pauses at the door before entering, as if waiting for a change in his instincts. An invitation. A sense of the world restored. It does not come.
He can hear everything. The traffic beyond the room itself, the radio playing softly within, the slow, smooth rush of her pulse and how it played with him. He could hear her breathing. Shallow air, sometimes inconsistently taken; a snort of consternation mixed in with the dis-ease.
The door creaks snarkily as he enters. He hears her inhale again at the sound of his voice:
"Cordelia?"
Her scent is a shimmer in his memory. Her silhouette curved, winding into the webbed shadows. She does not appear to move at the sound of his entry, at the sound of his voice. Calling her.
She leans out into the night, through an opened window; where the air is cool, pleasant but perhaps a little cold for a hot-blooded human such as her. The audible click of the door closing draws little visible response from her either but he feels the rise in her pulse as if it were pulling him towards her.
He stays where he is.
"Cordelia?...It's kind of...cold."
For a while no response. Then, slowly, turning in the darkness, she faces him. The curtain of her hair parts and he can see her face. Something has abandoned her.
"Maybe. I was just...trying to get down to your temperature."
Free from nightblindess he can see with all his preternatural clarity that her expression betrays the harshness in her words - opening and closing like a book. Only a moment before it turns to anger then fades to something else. She walks towards him, enters the circular glow of the candle on the bedside table. Sits on the edge of the bed itself. He takes this as invitation until she speaks again.
"You know it's never a good idea when coworkers get groiny."
This troubles him. What can he say to her words? But he makes no disclosure to the dangers. When he sits at her side, not so close to be intrusive but close enough to be felt, to be touched, he cannot help but say her name again.
"Cordelia... it wouldn't be-"
She looks at him, all apologies.
"I'm sorry. You don't need reminding."
The sad smile peeks through. Looks away suddenly, stares hard at her lap, the way the blue of the dress comes through even in the light of a singular flame, the way her veins show when her fingers close over the cloth. And as she clasps it gently, how easily, with the right pressure, it might tear. She stammers now.
"I'm sorry..."
He cannot help but clasp her hands in his - her heat bleeds into him and he savours its slow comfort. But it bothers him that she feels his chill, her expression remote, unreadable. As his grasp slides up over her wrists, he feels the strength of the pulse there and pauses. She escapes him. Rising again, words spill from her, not even thinking about him.
"I'm sorry I didn't get drunk while I could."
He says nothing, focusing on her movements. He can discern the roar of her blood and the mild influence of alcohol there that still affects her but to an ever-diminishing degree. Scents rise and fall in her, uneasy and wary. He takes off his jacket as she semi-paces. She sees him doing it and he senses her movement towards the door before she makes it. Arrives there ahead of her. She baulks at this unexpected manifestation before her - she had not seen him move - and yes, he can do that when he wants to. Her exit suddenly blocked, she backs off more than a little disturbed. But whether in response to her running or her being cornered, he prefers not to know. He knows she does not like what she feels. It's all in the way she steps away from him.
"I think I should go home."
"I think you should stay."
"I think you can think what you like," she steps in closer presuming his retreat. "Behind me."
He laughs a little.
"Cordy..."
Her eyes are stern but he senses fear within her and the beginnings of more than a little rage. Her hand reaches for the handle and he reaches to stop her. Something in her manner objects to his touch and withdraws sharply wherever he finds her. When he looks at her earnestly, she avoids his eyes.
"I *need* not to be here."
He pleads with her by glances. She ignores.
"You're making this difficult-"
"Why are you still in my way?"
"Cordelia, look at me."
He grapples with his mounting need to hold her and make her see sense. See him. He whispers.
"Cordy"
His voice is low, unfussed by the need to hide his desperation. She speaks again:
"Tell me again that this isn't going to result in you going evil."
"It isn't."
Her head cocks slightly to the side: "And that's your informed opinion from experience?"
"Is that a...trick question?"
"Only if you avoid answering it."
"With Darla, it was...complicated. She was..."
"There? I'm sorry; I'm all complexed out. And if I am not totally over it, I am no longer under it. You can't save me from what you are this time, Angel."
"A vampire?"
"A liar. Of course, there's that sneaky turning into a homicidal monster thing but *that* is so far from my mind right now."
She smiles at her own sarcasm, and just as quickly it is gone. He reaches for her shoulder - only a slight touch. As she avoids his eyes again he can see the tears welling. While trying to mask her frustration as pride, she loses one. His hand rises to her cheek to spare her the reminder of its moisture. She allows this contact only after a slight, redundant shake of her head. Her face remains unstained and she chooses her words without thought.
"Waterproof." Rationalises her tears. "See, I knew this would happen." Smiles weakly, before turning away from his own. "About the only thing I could have predicted minus a-"
Her body stiffens. He knows its herald. As she falls, she screams.
"Gyahh!!"
He catches her. She bites back her agony, quite accidentally drawing blood. The heat dances out of her again as her pulse steeply rises, her skin again engorged. Tingles of fear mixed in with understandings. Newness. She breathes again only when there is respite. Tries to recover but pushes awkwardly against his embrace, seeking purchase. Not finding it. Something not quite right. She breathes the beginnings of his name, while he rocks her gently. Gently until her nails no longer bite into his flesh. Until her body finds its balance.
Her eyes open wide as she looks up to see him but he realises, does not see. He registers only a small panic on her part. She expected this.
"Angel."
Her eyelashes matted but the pupils showing no response, refuse to widen.
"Angel?"
More of a question, her body growing more uneasy by the second. He reassures:
"It's okay, I'm here."
"I...can't...I had a-"
"Vision. I know. I guessed. You're...blind."
"It's temporary." She does not sound too sure.
"And you don't think that this is something we could have talked about?"
"No. So see, we're both big liars - we should start a club, or something." He brushes a stray hair from her face, as she moves against him awkwardly. "I...want to get up now."
He lets her out of his arms reluctantly. Helps her to her feet. As she holds one arm out in front of her, he guides her. Feeling the post of the bed she rests there, refusing to go any further. The radio on the other side of the room squawks unexpectedly, making her jump. Her hand feels downward, finding the mattress with her fingertips. She finds the familiar feel of the sheets but remains standing, supported by the wooden pillar, staring out like a wonderful figurehead.
He waits for a certain stillness before speaking again:
"What did you see?"
"I--"
Her body spasms as the images rocket through her once more.
But she bites down on it again, muffling her cries. An aftershock, it seems. She inhales deeply. He can only sit on the bed before her blind eyes, unseen. Her heart - her rich, little heart - still beats fiercely.
She is noticeably dazed and her tone announces her confusion, as if she were still experiencing.
"What do you see?"
Her voice is hoarse now: "Bodies."
"Whose?"
"Ours."
***
The young man stands tall, half obscuring the light overhead, staring down - focused and just a little ticked.
"So let me get this straight. There are no 'ward spells', you just let Cordelia think that there were."
At the table, lower than Gunn's line of sight, Wesley sits at his table of musty books. At the opposite end of the table Fred looks slightly nervous.
"There *are* ward spells, there just aren't any that are effective to their unique situation. Any attempts to alter Angel's disposition in these circumstances could have unpredictable consequences."
Gunn crosses out of the light, making Fred, who had been scrutinising the expressions of both men closely for any early signs of disagreement, reflexively shield her eyes. The intensity of Gunn's disposition has not changed. Wesley seems harried but equally intense - it happens a lot when he does the book thing, she thinks. She visibly twitches when Gunn crosses his arms in front of his chest and just short of glares at Wes. She searches her mind for what was last said about the spells. Oh yeah, the 'ward spells' were protective, metaphysically shells of sorts. They were meant to ensure Angel's soul stayed put by - somehow - forming a resistance to his emotional current? They had not sounded entirely feasible; she should have known better to believe they could actually work. Although if it did work in an insulatory capacity it could...
"Man, I know I'm not going to have to bust your ass, because when Cordelia finds out they're gonna have to scrape you from all four corners of the earth. Presuming, of course, this doesn't kill her."
"Casting any sort of interference to the process very well could. There is nothing to suggest any harm is going to come to her. "
"I *know* that's why we just spent three hours rigging that bed with chains and reinforcing it so that Angelus can't break out of it."
"Gunn, there's nothing to suggest that Angelus is going to result from their..."
Gunn smiles wryly and emptily, making his point clear:
"You really believe that Cordelia is incapable of making Angel happy?"
Exasperated, Wesley takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. Fred looks at him.
"It is possible that they could... *without* him losing his soul. But there is no harm in worrying either of them any more than they already are. True moments of happiness are rare things."
"But..." Fred ventures, "Don't you think Cordelia is important to him? Well she has been lately,...and he bought her that dress..."
Wesley ponders it: "And that necklace..."
"Not to mention busting that Billy guy out of the demon dimension." Gunn appends.
"Yes, who can forget?" adds Wesley dryly but he looks to Fred, who continues oblivious to the reference.
"But my point was that they've grown kind of...close, don't you think?"
Wes still seems to be pondering it: "It's possible, but I haven't noticed..."
Gunn clears his throat and ostentatiously nods to Fred: "Woman radar."
Fred smiles.
"Thanks, Charles. I kind of think they like each other more than they know. And before, they had that big curse thing but that was before Darla squelched it and..." She shrugs, "Kye-rumption. There it is."
Gunn blinks at Fred's unabridged version, "I think what the lady is trying to say is: You seem pretty sure of yourself."
Fred seems surprised to hear the words escaping from her mouth; she was not thinking them - really:
"Do you know something, that we don't kn- haven't thought of?"
Gunn leans forward on the table next to Wes, one strong arm supporting him, says in a low voice:
"I want to be sure I hear this right."
Wes does not address Gunn's agitation, just sails right past it.
"It's a thought I've had. As of yet, hypothetical. The effects of the spell could depend on the caster and/or the disposition of the caster - a mood of vengeance. From what we've seen it was presumed that sex alone could have been a sufficient trigger, which we've since discovered is not the case."
Fred shifts forwards in her chair: "Who cast the spell the last-"
"Willow. You met her last summer. But previously the spell was cast by the Kalderash, a clan of gypsy people, who lost it after many generations."
Gunn cuts in: "On account of them all being slaughtered, am I right?"
"Yes. Well, presumably not all of them died in the initial...culling. Their descendent, Jenny Calendar, discovered the texts and set about restoring the original spell."
Fred raises a hand briefly, "What happened to her? Because we could-"
"She's dead. Angelus broke her neck." Gunn sums up. "You see it's these fun facts that keep restoring my faith in this process."
Gunn seems less than thrilled, as if finally seeing all the pieces. Wes, understanding but clear of his point reminds the younger:
"Gunn, he was without a soul. We know historically what he's capable of - it's why he was cursed in the first place."
Gunn seems to accept that for the moment. Fred, deep in thought, taps her pen on the table.
"So if Willow cast the spell does that change the effects of the curse?"
"I don't know for sure, but when Willow was last here I took the liberty of gathering most of the information we have here. It seems that Willow channelled some of the powerful magicks, possibly with the aid of a Rumanian apparition - I don't know."
Tapping a little slower now, Fred asks: "Were there any witnesses?"
"Her boyfriend at the time, Oz, I think; and oddly enough Cordelia."
Wesley can see Fred mentally ticking.
"So you think the context of the spell might have been subtly modified?"
"Yes, possibly."
"And that's why he could sleep with Darla without losing it completely?" Gunn's question.
"Yes. That and the presumption that it wasn't a great time for happiness."
Gunn frowns. "I don't know, English. That sounds like supposition at best."
"But that supposition might be all we have left, other than Cordelia's belief that nothing's going to go wrong."
"Why's that important?" Fred wonders.
"If Cordelia sees Angelus as a certainty she might choose her life over awakening the demon."
Fred all but splutters: "But...but we need her...to do what we do."
"Precisely. That's why no matter what the outcome we need her to pass her visions on with the least harm to both of them."
Gunn stands free of the table: "So I guess the question is: Who's gonna cast this spell?"
Both erudites remove their glasses, simultaneously. Abstractly cleaning the lenses, lost in thought.
***
If he reaches out, he can stroke her bare shoulder lightly. Her breathing is more regular now and as he touches her, in part to get her to register him in some way - wordlessness, on her, is actually quite disturbing - she actually looks at him directly.
"You know, if I could see that wouldn't be quite so creepy."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
She feels her way to the corner of the bed and sits beside him before asking:
"Can I lean on your shoulder?"
"Sure."
And she does, though he is not sure whether to put his arm around her would work against him. She leans into him while she stares at nothing. The radio is awash with dry static and overlapping conversation. Across the room a breeze lifts the curtains up as if it were hooked before dropping it again. He makes out the words "some showers heading our way" before they are drowned out completely. As his side the fading smell of flowers in Cordelia's hair.
"I always wondered if it will hurt."
This jars him out of whatever he may be thinking: "What?"
She corrects him swiftly.
"When you have my visions."
"Oh."
She laughs a little laugh.
"Listen to me, 'my visions'. They were Doyle's before me. Maybe someone else's before that...They weren't really mine, I was just..." She shrugs. "The messenger."
"You weren't *just* the messenger."
"Well sort of. Kind of like 'operator girl' instead of 'vision girl'...I miss him still, you know?"
He nods, then remembers she cannot see it, so speaks: "All the time."
"It's like life is: Everything must go...I guess," She looks in his direction for a moment, thinks, then adds: "Eventually. And...things kind of...change. At first, I was glad to have them because... they were his and then..."
She remembers him going. Neither of them could stop him. Silly little Doyle. Immortal hero. Dead. The real heaviness of her grief hits her again but instead of holding it in she simply takes it's weight without resistance.
"He was just gone and I didn't get to say what I felt...I didn't..." She takes a deep breath, lets him know. "When you get them remember what they meant to...us."
She pauses. "Is it blue in here?"
"Yes. Your sight's returning that's good."
"I feel like it's wrong for me to be here. To be doing this..."
His hand strokes the back of her head gently.
"Cordelia..."
"Don't...I feel responsible. Like with Billy, it wasn't my fault but it was because of me. I just feel like I'm only going to get in the way afterwards. (Although...I don't seem to remember getting in the way before). I've just gotten used to the way things are and...I feel like if I let go..."
"He's gone."
This time she nods. He grasps her shoulders squarely. Looks at her just as squarely.
"I can feel you staring."
"You are never going to be in the way. We're more likely to be in yours."
She pulls out of his grip, finds his shoulder again and rests there, ignoring his rising passion:
"How's that?"
She feels comfortable there, safe.
"I just thought that without your visions you could...have a more normal life."
"'A more normal life'? Buster, you are *so* not getting rid of me that easily. I could not have a normal life if it came with a Gucci label and a handle. Weird things follow me around: I lived on a hellmouth, remember? My best friend in high school is now a vampire. I've hung out with people who save the world and come back from the dead. And I know this City's pain - first hand. It doesn't go away. You think I'd want to walk away from helping so many people to try and pretend lurky demon minions of hell don't really exist? Why would you think that?"
"I just thought you missed your old life."
"Honestly?"
"Yeah."
"And that you guys are the consolation prize?"
"Well, yeah."
"Angel, I made a choice to stay. As long as we do what we do, and as long as I can help. I'll be here. I guess it takes you being such a needlehead to remind me of that."
"A...needlehead?"
"You know what I mean."
She holds his hand and he feels the deepness of her intention, of her words. She is blind but he leans in to kiss her and it is almost as if she sees him because she suddenly, abruptly backs off from the attempt. She moves out of his embrace entirely, and he feels her withdrawing to the cold place again. It saddens him for only a moment. He forces himself to speak.
"That's good because we need you..." He frowns; that was not what he meant: "I...need you."
She sparks, perhaps a little too snidely.
"*You* don't need me," He brushes her arm and she moves away, continuing: "You're reaching."
He feels doubly rebuffed but it fuels his kamikaze.
"I need you...because you know me. I *need* you because you see me as I am. Not as I want to be, or what I could be, but as I am. You know me better than anyone. And I...need that."
She cannot help the smile that appears. Her tears well again and she almost turns away. Almost.
"That has to be about the..." Two new tears. "Oh God, I'm turning into Wesley...well...how he used to be. That has to be the best thing anyone's ever said to me. And meant it. You mean it, right? I mean, I know it's true but-"
"I mean it. You don't...trust me?"
She faces him, reaches out to find him. Does. Gives him a gentle rebuking push.
"Come on, I trust you with my life. It's just that..."
"What?"
She sits further back on the bed, waves her hand dismissively.
"Sometimes, I just...you just...You're vibey."
"I'm what?"
"Vibey. You give off some weird kind of 'something'."
He watches her waiting for his response, wondering what she can see when she looks at him while he is speaking. Across the room the wind plays the curtain again.
"D'you want to be a little more specific?"
"You scare me."
"Oh."
"Because sometimes you make me forget I'm only human...and you're...not."
Sometimes the changing lights outside mingled to form purple. Like now.
"You're angry with me."
"No."
"You're not angry with me?"
"I'm angry with myself."
"That's why you wanted to leave?"
There's a trace of guilt: "Yes."
Exhausted with his effort to follow her, he asks simply: "Think you need a...hug?"
She seems on the brink. Drained.
"Sure."
And she burrows into his arms.
***
If Wesley's worried, he doesn't show it. Fred sits on the tabletop, cross-legged, scrutinising the texts on Cordelia's lap top. Gunn holds the glassy orb.
"This holds his soul until the spell is cast?"
Wes nods. Fred looks up only for a moment, assessing the tension between them. She has already forgiven if she has not forgotten. Gunn continues:
"But according to you we don't know if we actually need the spell."
"We're going to have to wait until one of them comes out."
Fred pulls her hair back out of her eyes:
"How many more hours until dawn?"
Wesley checks his watch.
"Four hours."
She takes in the the dark sky of the night at the lobby door, and offers to Wesley meekly:
"I know why you didn't let her know. You must figure she can't take having the visions anymore without them doing permanent damage. Tell her what you know and suddenly she doesn't want to let them go. And plus...stress and madness...with lots of shouting." When Wes nods, she continues indicating the lap top screen:
"And, according to the three books, Angel is the one intended to inherit the visions anyway. So there's little we could do to avoid this, even if we don't like it, especially. Still..."
She would have told her. Even if *she*, herself, did not like the danger element, it was out of her hands. When she fails to feel a drop in the unspoken conflict she decides to do something about it, perhaps *that*'s something she can change. Putting the lap top down on the desk beside her she looks at both of them - Wes now studying the rumanian and Gunn studying the paraphernalia - neither looking at the other.
"It's not just that is it? You've both been like this since...since..."
She stops trying to recall when this actually started to happen.
Gunn interrupts: "You're still not on board for this are you?"
Wes answers: "I'm not going to worry until the facts are established."
"*Or* until one of us wakes up with a pair of teeth in our necks. You're not even a little concerned?"
"I can't say I'm entirely keen on the situation but there doesn't seem to be an alternative. Unless you want to supply one."
"I suggest no matter what happens we've got Cordelia's back."
"And I, as leader of this team, suggest otherwise. Cordelia will be fine."
Fred knows Gunn isn't hearing this and she can only watch helplessly, feeling her hands clench the keyboard until her knuckles blanch.
"Well then maybe..."
"Yes."
Wes seems to be unrattled, but she's seen that expression before. It's the scary one. To her surprise, Gunn backs off.
"Nothing. I need some time to breathe up in here." She senses his anger but it doesn't seem quite right. Gunn pushes away from the table abruptly. "It's getting a little cut off."
He turns on his heel, and for a man so obviously pissed he moves without a sound.
Wes watches for a moment and then carries on reading.
Fred waits for the feeling to come back to her hands, waits a little longer the silence not to feel so bad. Puts the lap top down, quietly on the table before speaking. Tries not to let her voice waver.
"I think you two should at least talk about it." She does not mind being a mediator, so long as she is being heard. "Are you...listening?"
"I am."
Wesley still studies the books in front of him. She wonders where Charles would go; probably in the kitchen, she thinks. Or putting his fist through a wall. Fred puts the flat of her palm down in front of the page Wesley is reading.
"Good. Because I have been known to mumble...and...ramble. And sometimes, when no one is around I wail a little. It's therapeutic."
He sits back in his seat a little to address her.
"I suspect it's part of your genius."
She has a momentary lapse of confidence: "Does that mean I get to lecture you?"
"No."
"Whatever."
Wes smiles for a beat. Cordelia's pet word. Then only another beat before he becomes serious. To her credit, Fred ignores him.
"You and Charles are friends, and for friends I don't think you understand each other very well."
Wes attempts to interrupt but she cuts him short, putting a finger to her lips for a moment.
"Even if he says stuff that makes you question his... motivations, it doesn't matter. Look at what Charles does. What he's done. He still looks out for everyone. I really don't know what the disagreement between you two is but you're both making the mistake of being men about it."
"Being men?"
Wes' tone drops awkwardly. Sensing his discomfort, Fred touches his arm and adds softly: "Not like that, Wes."
She wants to add that it's okay but she understands that it might hurt him. Still fresh wounds there. She could say, that Billy thing was an accident, a mistake, a manipulation, but this is not her battle. Not her place. *He* has to let it go. When he is ready - Cordelia had said to give him time.
He pats the hand on his arm gently and rises from the chair. She wants to say more he is already speaking, retreating. Pushing her away.
"I'll go find him...and talk...man to man."
He smiles briefly and she realises the intended humour there.
"Good!" If a little shaky.
He heads for the back offices.
"You might want to try the kitchens."
"Thanks."
The voice is still not quite strong enough. He is still afraid of what he did to her. She stands on her own private shore unable to stop her friend drowning. He looks back for a moment, before disappearing.
She gives him the thumbs up. He smiles again. Better. He has his head above water now. She glances at the laptop screen, then back at where she should be gone. He is still there. She shoos him silently, mouthing the words "go on". And he is gone.
***
Wes travels down the stairs, noting how they spiral. Downwards. He stops for a moment of reflection, using it to clean his glasses again. He can see the far light from the kitchen; make out the low noises of someone there.
He is still awkward with Fred, when he should not be. He cannot help it. No matter how hard he tries. As leader of the team he thinks it better not to be distracted.
Bollocks.
It hurts because he knows she can discern he is pushing her away. Fred is anything but stupid. And he fears that cruel something in him leaking out again. Makes him afraid of himself, for her sake. For everything. If he cannot keep himself together...
He replaces his glasses. Notes that she calls Gunn, Charles, all the time now. Continues down the stairs.
He enters the kitchen as Gunn is finishing a soft drink. Putting the empty bottle to the side, Gunn greets him.
"Hey."
A low-key introduction, taps the vein of discontent. Gunn continues:
"I guess that's it, huh?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You're here to give me the talk."
"The talk?"
"The one before you let me go. I understand...I guess...but I think we had better make sure Cordelia's good before anyone goes anywhere."
"I'm not...going to fire you. Your comments, though a little charged, were quite valid."
The heartening that Wes had intended to communicate with that comment fails to change anything in Gunn's demeanour.
"Fred sent you didn't she?"
No answer to that. Except that Wesley marvels that those two have become so emotionally aware of each other in such a short time.
Gunn is on his feet heading towards the door. He drops his bottle in the trash bin with a loud glassy clink. Does not make an exit because Wesley is not finished yet.
"Charles."
Gunn stops. The name was put out there as a personal gesture but Wes might have pushed it too far. Has he been distancing from everyone? Dear God. Yet he continues because he has Gunn's attention now.
"Something's bothering you."
Gunn takes in the new caring approach, leans against a wall near the doorway and replies:
"You think?" With something close to sarcasm but closer to cynicism.
"I also know we don't tend to talk about it." Wes offers: "Fred thinks it's a 'man thing'"
"She'd be right - *that's* a woman thing."
"Of course." Wes gets to the heart of the dialogue before it costs him. "Angel and Cordelia...no harm will come to her, he wouldn't do that. It's not like..."
"Alonna?"
There is a sense of relief that Gunn actually opens up at this point. Wes just did not know how raw the subject was, which buttons did not blow the fuse. He watches Gunn reliving an old grief, and as he speaks realises that what Gunn lost was family. Meaning. It disturbs him that Gunn may have been like this for some time and no one but Fred thought to notice. Even when it was obvious. Perhaps that was because she knew what he felt on a subliminal level.
"Man, I know she's gone. There's not a day that I don't know. It doesn't go anywhere. I don't even know if she went to heaven or..." And Gunn looks Wes right in the eye on this. "Hell."
It all clicks into place. The demon dimensions, Darla's resurrection, not all demons being evil - a point that cost him (and everyone) dear.
"I could have saved her."
Wesley cannot reassure him with the argument that Alonna was dead the minute the fangs met her throat. Wasn't Angel dead too? Wasn't Darla? Wasn't Buffy? All words.
"Cordelia's not in danger of being turned. And if she was we'd have to-"
"Don't say it man, this job is wack."
There is silence. It does not sit will. Gunn moves back into the kitchen, lost. Wanders to the sink and closes a tap there even though it does not appear to Wesley to be dripping. Gunn is in his own world of private torment. He smiles but it's one made of the past.
"The rain. Dripping pipes. Used to keep her up all night, all day."
"What was she like?" Wesley ventures.
"Protective. Didn't take any crap. I couldn't get away with anything - even dusting vamps on our own turf. If I did, homegirl would pick it up. In our group she's the closest thing to your mamma and she knew how to make you regret you'd ever been born. If she wanted, she could give me hell." He pauses, then says is the softest voice. "Where is she Wes? Is she trapped somewhere? Or is she really gone?"
"I don't...know. I'm sorry we didn't...I didn't-"
"Forget it, man." He hardens. "She's gone. Except in here." He presses his fingers to his temples. "And here." His heart.
Gunn is closing up before his eyes. The moment evaporating. The frustration of not knowing what to say rises through Wesley for a moment. And why does he not know what to say?
Then suddenly he hears her:
"No, Charles," Fred in the doorway, behind them both. "She's alive in you."
She exchanges a quick look of gratitude with Wes before moving to Gunn. She clasps one of his hands in hers, touching his face with the other. It is in his posture; Wes knows he is going to break. And he does. Right there in front of them. Gunn's heart breaks. He cries into Fred's shoulder.
Wes backs away, discomfited. Fred calls to him before he can leave, or she tries to with her eyes. He shrugs. This is not his place either - it might be embarrassing. If Gunn is going to open to anyone, Fred might be able to do it. Best to let them...get on with it.
She looks at his defeat sadly before he goes, and just as sadly but with a note of empathy and thanks gives him the thumbs up. He repeats the gesture before ascending the stair alone.
***
When she is in his arms her headaches no longer seem so bad.
"How do you feel?"
"Okay, I guess. My head still...hurts."
"How's your sight?"
"Coming back..."
It was funny how she could hear how the words rose and reverberated through Angel's body but could not feel his chest rise and fall to breathe, or his heart beating. And now that she noticed, his body temperature seemed to be falling. What did that mean? She continued her sentence while running an experimental hand over his shirt, liking the click of the buttons even if she could not actually see them.
"Everything's still a blur. I'm seeing some shapes, outlines, lights - it's getting red in here, right?" Or was that just her blood?
"Yes...it's kind of soothing."
Again she could feel the vibrations of his words against her ear, and the shifting tension of his muscles under the shirt, but nothing else. He was almost ghost-like - was that why vampires had no reflection? Because they only existed in the sensory world?
"Cordelia."
"Hmmm...?"
She realised she was stroking his shirt and stopped it with a start.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to be."
He was slipping out of their hug so he could lie beside her. She could tell because he was blocking the blur from the candle. And he did not have to say he was staring at her again. Intently. She felt his fingers stroke the hair from her shoulder, glance the neck. Stroking the line of her jaw. Her hand went out, if only to balance her other four senses. He was there. She tried to find his face. She felt him inhale her.
She did not know what about that freaked her suddenly, but she knew the breath was not necessary. It was...personal. Her hands were on his shoulders now, and she could feel him leaning in. Leaning in.
His lips were cool.
He did not kiss her immediately, just let their lips brush, presumably so she knew what he was doing. And just like that his arms were around her, drawing her in.
She flinched. Broke their kiss. Shuddering.
She actually heard herself squeak, as there was another vision. Or rather a revisit of the last one. It did not go on as long as the other but it was definitely about her and Angel; moving together, feeling each other move. Angel had to hold her tight to stop her thrashing. But she was not so much in pain as she was surprised, because after the initial fear all she felt was warmth and belonging, need and low sensual craving. When it was over she could not claw away from him fast enough.
"Go downstairs."
"Are you o-"
She almost yelled at him, poor guy.
"No, I'm not." She was pissed off in extremis.
"I need you to go and check with them." She put her hands to her head to offset the slight ringing. "Make sure there isn't another way around this."
"I think you should-"
Was she starting to see better? How could that be? She could almost she his concern.
"I'm okay. I just need to be sure there wasn't another way."
"I'm not going anywhere."
She tried to find his outline, find him with her hands.
"Please, I can't do this if I'm not sure. Tell Wesley 'the sky is red in Bermuda', he'll know what I mean."
She had to physically push him off the bed. And he did not want to go. The yellow of the candle came to her as it started to flicker.
"I won't be long."
"I'll be fine." She said it in as strong and convincing a voice as she could. "Go."
She heard the door open and close and guessed that he had left. The cold air had blown the candle out - her vision had suddenly darkened. The radio buzzed faraway. Quietly she turned over on the bed, away from it all. Heard the chink of the chains against the mattress.
This was going to happen.
She closed her eyes.
***
Part IV
++++++++++++++++++++++++
I'll give you strength
But I cannot give you keys
Three Doors ~ VAST
+++++++++++++++++++++++
He pauses at the door before entering, as if waiting for a change in his instincts. An invitation. A sense of the world restored. It does not come.
He can hear everything. The traffic beyond the room itself, the radio playing softly within, the slow, smooth rush of her pulse and how it played with him. He could hear her breathing. Shallow air, sometimes inconsistently taken; a snort of consternation mixed in with the dis-ease.
The door creaks snarkily as he enters. He hears her inhale again at the sound of his voice:
"Cordelia?"
Her scent is a shimmer in his memory. Her silhouette curved, winding into the webbed shadows. She does not appear to move at the sound of his entry, at the sound of his voice. Calling her.
She leans out into the night, through an opened window; where the air is cool, pleasant but perhaps a little cold for a hot-blooded human such as her. The audible click of the door closing draws little visible response from her either but he feels the rise in her pulse as if it were pulling him towards her.
He stays where he is.
"Cordelia?...It's kind of...cold."
For a while no response. Then, slowly, turning in the darkness, she faces him. The curtain of her hair parts and he can see her face. Something has abandoned her.
"Maybe. I was just...trying to get down to your temperature."
Free from nightblindess he can see with all his preternatural clarity that her expression betrays the harshness in her words - opening and closing like a book. Only a moment before it turns to anger then fades to something else. She walks towards him, enters the circular glow of the candle on the bedside table. Sits on the edge of the bed itself. He takes this as invitation until she speaks again.
"You know it's never a good idea when coworkers get groiny."
This troubles him. What can he say to her words? But he makes no disclosure to the dangers. When he sits at her side, not so close to be intrusive but close enough to be felt, to be touched, he cannot help but say her name again.
"Cordelia... it wouldn't be-"
She looks at him, all apologies.
"I'm sorry. You don't need reminding."
The sad smile peeks through. Looks away suddenly, stares hard at her lap, the way the blue of the dress comes through even in the light of a singular flame, the way her veins show when her fingers close over the cloth. And as she clasps it gently, how easily, with the right pressure, it might tear. She stammers now.
"I'm sorry..."
He cannot help but clasp her hands in his - her heat bleeds into him and he savours its slow comfort. But it bothers him that she feels his chill, her expression remote, unreadable. As his grasp slides up over her wrists, he feels the strength of the pulse there and pauses. She escapes him. Rising again, words spill from her, not even thinking about him.
"I'm sorry I didn't get drunk while I could."
He says nothing, focusing on her movements. He can discern the roar of her blood and the mild influence of alcohol there that still affects her but to an ever-diminishing degree. Scents rise and fall in her, uneasy and wary. He takes off his jacket as she semi-paces. She sees him doing it and he senses her movement towards the door before she makes it. Arrives there ahead of her. She baulks at this unexpected manifestation before her - she had not seen him move - and yes, he can do that when he wants to. Her exit suddenly blocked, she backs off more than a little disturbed. But whether in response to her running or her being cornered, he prefers not to know. He knows she does not like what she feels. It's all in the way she steps away from him.
"I think I should go home."
"I think you should stay."
"I think you can think what you like," she steps in closer presuming his retreat. "Behind me."
He laughs a little.
"Cordy..."
Her eyes are stern but he senses fear within her and the beginnings of more than a little rage. Her hand reaches for the handle and he reaches to stop her. Something in her manner objects to his touch and withdraws sharply wherever he finds her. When he looks at her earnestly, she avoids his eyes.
"I *need* not to be here."
He pleads with her by glances. She ignores.
"You're making this difficult-"
"Why are you still in my way?"
"Cordelia, look at me."
He grapples with his mounting need to hold her and make her see sense. See him. He whispers.
"Cordy"
His voice is low, unfussed by the need to hide his desperation. She speaks again:
"Tell me again that this isn't going to result in you going evil."
"It isn't."
Her head cocks slightly to the side: "And that's your informed opinion from experience?"
"Is that a...trick question?"
"Only if you avoid answering it."
"With Darla, it was...complicated. She was..."
"There? I'm sorry; I'm all complexed out. And if I am not totally over it, I am no longer under it. You can't save me from what you are this time, Angel."
"A vampire?"
"A liar. Of course, there's that sneaky turning into a homicidal monster thing but *that* is so far from my mind right now."
She smiles at her own sarcasm, and just as quickly it is gone. He reaches for her shoulder - only a slight touch. As she avoids his eyes again he can see the tears welling. While trying to mask her frustration as pride, she loses one. His hand rises to her cheek to spare her the reminder of its moisture. She allows this contact only after a slight, redundant shake of her head. Her face remains unstained and she chooses her words without thought.
"Waterproof." Rationalises her tears. "See, I knew this would happen." Smiles weakly, before turning away from his own. "About the only thing I could have predicted minus a-"
Her body stiffens. He knows its herald. As she falls, she screams.
"Gyahh!!"
He catches her. She bites back her agony, quite accidentally drawing blood. The heat dances out of her again as her pulse steeply rises, her skin again engorged. Tingles of fear mixed in with understandings. Newness. She breathes again only when there is respite. Tries to recover but pushes awkwardly against his embrace, seeking purchase. Not finding it. Something not quite right. She breathes the beginnings of his name, while he rocks her gently. Gently until her nails no longer bite into his flesh. Until her body finds its balance.
Her eyes open wide as she looks up to see him but he realises, does not see. He registers only a small panic on her part. She expected this.
"Angel."
Her eyelashes matted but the pupils showing no response, refuse to widen.
"Angel?"
More of a question, her body growing more uneasy by the second. He reassures:
"It's okay, I'm here."
"I...can't...I had a-"
"Vision. I know. I guessed. You're...blind."
"It's temporary." She does not sound too sure.
"And you don't think that this is something we could have talked about?"
"No. So see, we're both big liars - we should start a club, or something." He brushes a stray hair from her face, as she moves against him awkwardly. "I...want to get up now."
He lets her out of his arms reluctantly. Helps her to her feet. As she holds one arm out in front of her, he guides her. Feeling the post of the bed she rests there, refusing to go any further. The radio on the other side of the room squawks unexpectedly, making her jump. Her hand feels downward, finding the mattress with her fingertips. She finds the familiar feel of the sheets but remains standing, supported by the wooden pillar, staring out like a wonderful figurehead.
He waits for a certain stillness before speaking again:
"What did you see?"
"I--"
Her body spasms as the images rocket through her once more.
But she bites down on it again, muffling her cries. An aftershock, it seems. She inhales deeply. He can only sit on the bed before her blind eyes, unseen. Her heart - her rich, little heart - still beats fiercely.
She is noticeably dazed and her tone announces her confusion, as if she were still experiencing.
"What do you see?"
Her voice is hoarse now: "Bodies."
"Whose?"
"Ours."
***
The young man stands tall, half obscuring the light overhead, staring down - focused and just a little ticked.
"So let me get this straight. There are no 'ward spells', you just let Cordelia think that there were."
At the table, lower than Gunn's line of sight, Wesley sits at his table of musty books. At the opposite end of the table Fred looks slightly nervous.
"There *are* ward spells, there just aren't any that are effective to their unique situation. Any attempts to alter Angel's disposition in these circumstances could have unpredictable consequences."
Gunn crosses out of the light, making Fred, who had been scrutinising the expressions of both men closely for any early signs of disagreement, reflexively shield her eyes. The intensity of Gunn's disposition has not changed. Wesley seems harried but equally intense - it happens a lot when he does the book thing, she thinks. She visibly twitches when Gunn crosses his arms in front of his chest and just short of glares at Wes. She searches her mind for what was last said about the spells. Oh yeah, the 'ward spells' were protective, metaphysically shells of sorts. They were meant to ensure Angel's soul stayed put by - somehow - forming a resistance to his emotional current? They had not sounded entirely feasible; she should have known better to believe they could actually work. Although if it did work in an insulatory capacity it could...
"Man, I know I'm not going to have to bust your ass, because when Cordelia finds out they're gonna have to scrape you from all four corners of the earth. Presuming, of course, this doesn't kill her."
"Casting any sort of interference to the process very well could. There is nothing to suggest any harm is going to come to her. "
"I *know* that's why we just spent three hours rigging that bed with chains and reinforcing it so that Angelus can't break out of it."
"Gunn, there's nothing to suggest that Angelus is going to result from their..."
Gunn smiles wryly and emptily, making his point clear:
"You really believe that Cordelia is incapable of making Angel happy?"
Exasperated, Wesley takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. Fred looks at him.
"It is possible that they could... *without* him losing his soul. But there is no harm in worrying either of them any more than they already are. True moments of happiness are rare things."
"But..." Fred ventures, "Don't you think Cordelia is important to him? Well she has been lately,...and he bought her that dress..."
Wesley ponders it: "And that necklace..."
"Not to mention busting that Billy guy out of the demon dimension." Gunn appends.
"Yes, who can forget?" adds Wesley dryly but he looks to Fred, who continues oblivious to the reference.
"But my point was that they've grown kind of...close, don't you think?"
Wes still seems to be pondering it: "It's possible, but I haven't noticed..."
Gunn clears his throat and ostentatiously nods to Fred: "Woman radar."
Fred smiles.
"Thanks, Charles. I kind of think they like each other more than they know. And before, they had that big curse thing but that was before Darla squelched it and..." She shrugs, "Kye-rumption. There it is."
Gunn blinks at Fred's unabridged version, "I think what the lady is trying to say is: You seem pretty sure of yourself."
Fred seems surprised to hear the words escaping from her mouth; she was not thinking them - really:
"Do you know something, that we don't kn- haven't thought of?"
Gunn leans forward on the table next to Wes, one strong arm supporting him, says in a low voice:
"I want to be sure I hear this right."
Wes does not address Gunn's agitation, just sails right past it.
"It's a thought I've had. As of yet, hypothetical. The effects of the spell could depend on the caster and/or the disposition of the caster - a mood of vengeance. From what we've seen it was presumed that sex alone could have been a sufficient trigger, which we've since discovered is not the case."
Fred shifts forwards in her chair: "Who cast the spell the last-"
"Willow. You met her last summer. But previously the spell was cast by the Kalderash, a clan of gypsy people, who lost it after many generations."
Gunn cuts in: "On account of them all being slaughtered, am I right?"
"Yes. Well, presumably not all of them died in the initial...culling. Their descendent, Jenny Calendar, discovered the texts and set about restoring the original spell."
Fred raises a hand briefly, "What happened to her? Because we could-"
"She's dead. Angelus broke her neck." Gunn sums up. "You see it's these fun facts that keep restoring my faith in this process."
Gunn seems less than thrilled, as if finally seeing all the pieces. Wes, understanding but clear of his point reminds the younger:
"Gunn, he was without a soul. We know historically what he's capable of - it's why he was cursed in the first place."
Gunn seems to accept that for the moment. Fred, deep in thought, taps her pen on the table.
"So if Willow cast the spell does that change the effects of the curse?"
"I don't know for sure, but when Willow was last here I took the liberty of gathering most of the information we have here. It seems that Willow channelled some of the powerful magicks, possibly with the aid of a Rumanian apparition - I don't know."
Tapping a little slower now, Fred asks: "Were there any witnesses?"
"Her boyfriend at the time, Oz, I think; and oddly enough Cordelia."
Wesley can see Fred mentally ticking.
"So you think the context of the spell might have been subtly modified?"
"Yes, possibly."
"And that's why he could sleep with Darla without losing it completely?" Gunn's question.
"Yes. That and the presumption that it wasn't a great time for happiness."
Gunn frowns. "I don't know, English. That sounds like supposition at best."
"But that supposition might be all we have left, other than Cordelia's belief that nothing's going to go wrong."
"Why's that important?" Fred wonders.
"If Cordelia sees Angelus as a certainty she might choose her life over awakening the demon."
Fred all but splutters: "But...but we need her...to do what we do."
"Precisely. That's why no matter what the outcome we need her to pass her visions on with the least harm to both of them."
Gunn stands free of the table: "So I guess the question is: Who's gonna cast this spell?"
Both erudites remove their glasses, simultaneously. Abstractly cleaning the lenses, lost in thought.
***
If he reaches out, he can stroke her bare shoulder lightly. Her breathing is more regular now and as he touches her, in part to get her to register him in some way - wordlessness, on her, is actually quite disturbing - she actually looks at him directly.
"You know, if I could see that wouldn't be quite so creepy."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
She feels her way to the corner of the bed and sits beside him before asking:
"Can I lean on your shoulder?"
"Sure."
And she does, though he is not sure whether to put his arm around her would work against him. She leans into him while she stares at nothing. The radio is awash with dry static and overlapping conversation. Across the room a breeze lifts the curtains up as if it were hooked before dropping it again. He makes out the words "some showers heading our way" before they are drowned out completely. As his side the fading smell of flowers in Cordelia's hair.
"I always wondered if it will hurt."
This jars him out of whatever he may be thinking: "What?"
She corrects him swiftly.
"When you have my visions."
"Oh."
She laughs a little laugh.
"Listen to me, 'my visions'. They were Doyle's before me. Maybe someone else's before that...They weren't really mine, I was just..." She shrugs. "The messenger."
"You weren't *just* the messenger."
"Well sort of. Kind of like 'operator girl' instead of 'vision girl'...I miss him still, you know?"
He nods, then remembers she cannot see it, so speaks: "All the time."
"It's like life is: Everything must go...I guess," She looks in his direction for a moment, thinks, then adds: "Eventually. And...things kind of...change. At first, I was glad to have them because... they were his and then..."
She remembers him going. Neither of them could stop him. Silly little Doyle. Immortal hero. Dead. The real heaviness of her grief hits her again but instead of holding it in she simply takes it's weight without resistance.
"He was just gone and I didn't get to say what I felt...I didn't..." She takes a deep breath, lets him know. "When you get them remember what they meant to...us."
She pauses. "Is it blue in here?"
"Yes. Your sight's returning that's good."
"I feel like it's wrong for me to be here. To be doing this..."
His hand strokes the back of her head gently.
"Cordelia..."
"Don't...I feel responsible. Like with Billy, it wasn't my fault but it was because of me. I just feel like I'm only going to get in the way afterwards. (Although...I don't seem to remember getting in the way before). I've just gotten used to the way things are and...I feel like if I let go..."
"He's gone."
This time she nods. He grasps her shoulders squarely. Looks at her just as squarely.
"I can feel you staring."
"You are never going to be in the way. We're more likely to be in yours."
She pulls out of his grip, finds his shoulder again and rests there, ignoring his rising passion:
"How's that?"
She feels comfortable there, safe.
"I just thought that without your visions you could...have a more normal life."
"'A more normal life'? Buster, you are *so* not getting rid of me that easily. I could not have a normal life if it came with a Gucci label and a handle. Weird things follow me around: I lived on a hellmouth, remember? My best friend in high school is now a vampire. I've hung out with people who save the world and come back from the dead. And I know this City's pain - first hand. It doesn't go away. You think I'd want to walk away from helping so many people to try and pretend lurky demon minions of hell don't really exist? Why would you think that?"
"I just thought you missed your old life."
"Honestly?"
"Yeah."
"And that you guys are the consolation prize?"
"Well, yeah."
"Angel, I made a choice to stay. As long as we do what we do, and as long as I can help. I'll be here. I guess it takes you being such a needlehead to remind me of that."
"A...needlehead?"
"You know what I mean."
She holds his hand and he feels the deepness of her intention, of her words. She is blind but he leans in to kiss her and it is almost as if she sees him because she suddenly, abruptly backs off from the attempt. She moves out of his embrace entirely, and he feels her withdrawing to the cold place again. It saddens him for only a moment. He forces himself to speak.
"That's good because we need you..." He frowns; that was not what he meant: "I...need you."
She sparks, perhaps a little too snidely.
"*You* don't need me," He brushes her arm and she moves away, continuing: "You're reaching."
He feels doubly rebuffed but it fuels his kamikaze.
"I need you...because you know me. I *need* you because you see me as I am. Not as I want to be, or what I could be, but as I am. You know me better than anyone. And I...need that."
She cannot help the smile that appears. Her tears well again and she almost turns away. Almost.
"That has to be about the..." Two new tears. "Oh God, I'm turning into Wesley...well...how he used to be. That has to be the best thing anyone's ever said to me. And meant it. You mean it, right? I mean, I know it's true but-"
"I mean it. You don't...trust me?"
She faces him, reaches out to find him. Does. Gives him a gentle rebuking push.
"Come on, I trust you with my life. It's just that..."
"What?"
She sits further back on the bed, waves her hand dismissively.
"Sometimes, I just...you just...You're vibey."
"I'm what?"
"Vibey. You give off some weird kind of 'something'."
He watches her waiting for his response, wondering what she can see when she looks at him while he is speaking. Across the room the wind plays the curtain again.
"D'you want to be a little more specific?"
"You scare me."
"Oh."
"Because sometimes you make me forget I'm only human...and you're...not."
Sometimes the changing lights outside mingled to form purple. Like now.
"You're angry with me."
"No."
"You're not angry with me?"
"I'm angry with myself."
"That's why you wanted to leave?"
There's a trace of guilt: "Yes."
Exhausted with his effort to follow her, he asks simply: "Think you need a...hug?"
She seems on the brink. Drained.
"Sure."
And she burrows into his arms.
***
If Wesley's worried, he doesn't show it. Fred sits on the tabletop, cross-legged, scrutinising the texts on Cordelia's lap top. Gunn holds the glassy orb.
"This holds his soul until the spell is cast?"
Wes nods. Fred looks up only for a moment, assessing the tension between them. She has already forgiven if she has not forgotten. Gunn continues:
"But according to you we don't know if we actually need the spell."
"We're going to have to wait until one of them comes out."
Fred pulls her hair back out of her eyes:
"How many more hours until dawn?"
Wesley checks his watch.
"Four hours."
She takes in the the dark sky of the night at the lobby door, and offers to Wesley meekly:
"I know why you didn't let her know. You must figure she can't take having the visions anymore without them doing permanent damage. Tell her what you know and suddenly she doesn't want to let them go. And plus...stress and madness...with lots of shouting." When Wes nods, she continues indicating the lap top screen:
"And, according to the three books, Angel is the one intended to inherit the visions anyway. So there's little we could do to avoid this, even if we don't like it, especially. Still..."
She would have told her. Even if *she*, herself, did not like the danger element, it was out of her hands. When she fails to feel a drop in the unspoken conflict she decides to do something about it, perhaps *that*'s something she can change. Putting the lap top down on the desk beside her she looks at both of them - Wes now studying the rumanian and Gunn studying the paraphernalia - neither looking at the other.
"It's not just that is it? You've both been like this since...since..."
She stops trying to recall when this actually started to happen.
Gunn interrupts: "You're still not on board for this are you?"
Wes answers: "I'm not going to worry until the facts are established."
"*Or* until one of us wakes up with a pair of teeth in our necks. You're not even a little concerned?"
"I can't say I'm entirely keen on the situation but there doesn't seem to be an alternative. Unless you want to supply one."
"I suggest no matter what happens we've got Cordelia's back."
"And I, as leader of this team, suggest otherwise. Cordelia will be fine."
Fred knows Gunn isn't hearing this and she can only watch helplessly, feeling her hands clench the keyboard until her knuckles blanch.
"Well then maybe..."
"Yes."
Wes seems to be unrattled, but she's seen that expression before. It's the scary one. To her surprise, Gunn backs off.
"Nothing. I need some time to breathe up in here." She senses his anger but it doesn't seem quite right. Gunn pushes away from the table abruptly. "It's getting a little cut off."
He turns on his heel, and for a man so obviously pissed he moves without a sound.
Wes watches for a moment and then carries on reading.
Fred waits for the feeling to come back to her hands, waits a little longer the silence not to feel so bad. Puts the lap top down, quietly on the table before speaking. Tries not to let her voice waver.
"I think you two should at least talk about it." She does not mind being a mediator, so long as she is being heard. "Are you...listening?"
"I am."
Wesley still studies the books in front of him. She wonders where Charles would go; probably in the kitchen, she thinks. Or putting his fist through a wall. Fred puts the flat of her palm down in front of the page Wesley is reading.
"Good. Because I have been known to mumble...and...ramble. And sometimes, when no one is around I wail a little. It's therapeutic."
He sits back in his seat a little to address her.
"I suspect it's part of your genius."
She has a momentary lapse of confidence: "Does that mean I get to lecture you?"
"No."
"Whatever."
Wes smiles for a beat. Cordelia's pet word. Then only another beat before he becomes serious. To her credit, Fred ignores him.
"You and Charles are friends, and for friends I don't think you understand each other very well."
Wes attempts to interrupt but she cuts him short, putting a finger to her lips for a moment.
"Even if he says stuff that makes you question his... motivations, it doesn't matter. Look at what Charles does. What he's done. He still looks out for everyone. I really don't know what the disagreement between you two is but you're both making the mistake of being men about it."
"Being men?"
Wes' tone drops awkwardly. Sensing his discomfort, Fred touches his arm and adds softly: "Not like that, Wes."
She wants to add that it's okay but she understands that it might hurt him. Still fresh wounds there. She could say, that Billy thing was an accident, a mistake, a manipulation, but this is not her battle. Not her place. *He* has to let it go. When he is ready - Cordelia had said to give him time.
He pats the hand on his arm gently and rises from the chair. She wants to say more he is already speaking, retreating. Pushing her away.
"I'll go find him...and talk...man to man."
He smiles briefly and she realises the intended humour there.
"Good!" If a little shaky.
He heads for the back offices.
"You might want to try the kitchens."
"Thanks."
The voice is still not quite strong enough. He is still afraid of what he did to her. She stands on her own private shore unable to stop her friend drowning. He looks back for a moment, before disappearing.
She gives him the thumbs up. He smiles again. Better. He has his head above water now. She glances at the laptop screen, then back at where she should be gone. He is still there. She shoos him silently, mouthing the words "go on". And he is gone.
***
Wes travels down the stairs, noting how they spiral. Downwards. He stops for a moment of reflection, using it to clean his glasses again. He can see the far light from the kitchen; make out the low noises of someone there.
He is still awkward with Fred, when he should not be. He cannot help it. No matter how hard he tries. As leader of the team he thinks it better not to be distracted.
Bollocks.
It hurts because he knows she can discern he is pushing her away. Fred is anything but stupid. And he fears that cruel something in him leaking out again. Makes him afraid of himself, for her sake. For everything. If he cannot keep himself together...
He replaces his glasses. Notes that she calls Gunn, Charles, all the time now. Continues down the stairs.
He enters the kitchen as Gunn is finishing a soft drink. Putting the empty bottle to the side, Gunn greets him.
"Hey."
A low-key introduction, taps the vein of discontent. Gunn continues:
"I guess that's it, huh?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You're here to give me the talk."
"The talk?"
"The one before you let me go. I understand...I guess...but I think we had better make sure Cordelia's good before anyone goes anywhere."
"I'm not...going to fire you. Your comments, though a little charged, were quite valid."
The heartening that Wes had intended to communicate with that comment fails to change anything in Gunn's demeanour.
"Fred sent you didn't she?"
No answer to that. Except that Wesley marvels that those two have become so emotionally aware of each other in such a short time.
Gunn is on his feet heading towards the door. He drops his bottle in the trash bin with a loud glassy clink. Does not make an exit because Wesley is not finished yet.
"Charles."
Gunn stops. The name was put out there as a personal gesture but Wes might have pushed it too far. Has he been distancing from everyone? Dear God. Yet he continues because he has Gunn's attention now.
"Something's bothering you."
Gunn takes in the new caring approach, leans against a wall near the doorway and replies:
"You think?" With something close to sarcasm but closer to cynicism.
"I also know we don't tend to talk about it." Wes offers: "Fred thinks it's a 'man thing'"
"She'd be right - *that's* a woman thing."
"Of course." Wes gets to the heart of the dialogue before it costs him. "Angel and Cordelia...no harm will come to her, he wouldn't do that. It's not like..."
"Alonna?"
There is a sense of relief that Gunn actually opens up at this point. Wes just did not know how raw the subject was, which buttons did not blow the fuse. He watches Gunn reliving an old grief, and as he speaks realises that what Gunn lost was family. Meaning. It disturbs him that Gunn may have been like this for some time and no one but Fred thought to notice. Even when it was obvious. Perhaps that was because she knew what he felt on a subliminal level.
"Man, I know she's gone. There's not a day that I don't know. It doesn't go anywhere. I don't even know if she went to heaven or..." And Gunn looks Wes right in the eye on this. "Hell."
It all clicks into place. The demon dimensions, Darla's resurrection, not all demons being evil - a point that cost him (and everyone) dear.
"I could have saved her."
Wesley cannot reassure him with the argument that Alonna was dead the minute the fangs met her throat. Wasn't Angel dead too? Wasn't Darla? Wasn't Buffy? All words.
"Cordelia's not in danger of being turned. And if she was we'd have to-"
"Don't say it man, this job is wack."
There is silence. It does not sit will. Gunn moves back into the kitchen, lost. Wanders to the sink and closes a tap there even though it does not appear to Wesley to be dripping. Gunn is in his own world of private torment. He smiles but it's one made of the past.
"The rain. Dripping pipes. Used to keep her up all night, all day."
"What was she like?" Wesley ventures.
"Protective. Didn't take any crap. I couldn't get away with anything - even dusting vamps on our own turf. If I did, homegirl would pick it up. In our group she's the closest thing to your mamma and she knew how to make you regret you'd ever been born. If she wanted, she could give me hell." He pauses, then says is the softest voice. "Where is she Wes? Is she trapped somewhere? Or is she really gone?"
"I don't...know. I'm sorry we didn't...I didn't-"
"Forget it, man." He hardens. "She's gone. Except in here." He presses his fingers to his temples. "And here." His heart.
Gunn is closing up before his eyes. The moment evaporating. The frustration of not knowing what to say rises through Wesley for a moment. And why does he not know what to say?
Then suddenly he hears her:
"No, Charles," Fred in the doorway, behind them both. "She's alive in you."
She exchanges a quick look of gratitude with Wes before moving to Gunn. She clasps one of his hands in hers, touching his face with the other. It is in his posture; Wes knows he is going to break. And he does. Right there in front of them. Gunn's heart breaks. He cries into Fred's shoulder.
Wes backs away, discomfited. Fred calls to him before he can leave, or she tries to with her eyes. He shrugs. This is not his place either - it might be embarrassing. If Gunn is going to open to anyone, Fred might be able to do it. Best to let them...get on with it.
She looks at his defeat sadly before he goes, and just as sadly but with a note of empathy and thanks gives him the thumbs up. He repeats the gesture before ascending the stair alone.
***
When she is in his arms her headaches no longer seem so bad.
"How do you feel?"
"Okay, I guess. My head still...hurts."
"How's your sight?"
"Coming back..."
It was funny how she could hear how the words rose and reverberated through Angel's body but could not feel his chest rise and fall to breathe, or his heart beating. And now that she noticed, his body temperature seemed to be falling. What did that mean? She continued her sentence while running an experimental hand over his shirt, liking the click of the buttons even if she could not actually see them.
"Everything's still a blur. I'm seeing some shapes, outlines, lights - it's getting red in here, right?" Or was that just her blood?
"Yes...it's kind of soothing."
Again she could feel the vibrations of his words against her ear, and the shifting tension of his muscles under the shirt, but nothing else. He was almost ghost-like - was that why vampires had no reflection? Because they only existed in the sensory world?
"Cordelia."
"Hmmm...?"
She realised she was stroking his shirt and stopped it with a start.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to be."
He was slipping out of their hug so he could lie beside her. She could tell because he was blocking the blur from the candle. And he did not have to say he was staring at her again. Intently. She felt his fingers stroke the hair from her shoulder, glance the neck. Stroking the line of her jaw. Her hand went out, if only to balance her other four senses. He was there. She tried to find his face. She felt him inhale her.
She did not know what about that freaked her suddenly, but she knew the breath was not necessary. It was...personal. Her hands were on his shoulders now, and she could feel him leaning in. Leaning in.
His lips were cool.
He did not kiss her immediately, just let their lips brush, presumably so she knew what he was doing. And just like that his arms were around her, drawing her in.
She flinched. Broke their kiss. Shuddering.
She actually heard herself squeak, as there was another vision. Or rather a revisit of the last one. It did not go on as long as the other but it was definitely about her and Angel; moving together, feeling each other move. Angel had to hold her tight to stop her thrashing. But she was not so much in pain as she was surprised, because after the initial fear all she felt was warmth and belonging, need and low sensual craving. When it was over she could not claw away from him fast enough.
"Go downstairs."
"Are you o-"
She almost yelled at him, poor guy.
"No, I'm not." She was pissed off in extremis.
"I need you to go and check with them." She put her hands to her head to offset the slight ringing. "Make sure there isn't another way around this."
"I think you should-"
Was she starting to see better? How could that be? She could almost she his concern.
"I'm okay. I just need to be sure there wasn't another way."
"I'm not going anywhere."
She tried to find his outline, find him with her hands.
"Please, I can't do this if I'm not sure. Tell Wesley 'the sky is red in Bermuda', he'll know what I mean."
She had to physically push him off the bed. And he did not want to go. The yellow of the candle came to her as it started to flicker.
"I won't be long."
"I'll be fine." She said it in as strong and convincing a voice as she could. "Go."
She heard the door open and close and guessed that he had left. The cold air had blown the candle out - her vision had suddenly darkened. The radio buzzed faraway. Quietly she turned over on the bed, away from it all. Heard the chink of the chains against the mattress.
This was going to happen.
She closed her eyes.
***
