Cordy

I had just finished painting my nails. Crimson red, my favorite color despite the fact that it reminds me too much of Angel's diet. I was kind of lounging the day away since the Powers That Be decided to give me a mini-break from all the fun-filled, migraine inducing visions. Perfect time to relax, kick back, get into some heavy Queen C pampering. After coming back from Pylea just a few weeks ago, I was trying to re-adjust to this the more human, much lamer reality so I didn't really have time to indulge in the appearance department. And dealing with putting up Fred in the hotel, it was all just kind of hectic, which is why I was so glad that things could finally get back to normal.

And then the phone rang. "Gunn? Wesley?" I frantically looked around from the couch, trying hard not to touch my perfectly painted nails to anything. I was in no shape to answer the phone. This was important business, being pretty. "Angel?? GUYS???"

Wesley and Gunn were in the back room and couldn't hear me. Evidently guffawing like buffoons over some stupid cartoon or something when they said they were "researching" the Kalfaric demons we had killed last night. And I could only guess Angel was brooding in his room as usual. And Fred was as usual, holed up in her room, probably sitting amidst thousands of taco wrappers. So it was I who had to haul ass to the office, risking the state of my beautifully sheen nails to pick up the phone. I did it real gingerly and slowly, kind of with my palms so not to disturb the nails so that when I held it up to my ear, the other person on the phone was calling "Hello?" already, impatiently. I paused when I detected the familiar whininess and soft pitch.

"Willow?"

"Cordelia?"

"Willow! Oh my gosh, how are you?" I'm almost surprised how happy I am to hear from the girl. I long ago tried to forget everything about my life in Sunnydale and focus on the new life I made for myself in L.A., but I can't deny that at times I miss those old losers I used to torture at Sunnydale High. "How's Xander? Is he still with demon-Anya? Cause I got to tell ya, I think that's kind of sketchy that the minute I jet out of Sunnydale, she has her grubby little vengeance demon hands on my ex-boyfriend, you know?"

"Cordelia!" She interrupts strongly. Wow, she sounds pretty agitated. Not the shy, drippy Willow I remember. "Um, is Angel there?" Oh. Of course. No one wants to bother with Queen C., everyone goes running to the Dark Avenger. When do I get a crumb of attention for my efforts?

"Oh," I say flatly. "He's somewhere off brooding. Not sure where. What can I do for you?"

"Umm . . ." Damn, the girl is generous with the pauses. Can't get a word out of her most the time. "I-I . . . umm . . . Cordelia . . . I-I d-don't know h-how to s-say t-this b-but . . ."

"YES?" I'm getting really impatient now. I mean, it's probably your regular, run-of-the-mill-something-all-dire-on-the-Hellmouth-we-need-your-help type message. And I really have better stuff to do. Like put a topcoat on these nails.

"Ummm . . . Buffy's dead."

Oh my God. I drop the phone, it clunking to the floor. I drop to my knees to rush for it, ignoring this time my stupid, smudged nails. "Willow?" I gasp.

"Cordelia? What happened? I heard a 'clunk'."

"Oh God, Willow, when did this happen? How, what?"

"It happened a week ago. She jumped off a tower to save the world."

"Oh God." I put one of my hands to my mouth, I feel a lump forming in my throat. I try to say something of comfort, something that can capture how stricken I suddenly feel. But instead I just say, "AGAIN?"

"What?"

"How many times does the girl done this Super Girl routine? When does she ever learn?" Yes, my foot has made a comfy habitat in my mouth that's for sure. Willow sighs.

"Cordy, can I just talk to Angel?" She sounds angry.

"N-no, I'm sorry Willow, I didn't mean that. I'm just . . . Oh my God." It's all I can say. "I-I j-just can't believe . . ." I'm stammering. I never stammer.

"I know. We're all kind of out of it right now," Willow says, her voice softer.

I just kind of sink to the floor, I can't believe it all. I just lick my suddenly parched lips and shake my head in disbelief. Buffy Summers? Dead? I know what you're all thinking. Cordelia Chase, overcome with grief for her high-school nemesis?

It's true. I mean, I've come a long way from sticking my nose up at Buffy and her friends. I mean, they did eventually become my friends. In a grudging, constantly life-threatening kind of way. Getting constantly thrown into apocalyptic situations with a group of people really promotes togetherness.

And it's not like I really hated her. That was just all show. Mostly. I mean, I envied her, hell, I respected her. But I couldn't show that. I was used to showing only one emotion—disdain. That's what came natural to the bitch princess of the high school campus. I treated Buffy and her friends like that because that's how I treated everybody. That's how I thought I was supposed to treat everybody. But somewhere along the way, I learned different. Buffy, Xander, Willow, Oz . . . they accepted me. Accepted that I could be a bitch at times, but that I also had other facets to my personality---facets that I would be too afraid of everyone else. They didn't give me looks of pity and disgust when they found out about my dad and the IRS. They gave support. They made me understand what it was like to have true friends---like the ones I have now, like Gunn, and Fred and Wesley and Lorne and Angel.

And more important than that they---well mostly Buffy---showed me the meaning of what it was to be a "champion", as Angel likes to call it. Not with money, cars, jewelry, clothes, but by helping people. By saving the world. Didn't think old Queen C would figure that out, did ya?

Everyday, Buffy willingly risked her life to spare us students at Sunnydale High even a glimpse of all the ugly, evil stuff that really went on in the Hellmouth. She basically forfeited a normal life altogether to do it. And as much I as dissed her about at the time, I admired her. Subconsciously, that must have been the reason why I ended up in Los Angeles. I knew I said it was because of my desire to become a "serious actress", but now I like to think it was something different altogether. I ended up with Angel and this whole saving-the-world-deal for a reason. Because deep down, that's what I wanted to do. It was Buffy who led my on this path I'm on today with Angel and the rest.

Oh God. Angel. What am I going to say to him?

An insistent "Hello? Hello?" interrupts my thoughts. I pick up the phone from the floor and wearily cradle into my shoulder.

"Willow?"

"Yeah. Cordelia?"

"Yeah I'm here." But Buffy's not.

I suppose Willow is thinking the same thing. That would account for the silence that fills the dead seconds between us. I want to say something that would weakly pass for comfort, I feel like it's necessary in times like these, but I can't seem to utter a word. Wow, look there really is a first time for everything. I lick my lips and rack my brain for anything I could possibly say. "Willow--" I start.

"Cordelia, do you think I could talk to him?" God, the girl sounds really broken. Even for a girl's who's voice was always on the brink of sounding mousy.

But I'm pondering what she's asking for. Do I really want Angel to find out about this, this way? He's never been close to Willow, his only tie to her was Buffy. A tie that's been severed. And I sure as hell don't want to put Angel into a situation that would be awkward. It's already destined to be incredibly painful. It's hard to even think of the expression on his face when he picks up the phone, slightly excited to hear from Willow and gradually change facial expressions until the moment he'll crack and there will be nothing left. I can't bear for it him to hear the worst news of his unlife from a plastic receiver. I'm his best friend, and I can't think of it. "Willow . . . I . . . think it would be better . . . if . . . well, if I . . ."

"Oh." She sounds relieved. "D-do you t-think . . . I mean, if you don't want to----"

"No I want to." I say firmly. I do want to. I'm the only person I know that would be able to tell him the news. "I . . . think it would be best . . ."

After awhile, after Willow and I have said our awkward good-byes, I sigh and gaze down at the phone, then to the staircase. I try breathing deeply, maybe that will help me stop from shaking. He sees me shaking, he'll know right away that something's up. I walk up the stairs, but Gunn and Wesley turn around and give me impish looks.

"I wouldn't bother him, girl," Gunn says jovially. "You interrupt a good brood session a'his, he gets out of the rhythm and has to start all over again. That way, he'll never get out of his room."

"Yes, and that way, we'll get nothing done and be forced to make our living in some atrocious way, like selling cardboard energy bars door-to-door," Wesley adds.

""At ease, Carl and Lenny. I have to talk to Angel. It really can't wait."

They both exchange inquiring looks. "Have anything to do with that phone call? Something bad?" Gunn asks.

"It has to do with something good," I say quietly. "Something good that's no more." I stare down at the floor and continue walking up the steps. It seems like miles of hallway to Angel's room. I'm walking on wobbly legs, but I get there. I get there because of Angel. He's the only one I care about helping right now.

I knock on the door quietly. "Yeah?" Angel says behind the door, a lilt of cheerfulness in his voice. Oh God. I open the door gingerly, as if I'm afraid it's going to break and I see him, waiting, smiling. And I bite my lip.

"Angel, I have something to tell you . . .."