If There Never Was

by Ignited

One night passes in Angel's life, and before he knows it, the fate of his life and others is twisted so drastically that he begins to lose his mind… C/A Angst/Drama

5. Chapter 13

Title: If There Never Was
Author: Ignited
Posted: 03-11-2002
Rating: R for language and sexual situations
Email: Ignited
Content: Romance, Drama, Angst, AU-ish
Summary: One night passes in Angel's life, and before he knows it, the fate of his life and others is twisted so drastically that he begins to lose his mind…
Spoilers: Everything up to 'Waiting in the Wings', set a few months after in the future. Lots of speculation here.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Disharmony, List archives & those with permission. Otherwise, just ask!
Notes: This has been sitting in my computer since June, at least. Along with two other fanfics that I planned to write, but unfortunately have no time to put real thought into them. So, this is a combination of three different ideas. With the emergence of Vanilla Sky, a similar but distinctly different story, I decided to finally complete this minor story, of which has turned into a full fledged monstrosity of a fic. It's my seriously screwed up and basically nothing alike, take on Vanilla Sky. Open minds are required, please…
Dedication: To Steffi and Kath– for always believing in me, plus generally being helpful, caring, and showing good input. And to Melissa and Christie, who are fic goddesses and great friends. This one's for you. Chapter 10 Dedication: To Greenie, 'cause I'll miss him dearly!
Feedback: I am a feedback junkie, so make me high.

---

Part 13

"You killed her."

Feeling numb, in a trance almost, Angel could only nod, staring straight ahead. He leaned back in his chair, the rustle of chains heard. Cupping his chin with his palm, Angel let out a sigh. "Yep."

Lilah considered this, leaning back. She twirled an object in her fingers, a capsule. A medicinal dart. It had gone into Angel hours before, support shots reapplied every so often. Truth serums worked lovely nowadays, even if they weren't on the usual supernatural route. He was human now though, so that saved them some expenses.

She stood up abruptly, walking past him, ever so slow, that menacing way of hers. The two guards at the door straightened, ominous figures in the Wolfram and Hart office at night. Skyscraper lights blazed against a backdrop of black onyx and burnished metal, yet none could reach the office. Glorious and large windows were black, reflecting the surrounding buildings.

He felt his head and neck move freely, head lolling like it was attached to some toddler's toy.

"That just can't be it," Lilah was saying, fingers clenching in frustration. She turned, pointing the capsule at him. "Tell me about your friends. What happened to them? How are they connected? You didn't give me enough information about them."

"They… weren't there at the time," Angel offered, neck rolling so he could see his boots. He looked drunk, in a daze.

Biting her lip, her voice took on a much darker tone as she grabbed the lapels of his jacket unexpectedly. "What happened to them?"

Angel shrugged, an almost carefree expression. "I don't know."

She looked to the guards. "Did his drug wear off?"

"No Ms. Morgan, it's been less than a half-hour since we gave him the last dose," supplied one guard.

Fingers dropped, straightened his torn blazer, body went down a little. "It would be idiotic for me to say that Wolfram and Hart didn't mind your little escapade. Trust me, I can hear the wolves baying already. Your 'team' did screw this one up, and we're gladly looking for retribution. So, to save yourself some more personal brooding time over the deaths of your friends, fessing up would be a good thing."

He said nothing, only looked at her suit instead.

"Angel," Lilah prodded, a finger gently lifting his chin. "You'll be safe if you tell me. I won't let anyone lay a finger on you."

His eyes locked on hers, and they were that dark brown again, but no, they hadn't really changed color at all. His eyes became cold and purposeful, loopy expression sober and focused.

Soft, warm and seductively, he asked, "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Meow! She nearly hissed in dissatisfaction.

Lilah clenched his chin instead, sneering. He tried reaching up to her, but the chains allowed him only a little bit of movement.

Continuing, Angel wondered aloud, "If I was, how have I gotten this far? Gone through this much? It's all insane, all of it, but I did it. Damn it, I got through it. All the – the pain, and the torture. All the visions, more of them, more painful… Why? Why do they keep happening in succession? Flashes of a life I never lived…"

Never lived…

He pulled away from her turning his face to her, thinking.

Three words again, not so heartfelt as his ladylove's, but still chilling.

Because something's up.

"You want to play hard to get, fine. I've got all night!" Lilah said with a flourish, throwing up her hands. Turning away from him, she crossed her arms, glancing out the window. Trying to figure out how to trick him into revealing more.

Silence again.

"Indoctrination , Lilah."

The lawyer turned to look at Angel. "What?"

"Indoctrination. Brainwashing. That kinda stuff. Does Wolfram and Hart pull that stuff anymore?" Angel inquired casually, still not looking at her. Eyes trained on the floor instead, the soft glow of a sconce casting its light in his line of view.

Lilah looked at him full on again, arms still crossed. She moved a strand of hair from her blow, fingers trembling for a second. Then, her arms were dangling at her sides in frustration.

"Sometimes," she told him. "But only in special cases."

He felt his jaw and eyelids shut tight, a brief flash of pain erupting through his being.

- "When it all comes together and makes sense, there's like a click in your brain and you understand things again." –

He could feel himself reaching for that click. Grasped the concept, but not full-on, and the pain wasn't going to stop, it's not going to stop…

"Any other insightful comments?"

Angel paused for a second, then responded, "I'm thinking about how I'm gonna escape from here."

He could see the amusement on her face. "You can't."

The loopy expression almost came back into place again, but his strong yet eased tone remained. "Oh, you know, stop a few guards maybe give them a taste of their own medicine. Run through those doors there. Break into an office maybe. I can steal some complimentary wrapped lozenges from the receptionist's desk on my way down the hall too, if I just put my mind to it."

"Don't even think about it." Smug, he hated that look. The demon's anger has long since disappeared, but he felt a phantom part of it lingering.

"Too late."

Angel raised his hands, manacles unlocked. She stared at him in disbelief, and soon the guards came over, batons extending, stun guns warming up. The captive man quickly bent down to unlock one ankle, backhanding one guard. His fist shot out, pulling the man's arm to shock his partner with the stun gun. Staring for a second too long, the offender's stun gun was soon yanked from his hand, a sparkling array of blue zapping him before he was down for the count with his friend.

Finished with the other, Angel stood up, looking at the paper clip in his hand. "Don't leave home without one."

He tossed it in Lilah's direction and left her all the more alone.

*

Tearing down the hallway was no easy task if one had a screwed up leg. But Angel did it, bumping a few lawyers roaming the halls. He slid into an elevator just as the alarms began to blare.

Security lock down! Please be on the lookout for one young man, Angel. He is armed and dangerous. Caucasian, thirty, disfigured from car wreckage. Brown hair, brown eyes. Please report any sighting of him to your nearest security guard immediately…

Cursing under his breath, Angel waited patiently for the elevator to stop. Once it did, he ran straight ahead after the doors opened. An office, the door slamming shut behind him. Plain, reminiscent of the one Cordelia had locked him up in.

Desk, cabinets, chairs, coat rack, window.

Two plus two…

Getting a firm grasp on the heavy wooden chair in the room, Angel took a good amount of steps back, then-

CRASH!

The window glass shattered, chair falling through it, both artificial and natural light of the moon filtering in. Cars blaring, people yelling, the city came to life beneath him. Not only were people yelling below, but after a glance to the door he could hear more security guards. Confirming the thought when the door suddenly opened, those eyes looked harshly to the window. Angel ran from the cover of the office furniture toward the shattered glass wall. He reached the window and dove through, the sound of gunfire in the air all around him.

Slowly, falling.

Sky, flying, diving, down, down…

Braced himself.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and–

*

The streets were quiet at this time of night, uncharacteristically silent for the normally rowdy neighborhood. A parking lot was now overgrown with weeds, garbage littering the cracked and upturned pavement. One short building facing the lot had graffiti labeled on its side, writing with meanings unknown within the curvy hoops and loops.

Three streetlights, one busted. Phone cables were stretched, shoelaces and sneakers hanging from them. Bars on the front windows of shops, liquor, all night grocery, a bar. Sidewalks slicked with rain, beer, and other unmentionables.

Tearing down the street, the midnight blue van stopped abruptly, gear shifted into park. The rumbling side door opened, a body swathed in black leather thrown out onto the pavement. The door closed swiftly, and the van started up again.

Standing up, Spike gripped his forehead, looking more gaunt and restless than usual. He shook his head, trying to get his bearings. Spike turned to look at the van, then coughed excessively at the dusty smoke thrown up into the air. The tires screeched in protest, but the van zoomed down the worn street anyway.

Ever the sarcastic vampire, Spike cursed briefly to himself. He stretched, chin jutting out in anger.

"Where's Buffy?!" he shouted, but could only get a rustle of a tumbling newspaper scrap in response.

*

Angel hit the ground two stories below, landing in the relative safety of the dark bushes and mini garden surrounding the Wolfram and Hart building. He hear gunshots crack through the cold night air, bullets whizzing past him. Due to the darkness, the shooters could barely see him, thank God. Rolling once, Angel pulled up into a crouch.

Determined.

And seriously pissed off.

Angel looked up at his attackers briefly, before he lunged up and took off in the direction of the hotel.

*

Walking aimlessly, for that was what he felt good at, Angel stared blankly at the sidewalk in front of him. He pulled his blazer closer to cover the obvious bloodstains on his undershirt, feeling a little chilly. His chest was hurting him terribly, more so with the added 'bonus' of the night air, almost a stabbing pain at his wounds. Angel walked down the street, head angled down, short-lived determined expression giving way to disillusionment.

What was he, really? Sad? Angry? It was hard to tell. He didn't feel liked he killed someone. He knew the feeling, the blood running over his hands, the stiffness of his fingers after snapping someone's neck. He knew murder. He had rejoiced in committing it. But now, after all those years, he was human again. When he had been a teenager, the only fights and wounds he had inflicted were done for stupid reasons. Debts, drunken brawls, maybe grasping a lass too hard because she wasn't obeying him on his time and money.

Now, however, he had a tortured soul, a conscience. A natural one that came with being human. He didn't feel like he had taken a life, since it just… He just didn't feel like he did. He couldn't understand it, nor wanted to. After all the things he'd gone through, he accepted his bad luck. Naturally, everything that went wrong was his own fault, so there was no doubt Cordelia's death was by his own hand.

Angel had killed her.

He wasn't Angelus, but he wasn't Angel. He was a terrible creature, a state in between madness and purity, ragged looks and pleading eyes.

The thought made him shudder, hard to look left and right while diagonally cutting across a more or less empty street. The hotel was close in distance, Angel could tell, seeing the roof from a few blocks away.

However, Angel could only think of her eyes. The trust in them. Her lips, the laughter spilling from them.

He took all of that away from her.

Angel hated himself for that.

It was very hard to digest, but now there were other matters at hand. Yes, this was a tragic occurrence, but the shock, the full force hadn't quite hit him yet. Angel considered that the drugs they'd given him hadn't full worn off, hence the groggy feeling. That could probably be it. Because right now, the former vampire felt numb and dizzy. Going through the motions even, reaching the front door of the hotel.

Angel leaned against it, pushing, but not quite opening it. Trying to feel her spectral touch, the curves of her body, the spilling rivulets of her hair on his fingers. He pressed against the door, trying to feel her again.

It wasn't working.

He opened the door.

The hotel lobby was a mess. The banquette in the center of the lobby was ruined, scraped and stuffing ripped, dark stains evident. Normal stationary from the office were thrown about the floor, boxes overturned. The glass of the weapons cabinet was broken, weapons thrown to the ground. Glass particles crunching under his boots, Angel looked around, what seemed to be a hurricane had it this place. It had been two days, he could remember, since it all had taken place.

Since her death.

He paused, seeing Faith and Wesley near the office counter. Faith was righting an office chair, slowly looking to Angel. Wesley followed her gaze. The Englishman's arm sweeped across the counter. He quickly snatched up a cross, holding it in Angel's direction. A light bulb going off in his head, Wesley fumbled, dropping the cross and snatching up a crossbow instead.

Pointing it at Angel's torn heart.

The three said nothing, although there was much to be said.

Angel's hands moved up from his pockets slowly. He felt like a suspect with a cop pointing a gun at him. Palms out, Angel shook his head for a second to get those stubborn strands of hair away from his eyes.

"I know what you're thinking Wes. I didn't do it," Angel said carefully, although he wasn't sure if he believed anything of the sort.

Wesley looked like he'd laugh at Angel's statement. "What? Murder Cordelia?"

Sarcastic, he could afford to be.

Feeling her on him, pushing him away…

Wait. Wait.

"I don't think she's dead," Angel said, getting a raised eyebrow in response from Faith. He moved to the counter, hands resting on the edge for support. Gaze down, hair falling in his eyes, he shook his head somberly, trying, just trying to–

- "Get AWAY from me!" –

Remember.

There was another pause, and Wesley lowered the crossbow reluctantly. He knew that it wasn't clear in Angel's situation, but for the meantime he would give him the benefit of the doubt and go along with it. Reflecting on that, Wesley's brow constricted.

"How did you… Where were you?"

Faith meanwhile, took a seat on the counter, cross-legged, leaning on her palm. She tried to think of what to say… but what could one say? She barely knew Cordelia, much less connect with the girl. And after all the things Angel had done for her. Saved her. Clothed her, gave her a paycheck, found her a place to live. It wasn't thrilling, but she had friends now. Her wacky little family.

So, for now she was on Wesley's side, a step behind him. But if Angel pulled one wrong move, her knife would be in his stomach. Simple as that.

"I got out of the Wolfram and Hart offices. They drugged me. Truth serum. Made me tell… Tell them things. Horrible things," Angel whispered, his voice almost cracking at the thought. He held his forehead, body slumping even more forward and down.

The hotel doors flew open with a bang, three heads turning to see a battered Spike move toward them, idly rubbing his wrist. He looked exhausted, looking at each in turn before saying, "Buffy's gone."

"Gone?" Perplexed, Wesley prodded, "What? We thought she was with you."

"Does it LOOK like she's with me?" Spike gestured to the air next to him. "Guess not."

Faith rolled her eyes, giving Spike a wink. "There's a bright boy."

"Oh, do shut up."

"Don't talk to a lady that way!"

"I don't need anything more from you, Indiana Jones."

"Why-"

"CUT IT! God, you two drive me insane."

"Like you're not already?!"

The sound level rose, bickering, pointing and accusations abound. Matching the throbbing pain in his head, Angel could feel his heart pound faster, pain mounting. They kept shouting, and so much pain, and everyone was hurting, arguing. Death, and mistakes, and cheating, and sound, so much sound. Crashing onto him, over him, and they kept on…

"SHUT UP!" Angel shouted, forceful, but voice wavering, a strain. "I have a son!" he yelled randomly, surprising even himself. Eyes snapping tight like a five-year-old. As if waiting for the onslaught, Angel opened his eyes slowly, turning to look at them. They were quiet, somber, surprised at this...

Shutting up for his benefit, no doubt, pitying him.

He didn't even know half of what he was talking about.

The phone cut through the silence. Angel picked it up slowly.

"Hello?"

"Angel?"

"Buffy?" Seeing the apprehensive looks, the steps Spike took toward him, Angel covered his free ear with his hand. Trying to hear her. "Where are you? I can barely hear-"

"Angel. Angel, listen to me. I don't have much time. And sewers aren't exactly good places for reception," Buffy spoke quickly.

"What? You're – you're in a sewer?"

"We've been going places. I'd ask you about good old Wolfram and Hart, but time is not our friend. They took me away, locked me up in a sewer kinda chamber. It's locked from the outside. Double bolted, maybe a foot thick. Hence me not running free. It's underground. I think I heard one of the guards outside say we're near the waste treatment plant in El Segundo." She sounded harried, flustered as well.

"All right. We'll get over there," Angel assured her, scribbling down the location on a notepad nearby. "How did you call here anyway?"

"Kicked a guard and took his Motorola."

"Good call."

"I'm worried Angel. They said something's going down tonight. Bigger than the signing. Caught something about burning? A building?" Buffy sighed. It was awkward in general to be talking to him like this, when merely days ago they were together. Now, it was almost like post-high school, college freshman jitters again. However, that went all out the window in an emergency like this.

Angel frowned, thinking of what to do next. "Don't worry. We'll get there. Just wait."

"Oh… and Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"Hurry."

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Angel nodded mutely. "I will," he responded softly, hanging up the phone.

Rapt eyes awaited him, the near feral snarl of Spike's face a few feet away. Spike moved forward again, yanking the notepad away from Angel.

"El Segundo? She's there?"

Relaying the information to them quickly, Angel moved to the weapons cabinet. He handed a sword to Faith, an axe to Spike. Wesley had his own gear, so he was covered.

"Faith, I want you and Spike to go find Buffy. Get her back as soon as possible," Angel instructed, heading into the office as he gave the order. They were in silent agreement, leaving the lobby, then hotel. Dumbfounded, Wesley turned to where Angel had been standing, the newly decisive figure yanking books off of the shelves.

"Angel, I don't think that was a good idea," Wesley began, seeing that Angel had taken his blazer off. Merely a white undershirt – he had seen Angel come from the basement sometimes, wearing one, finishing his training- with obvious blood stains. Angel was ragged, Wesley could tell, and in a worse physical state than he was. Wesley looked decent in his dark brown leather jacket and denim jeans, comfortable save for the five 'o clock shadow. But Angel…

"Why not?" The former vampire looked briefly to Wesley, slamming another pile of books onto the desk.

"Must I spell it out for you? Spike? Faith? Together, doesn't come up to anything… good?" Wesley seemed stung by the fact that Faith had gone along with Spike so easily.

Angel could tell. He didn't show it though, leaning forward and flipping through pages. "Uh huh. Look, I just gathered that you'd be more useful getting some books to figure out about the burnings that Buffy mentioned. Plus, you can bring weapons."

Wesley glanced to the cabinet, seeing that the shape of what was left wasn't very good at all.

"All right then," he agreed after a beat, going to the office area entrance. Lingering, Wesley put his hand firmly on the counter edge. "Angel?"

Frustrated a little, Angel kept his cool, looking up. "Yeah?"

"I don't know what you did. I'm not even sure whether you killed Cordelia or not. But I will stand by you. We're both fighting the good fight, and I don't want to see you fall farther. You're a good man Angel. I trust you," Wesley said, firmly looking at Angel for a moment before leaving.

Angel considered that. Then, he went back to work.

*

"Think. Think."

Repeating the words over and over did not give Angel any form of consolation. He stepped into the broad expanse of the lobby for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. Books piled feet high were on the office desks and floor, pens, diagrams. Angel wanted to be thorough in his theories, researching two subjects. One, the burnings Buffy mentioned. And two, his life.

Twisting and turning of events. A pawn in someone's game.

That could explain the flashes. Or I could just finally be going insane from the visions. Either way, it's bad.

Angel needed to breathe, deeply even, concentrate. He was at a crossroads, the jumble of thoughts striking hard like comet tails… vibrant, but fading. Hands on his hips, trying, just trying. At wits end. He was hurting, legs cramped from the fall, chest bruised from the roughing up he had received by the Wolfram and Hart operatives.

Chest… Bruising. Okay, facts straight. Mission. Sex. Death. His mind was fuzzy on what happened exactly between Cordelia's death and how he ended up in the offices. It could be due to the drugs, but after downing a glass of water and trying to take things slowly, Angel was still groggy from them. Aftermath of escaping perhaps, tiredness.

But the fuzzy period was key. It supported his theory of brainwashing.

Feeling her push him away… Yes, when he tried to smother her. No. No, after. After. Without the pillow on her face.

Cordelia's face rose to him like a phoenix from ashes, but it soon became blurred by the haze over amber coals and ruddy smoke.

Nodding quite knowledgeably, Angel paused for a beat.

"I've got nothin'."

*

Faith didn't like this whole thing one bit. Sure, Spike could drag his pale white ass out of anything, but Buffy? The sewers were disgusting, and Faith didn't see the point of people keeping others hostage. She could clearly remember dragging herself to Wesley's door the night of their last mission, hearing brutal knockings later that night. She and Wesley had climbed into the fire escape briefly when they'd knocked on the door, breaking the lock. Going in. There were too many rifles to start a fight, but from their no nonsense attitude, it smelled of big bucks. The law firm.

They laid low for a while, and from Spike's testimony Faith knew Spike, Buffy, and Angel had been taken away. The men were free. The blonde Slayer still in captivity. Steel doors were tricky to get out of, but with another Slayer and vampire on her side, no problem-o.

The question was, getting there without slicing Spike's head off in annoyance.

Sloshing through the muck, both were surprisingly quiet. Faith squeezed her fingers around the wooden stake at her side harder to avoid biting her lip, to avoid from speaking.

Another beat.

"Do you love him, really?" Spike looked down briefly, left arm slung across the long handled battle-axe across his shoulders.

Almost incredulous, Faith replied, "I dunno. You, her?"

"Sometimes she amazes me. And other times I just want to rip her little throat out. But for the most part – yeah. I think I do."

"Oh."

More sloshing.

"I didn't want you t'find out like this, Faith. Hell, all I pictured was a pile of dust in my stead after you heard. But I see you're happy, and that's bloody well good, right?"

"Spike. Let's not tell our sob stories. I hate you, and heck, I don't know whether to fuck you, or to kill you, but I'll leave Buffy to decide that. Otherwise, you're not my problem anymore. Deal?"

Smirking, as usual, in admiration of her attitude and spunk.

"Whatever you say, love."

*

Stretching in his chair, Angel ran a hand over his tired face to keep him awake. He even downed a cup of black coffee, letting the bitter taste roll over his tongue, reminiscent of stale blood, numbness. Pulling his shoulders back, Angel gave a good one-two of a swing, trying not to sag into the comfortable leather chair. Wearing into a fresh change of clothing—a simple teal v-neck shirt, black pants—he longed for the protective shower of his bathroom. However, now was not a good time to be luxuriating.

He logged onto the supernatural database Buffy had found in a fit of excitement months ago.

Entering BURNINGS, WOLFRAM & HART, MASSACRE, KIDNAPPINGS Angel told the search engine to locate only those matches containing all four words.

No matches found.

"Damn it," Angel murmured, frustrated. He deleted KIDNAPPINGS, leaving the other two words. Enter.

3 matches found.

Angel scrolled down the list. One site was about different kinds of deer. Another, a personal site loaded with pop-ups and ramblings of conspiracies in many topics. Politics, government, law (that's how Wolfram and Hart came in… an unhappy customer, perhaps?) … TV shows. Who slept with so-and-so writer, blah blah blah, bad storylines, analyzing, methods of TP-ing opposing faction's houses.

Interesting, and a bit disturbing.

The third one was right on target, with both the law firm, fires, and massacre appearing in the page. Clicking on it, Angel waited for it to load. A Californian newspaper's site greeted his eyes, the subject reading…

'SUNNYDALE MASSACRE. 12/22/99'

Brow furrowing, Angel scrolled down, trying to figure out… why he knew nothing of it.

'In a disturbing, macabre incident, twenty-six people were found dead inside the popular teenage hangout, the Bronze, early this morning. Many suffered severe neck wounds, dismemberment, lacerations, and other types of injuries too numerous to mention. The smell of corpses and blood drew one Sunnydale resident, Colin Brown, a high school student to discover the gruesome scene.

'I left the place early since I had to go home to work on a paper for English. Then I remembered about a half-hour later that I had left my wallet with a friend at the Bronze. I came back, and saw all these… These weird looking people with horrible faces outside. And some girl with blonde hair, fighting them. She just kept screaming, so I got out there pretty fast. I came back early in the morning, and outside it was quiet. But inside… So many people…,' said the choked-up young man, at a loss for words to describe the carnage.

Bizarrely, at the same time a sequence of burnings ripped through the small town, starting at the trendy Espresso Pump, to the line of stores and amongst some residential homes. About a dozen people were wounded, two reportedly missing.

In a statement released early this morning, the Mayor wrote this off as a 'gang-related offense.' A law firm whose base is in Los Angeles, Wolfram & Hart volunteered to personally attend to each and every victim's family, helping them through this terrible loss…'

Angel was now sitting at attention in his chair, gaze scrutinizing. The article went on a bit more, showing a list of the victims.

All of them. Xander, Willow, Giles, Oz. Buffy's mother. Anya, a friend of Xander's. All dead.

He remembered Spike reprimanding him for mentioning the Scooby Gang, and now Angel could see why. The picture on the site showed a gurney being rolled into an ambulance, a flash of startling red hair, blood spattered mouth. Willow.

Angel stared at the picture, long and true, until it got blurry, shifted, became Buffy and Willow again, the Slayer's arm wrapped around her shoulder. Both were bright and smiling, a sisterly vibe between them. The newspaper heading read 'COLLEGE KIDS HELP OUT AT LOCAL CHARITY BENEFIT'.

Shifted, crashing, snapping back into place. Words once fuzzy became harsh details of a massacre, instead of the light and airy description of Buffy and her friends having a good time. Confused at this—flashes of a life he never lived, he remembered his words—Angel stood up. Backing away slowly.

Why, why didn't he remember any of this?

About to go over the gamut of questions in his mind, Angel figured an outside source might shed some more light on this information. He picked up a handful of books after searching through the piles for three minutes, then slipped his duster on.

I need to know what happened to my life.

The vision crashed into him, sending Angel flying into the bookcase behind him. A brisk stream of cursing flew from his mouth before collapsing into a heap on the ground, unconscious.

The clock kept ticking down.

---

Part 14

Wesley was not a happy man.

The thought of him doing a trivial errand, picking up books, weapons, almost infuriated him. Angel was right though, as his weapons were depleted and he didn't exactly browse for rare books these days. Wesley had a good supply of both. The thought of Buffy, perhaps dead, Faith and Spike running into a trap, Angel weak made him ever so much more concerned.

Cordelia's situation had tired him. He didn't know if Angel was telling the truth or not. He committed murder, but from what Wesley had seen of those two together, he couldn't understand why. They seemed very much … Well, they seemed happy together. Hence, his justifying Angel's questioning of the death.

Here he was, a demon hunter who occasionally helped them out, now fighting formidably by Angel's side. It was like Sherlock Holmes, although Wesley didn't want to bother with who was Sherlock, and who was Watson.

Searching for an answer to his fleeting prayers, Wesley continued looking through musty old books.

*

Lilah Morgan, clad in a designer suit, smug in her strappy expensive heels, leaned forward. She sipped her martini delicately, placed it down on a coaster on her ink blotter. Sparkling and immaculate, the wood of her desk wasn't streaked, smudged, imperfect.. It had taken her a lot to get to this floor, this position, this desk, and she reveled in it.

Manicured fingernails briefly touched her cell phone, when she said, "It's starting."

A chain reaction set through dozens of phone lines, wires a buzz with the same instructions repeated over and over: "Start the fires."

Gasoline poured, flints and matches struck, fingers pointed, mouths recited incantations.

Men, women, and children screamed, twisted into puffs of clouds and ash from the blazes erupting.

Lilah Morgan sent her message. People were dying.

The city screamed.

*
The first thing Angel thought when he woke up was if he was dead or not. Finding out he wasn't gave him no comfort, and so he dragged himself up, clinging to the bookcase for support. Holding the frame tightly for a moment, Angel regained his bearings. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, his mind focused on the vision.

Cordelia. Gunshot. Screaming. Blood. Bodybag.

This was not a good thing.

Feeling the inevitable sense of dread run through him, pausing, thinking. There was no sense in denying it. The vision was meant to shake him out of his funk, get him back on track. Screaming, Cordelia, blood. The knowledge that he had killed her rang through him, clearer than any bell forged on Earth. It shook him down to the very core, the method of killing her, how hard and loving she was, trusting him.

Trusting him through death.

Angel realized she was dead with finality. If she wasn't—lord, it'd be a longshot—she would be. Courtesy of a certain law firm.

If Buffy was captured, who's to say they wouldn't kill someone he loves?

*

A tentacle whipped forward, connecting with Buffy's ankle and zipping back harshly. She dropped to the mushy, water soaked floor, feeling her jaw almost crack from the impact. Briefly thankful that her tongue wasn't cut off, Buffy instead chose to use it to scream for "a little bit of HELP HERE!"

Spike and Faith skidded, the other Slayer falling into a crouch to steady her balance. She was covered with little scratches and cuts, a wound on her forehead, tanktop with fast-paced city images ruined by slime. A second passed and Faith had lunged, jumping onto the ugly maw of the huge, squid-like demon that had Buffy in its grip.

"No time for dilly dallying!" Spike said, and it was almost weird to see how lighthearted he regarded this situation. Here he was, a vampire, rushing towards his paramour, a Slayer, while his ex tried hacking away at a giant Calamari that was much too big for a sewer tunnel, but managed to squish along fine.

Faith shouted something along the lines of "Fuck you, Spike!" but it was hard to decipher since she was clinging to the squid for dear life, feeling it thrash under her. Coming to her aid, he lunged forward with his axe, feeling the blade hit home. The thing screamed, letting go of a squirming Buffy's ankle. Buffy crawled forward, leaping up to her feet.

She took in the sight of the demon's detestable form, slimy dark purple hide twitching at Spike's advances. Only in L.A. Get rescued from a dungeon-like room only to be chased by a squid right afterwards.

With a mock battle cry, Buffy leaped.

*

A ring snapped the flustered Wesley out of too many thoughts. He moved over to the door carefully, picking up a small crossbow on a table.

The door opened, the rugged cool face of Wesley, wearing glasses, behind it. He looked to Angel, so different from the vampire he met years before. Not handsome; disfigured features making him seem less of the ethereal personality he was. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had aged since coming to LA, a rogue demon hunter. He remembered seeing Angel again, a year after Sunnydale. Battled hardened them both, but only Wesley came out unscathed. Now here was Angel, bruised and broken, leaning against the wall near the doorway.

Angel straightened, face lowering. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Wesley nodded, lowering his weapon and gesturing for him to come inside. Angel walked in, closing the door shut behind him. The apartment was stiff, cramped, like a motel room. It was messy, but not 'lived in'.

Angel nodded to the door, thoughtful. "I'll never remember the lack of invitation thing."

Wesley put the crossbow back. He then went about organizing the weapons and books laid out on his table. "What happened?"

"Oh. Nothing… happened. It's just…" Angel trailed off, searching for the right words. "A girl."

"A girl?" Wesley stopped after a few seconds. "What kind of girl?" He was worried it was another potential suitor, someone Angel had found to console him. Or a possible threat. It was best that Angel kept his problems to himself.

However, those thoughts were rapid, a more logical feeling filling the void.

"A really, really nice girl," Angel answered with a slight laugh. He scratched the back of his head, sitting down with a sigh. Long legs came up, knees practically touching his throat. He leaned back, adjusting the brown leather duster.

All he needs is a cowboy hat, Wesley thought. By now he knew Angel was referring to Cordelia, the lovely woman he had known briefly. He raised an eyebrow. "Any luck with Buffy?"

"You know… It really IS kinda funny," Angel said while shaking an accusing finger. He leaned forward a bit, Wesley watching Angel take a swig from the liquor container he took from his pocket.

"Angel! You don't drink."

"I more than likely killed the woman I loved. People might be dying and I don't know how to stop it. Buffy's in trouble. So, I thought I'd drink a little." Another long gulp, waving the container lazily.

"Not to mention my girlfriend's sleeping with my best friend who has more than every right to have her than I do. He's evil, a vampire… What's not to love? I'm 29, a weak and disfigured human guy annnnd…" Angel squinted. "Drunk off my ass while fighting the urge to regurgitate."

Angel glanced to Wesley. "Bathroom?"

"Down the hallway, to the right," Wesley muttered as Angel tore off in the indicated direction. Bathroom door closed, Wesley stood outside, hearing a few retching sounds. It continued for a minute or two, then… silence.

"Do you think this 'girl' was the reason for Buffy choosing to sleep with Spike?"

A beat.

Angel opened the door, coming outside and closing it slowly. "Cordelia? It's not her fault. It's me," Angel pointed out. He walked back to the couch again, doing a little turn. "Look at me. The great hero for The Powers That Be. Now? A joke."

Running his fingers through his hair, Angel looked about, head jerking in that nervous way he had developed. "She's so beautiful and… well, LOOK at me."

"Angel, there's no need for groveling," Wesley said firmly, placing a hand on Angel's shoulder. "It'll be all right."

"Wes, you're gonna have to realize one thing," Angel replied. "We're screwed."

"Since when did you become so negative?"

"When I got drunk."

Wesley rolled his eyes, going over to the table to shove the various weapons and books into a bag. He could hear Angel mumbling behind him, something about his girlfriend. From the looks of things, Angel was clearly still hurting, not to mention drunk and confusing concepts and people.

"She's alive. It wouldn't make sense for her not to be," Wesley assured Angel, more or less disbelieving himself.

Thinking about that, Angel looked up after taking another sip.

"Not for long."

There was a minor confusion from Angel's response. Wesley referred to Cordelia, while Angel probably meant Buffy.

Angel looked at him for a minute, shoulders slumped. Defeated. He nodded, eyes half closed while walking to the door slowly. "Come on, Wes."

"Where are you going?" Wesley looked and sounded worried while slipping his jacket on.

"To get more drunk. You're buying." He smiled a little, that sad look remaining.

Ah, yes. Everything was going according to the plan. Or so he thought.

*

Drinking on an empty stomach did not settle the already queasy feeling Angel had. Mundane thoughts arose while peering into the green glass of his Heineken bottle. Where was Cordelia's body? Why wasn't he in jail? Where there any evidence left in his room? Why wasn't there a manhunt for him, a murderer? And why the hell was he so hungry all of a sudden?

Cordelia's body was taken away, Wolfram & Hart probably. Second question, see first answer. Evidence… Damn. He hadn't checked his room. Fourth, W&H again. Hungry? The lingering craving for food after a murder, because of old habits?

"I still can't get through to them, even after going outside," Wesley piped up, coming over to Angel's table. He found his friend's shoulders hunched forward. It took him a moment, before he sat down, to see whether Angel was awake or not.

"Cell phone not workin'?" Angel pointed to the small device he lent Wesley.

"Not at all."

Looking thoughtful, Angel leaned back. "Well, they are in the sewers."

"That hasn't stopped you from calling back," Wesley pointed out. "I can't get Buffy's beeper or Faith's."

"Then we're out of luck, aren't we?" More staring, scooping up the bottle and taking a long drink.

A slow burn ran through Wesley, wondering how Faith was. He directed his building anger towards Angel, who seemed content just sitting there and drowning his sorrows. "Do you think drinking will fix your problems? It won't. The only thing that can fix them is you, Angel. You're just going to have to accept that."

Buffy…

She had laughed at him. Why should he save her? Don't bother, a voice screamed. You killed the one you loved! You weren't worth anything before, nor now! Why did you take her life? Why, why?!

Silence followed, and after a moment, Angel replied, "What if I don't want to fix them?"

"What?"

"What if I don't know HOW to fix them? Wesley, this isn't normal. THIS isn't normal. I'm not supposed to be here. Not even helping them instead. All of this… It just feels so out of–"

The front door burst open, "–place! Outside the place I tell ya! Some guys tried to jump me an' steal my wallet, but this girl came and chased 'em off, man," said one energetic bar patron, walking in with another man. A bit too loud, he waved tot he bartender. "Hey! You have to call the police! The girl's still outside, and she might get hurt."

"Why didn't you stay with her outside?" asked the other man.

"Shit, I'm not getting hurt over a wallet. Dark hair, these like…dark green eyes tho'… that girl was kickin'."

Chin slipping off the heel of his palm, Angel bowed his head for a second before snapping it up. He almost nodded off, thankful for the man's outburst. A deterrence from Wesley laying down the bottom line. Angel didn't need to be reminded of that. Angel needed to get really drunk. He couldn't cry– why, when he'd felt much more broken when Buffy slept with Spike–couldn't do anything right, much less get drunk properly, or mourn. He was stalling. Thinking. Getting queasy.

It was weird for him, to revisit the despair of the twenties and thirties, the decades he drowned his sorrows away in the bottom of a glass.

However, when the man said that brief description of physical features, Angel did a double take, glancing hard at Wesley.

Cutting off Wesley before he could say anything, Angel stood up abruptly, weaving slightly. "Stay. I'm going outside."

"Good Lord, you are not," Wesley snapped, standing to look Angel eye to eye. "You're weak, and not even bloody sober. Don't think you can just go out there with fisticuffs."

Glares, dark and twisting features, five 'o clock shadows and pained memories were shared.

Wesley was right, although no matter how long Angel knew him, he was still the embodiment of 'uncool', as Faith might say.

"Fine. Then we'll split up. Is that good for you?"

"Certainly."

*

There was a cool breeze that threw up dust clouds and discarded paper that night. The bar they'd gone to, Angel remembered faintly, had been a ways out, but at least they had some nice beer that reminded him of the good Irish taverns back home.

Back home. Where was home, now?

Situated in the bad part of town, a town where corrupt was a concept put heavily into play, yet only the saccharine, blinding Hollywood imagery made you think the opposite. He wasn't too far off from the saline plant where Buffy saved him from the Mohra demon. There were many abandoned buildings in this neighborhood, walls streaked with spray paint and odd symbols. Boom boxes blared in the far off distance, cars, if they weren't stripped, were under heavy lock and key.

Wesley had gone north. Or was it east? He couldn't smell the sun anymore.

It scared Angel, in so many odd ways, that he preferred being a vampire, than being a human. His mind was so jaded, so tumbled and confused that he'd take anything, a tortured soul, heck, even Spike's whining over this–

Something moved in the shadows, a silhouette. Something sleek and swift. There was another movement, sensual and predatory; a hunting animal.

Jerking his head to the right, Angel looked to the abandoned warehouse there. There was a blue, gray tint to everything, dark and murky. An orange haze glimmered above in the far off distance, sirens blaring. He had less than perfect vision, not like before, but he knew he saw something. Venturing into the abyss of shadows and disrupted garbage, Angel entered the warehouse.

Light poured in through cracks in the fixture, streaky and dirty glass windows. Boards and two by fours were thrown and out of place. Stepping over the garbage and disrupted furniture, Angel peered past a spider's web hidden in a corner.

Longing for a weapon, anything, he settled for his own two fists if need be.

He heard a crash of broken glass and aimed his dark eyes into the shadows.

"…I know you're there," Angel said, echoing words of another night so many years ago, when Buffy intended to kill him, mistakenly thinking he hurt her mother.

Angel continued his hunt, moving in the dark stillness.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Just calm down. And we'll talk."

Silence, the horrible, deafening sound of it.

In a voice that seemed to come everywhere at once, a response called, "What makes you think I'd believe you?"

He knew that voice. Angel's heart lurched from the pain of hearing it again. Carefully shifting his position, the young man turned. Then Angel's eyes widened as she stepped forward, very close.

It was her. All of her.

---

Part 15

Tired, wet, and cranky, Buffy pulled herself up and out of the sewer exit located in the hotel's basement. She could smell fish, and guts, maybe guts of the fish, or non-fish guts. Either way, it was… bad.

A hand shot up, 'Carrie'-like, but it was only Faith covered in similar reddish goo. Buffy latched her own strong arm on Faith's giving her support and pulling her out. Stumbling a step or two, holding each other. Staring, unsure of what to say. It was odd now. To compare Buffy to a sister was irresistible. She was her surrogate sibling, with the same interests, tastes in clothing, some in music. Fighting. They got that.

And yet, was this the same person, Faith thought, who lied to her all this time, about Spike? Surely not.

Angel hadn't known either.

He must feel more worse than I do.

Faith pushed Buffy's grasp away, stepping aside but not looking up. "Thanks, B."

"Oh, so you give her a lift but you'd leave me down here in the cold," the obvious voice called after them.

Innocently looking down, Buffy shrugged, then pulled Spike up. "You're not alive," she drawled.

"Still, s'not nice to leave a vamp out in the cold. Could get a bit perky, you know."

Receiving similar eye rolls from both girls, Spike shrugged. Buffy then suggested they go upstairs, figure out things. Not rush. No. Rushing into things was… It was never good…

Moving to her bedroom, she stretched, hearing a crack or two. Neither Angel, nor Wesley was downstairs, so more than likely they went out searching for them. She'd have Faith call them once she changed her clothes. Slipping into a nice clean shirt and pants sounded luxurious and inviting. After being cooped up and chained for God knows how many hours… Ripped from her place with her friends… Buffy would love a shower too.

Something told her it could wait, and when she opened her door, she knew why.

The room was an utter mess.

Chairs overturned, the stuffing in her mattress ripped, sheets flung about, windows open. Books ripped to shreds, heels broken, hangers littered the floor. Gingerly stepping over the clutter, Buffy made her way to her dresser, opening it. Her personal things, papers, under garments, make up and such had been rifled through, the whole experience giving her a dirty feeling.

They took away my privacy.

I hate that.

Buffy, tired as she was, pulled out a shirt and a pair of pants from the closet, intent on solving these burnings, no matter how sleepy she became.

*

Cordelia Chase, an apparition, flesh and blood, faint memory of better times, woman, female, weighed her options. She was beautiful in his eyes, her color choices of clothing accentuating the piercing eyes, dark brown hair cascading down in waves. Face cold, hands trembling, she held an object in her hand.

A sharp stick, the size of a pool stick, only thicker.

Oh, how long, how long had it been since she bumped into the Slayer at that store? So many weeks, months, decades, it felt. Brandishing the stolen weapon in shaky fists, Cordelia stared hard at him.

Open mouthed, staring, just…taking her in. Her scent, her smell, the beating heart he could imagine. Angel was not close enough to be able to tell, but he longed to wrap his arms around her midriff to find out.

"Cordelia. You're… You're alive."

The icing on the cake.

Chase, for that was what they called her back home, and who she really was, took one dainty step forward, head angled, feet firmly on the ground, and proceeded to slap Angel across the face.

"You bastard."

Angel reeled, the painful memory of Buffy smacking him coming to mind. It was not only the force of the blow, but the anger in her eyes when she did it, the pain, twisting like a knife wound in the gut, digging at her. At him.

Straightening, he almost growled.

Cordelia, like this man, did not know what to do either.

She could dodge right, deliver a stab to his side, maybe duck and roll to the door. Or left, same thing. And then there was the option of not doing anything, just standing and listening to his '7th Heaven' lecture. Blah blah, so-and-so is wrong.

Angel flexed his fingers, wondering what the hell he was going to do, to stop her. It would be hard to run after her, because of his leg, so…taking her down right here sounded the best. He didn't want to take her down though. Maybe they could talk it through. Other than that, he'd have to get one of the others in there. Buffy or Faith, whoever was closer—No. They were not there. He was a one-man army, Angel convinced himself, and ready enough to take charge.

Cordelia flinched right, jerking her body one step. Angel followed her action, moving to his left but unable to stop himself. She lunged forward, stabbing with the long wooden stick, hitting his left leg, the stiff one.

Angel stared in disbelief at the stick protruding from his leg. Then it dawned on him. Pain. Yes. Much.

"AGHH! Damn it!"

She seemed to realize what she had done to him, at that moment. A double take. And then–

"Oh. Ohh. Oh God." Cordelia was panting, staring at him, then at his leg frantically.

He immediately fell onto his back with a sigh of anger. Eyes lifting to meet her own, Angel was greeted with another burst of pain when he felt the sharp tug of the stick being pulled. It shoved against the wound in his leg, a fiery pain shooting through all limbs. Cordelia stood over him, half looking remorseful, but the steely resolve in her eyes told Angel that he wasn't being left off the hook anytime soon.

"Cordelia! Cordelia…" Angel winced, eyes widening a bit when she stepped on his thigh, right where the wound was. "…Let me – EXPLAIN!"

"Are you okay?" she asked, a genuine tone of concern in her voice.

"I – think so."

"Good." Another twist and Angel nearly shouted. "That's for the pillow."

– "Yeah they do. And sometimes they change back. - If the day ever comes that I..."

"Oh, I'll kill you dead." –

"I'm not evil!"

"Typical guy. Always go for the primal response."

"Cordelia–"

"You tried to KILL me, Angel. You think I'd let that slip by?" Finally, after her poking, Cordelia pulled the stick free, eliciting a gasp from her counterpart. "And all this time I trusted you. For – for what? So you can leave me high and dry when the next – BLONDE comes along or something?"

Getting to his feet, slowly, for the pain in his leg was intense, Angel responded, "This has nothing to do with Buffy."

"Are you so sure? 'Cause I don't know anymore, really. It's hard to trust someone who tried to smother you," Cordelia said clearly, throwing the stick down at his feet. Disgusted, humiliated, rejected, she turned and started to walk away, navigating through the warehouse.

"We have to talk about this," Angel called after her. Taking a few steps forward, eyes raised in hope.

Cordelia continued on for a while, not responding.

He waited. Started to pace, ignoring the pain, black duster flapping behind him

In three, two–

"About what?"

She was so damn predictable.

Ceasing his pacing, Angel pointed to himself, then to her slowly. "This?"

Considering that for a moment, Cordelia closed her eyes. The moment she opened them, they glowed with a wild ferocity he had never seen before.

"This? This is NOTHING. There's no 'us'. I don't know you, you don't know me, and I prefer to keep it that way," Cordelia bit off, crossing her arms when she turned to face him.

"But we… Cordelia, you can't just–"

"Oh yes I can."

"Damn it Cord!" Angel hit the rickety wall nearby, sending chunks of plaster and dust down, bracing himself against it. "I can't stop thinking about you."

"Well, learn how to. I'm not staying any longer," she replied curtly, checking and zipping her ankle high boots.

"Cordelia, please… I didn't mean what I did before!"

"I don't care. I'm not staying here with some… some jerk like YOU!"

Angel opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by Cordelia pointing a finger in his face, after a little stroll in his direction.

"And you're lucky I'm reserving the bad words for some other jerk!"

"Well…"

"Well what?!"

He faltered, trying to think of an insult. "Your ass looks weird in those… pants!"

"Uhh!" Eyes widening, nostrils flaring, Cordelia kicked him in the shin. "YOU'RE LUCKY THAT'S YOUR *GOOD* LEG!"

"Oww!"

"You're nothing but a psychotic idiot who takes out dream induced actions on poor …. Poor IDIOTS!"

"I told you that I didn't mean– What happened was that in my dream, I–"

"– in your dream, in your dream. I'm tired of that! I still have marks from you choking me," Cordelia growled, stomping towards the shaky doorframe of the gaunt warehouse.

Angel stared after her, unsure of how to make it all better.

She slammed the door shut behind her, ignoring when it fell off its old hinges, Angel opening it a few seconds afterwards.

Her thin, yet curvy form moved down the street quickly. Angel watched her leave, blurry, shifting. Another room, a hallway, and she walked away, her hair shorter and blonder. Fuzzy, faceted, shifting again to the present, fragmented. An arm waved, disdainful.

"And you know what we did the other night? I WAS FAKING!"

He hesitated, then snapped back, "YOU WERE NOT!"

Another slam. Such is life.

*

Faith eased into Angel's chair, feeling unsettled. Angel used this computer for research, so did Buffy. She wasn't used to this technical stuff though. On the field, they'd say, that's where Faith was most often. She sat comfortably in the chair, and planned to click on the Internet Explorer icon, just because… well, of the label, did not give her comfort.

Angel and Wesley still had not returned. Now, Faith was getting worried.

But Buffy assured her that everything would be fine. In the meantime, Faith was instructed to research the burnings that Buffy heard of, on the Internet. When Faith protested this notion, Buffy merely replied that it would give her something to do instead of punch holes through walls, and the like.

Waiting, endlessly waiting. It was enough to drive a girl crazy.

More than the usual, that is.

Faith stopped moving the mouse boredly. She noticed that after she turned the monitor on, the screen flickered and showed her windows. Someone must have left it on, and perhaps the monitor automatically turned off after a while. Sometimes, when they were alone, which was rare, Angel would tell her these things. He'd tell her "so you can understand some of the… new stuff."

"Hey B! Check it out!"

Scrolling, Faith came upon the newspaper site Angel had visited hours before. Buffy came up behind her, scrubbed clean and free of goop. Faith was a bit jealous of Buffy's cleanliness, but settling for just a towel and a leer from Spike wasn't the same as changing clothing and full toweling.

"What is it?" Buffy asked, then looked to the screen. Her jaw clenched and she pulled away, taking a brief glance at the picture and headline.

Faith turned, looking up at her, then at the screen again. "Why was Angel lookin' at this old stuff?"

"Old memories?" Buffy replied in a curt tone, looking around. "Where's Spike?"

"He went out."

"Out? As in to the 'grocery-store-for-some-milk-and-cookies' out, or 'going-to-go-kill-or-rescue-someone' out?"

Faith shrugged, a brief look of thought on her face. "Maybe both. He was hungry."

Buffy frowned, looking at the monitor once more. "I don't get this. Why is he digging up the past?"

"From what I've gathered they're may be a logical reason for that," came a voice from the lobby. Faith turned, while Buffy took a short dash to the office entryway, seeing Wesley set foot into the hotel quickly. "Don't put all the books away yet. We'll need them."

Gesturing to the piles of books still littering the office, Wesley searched the covers once he came near, picking up two, three of them. Receiving questioning looks from Buffy and Faith, he explained, "Angel's still out. We heard some noise at a bar. Went to check it out, and he's still looking."

"You left him alone," Buffy said, arms crossing. "You know how he is, Wesley. We can't even do that anymore."

"He won't listen to me," Wesley responded. "He kept going on about how everything's wrong."

Faith looked up from scrolling the page, turning to Wesley once more. "Whoa. Backtrack and explain."

"This is just a theory, but I think there may be more to Angel's hypothesis. At least, there could be." Wesley took his jacket off, searching, turning pages. "You see, all of these events occurring in sequence may tie into a larger plan."

"Cue the big 'duh' there," Buffy answered. "And this leads to…?"

"When he was at my apartment he mumbled something or other dealing with indoctrination. Then he went on afterwards about he's 'not supposed to be here'."

"First off, what the hell is indoctrination, and second, are you telling me that this ain't real?" Faith asked.

"Indoctrination is another term for brainwashing. Wiping the memory's slate clean. It may have happened to him, hence his erratic behavior."

"Like say, killing chicks for instance?"

Buffy stiffened at this, jaw set. "I don't think he killed her."

"Neither do I," Wesley cut in. "But we'll have to be sure. It could be a medication, side effect. Drugs, even."

Faith, eyes wild with anticipation and a hunger for knowledge, canted her head. "He did seem a little funny when he came here earlier."

Walking to the counter, Wesley looked for a pen. He heard the sirens wail outside, remembering the stark contrast of red flashes against blue shadows when he walked.

"There's something going on. With the so- called fires, the murder, and the way Angel has been acting, in another situation this shows signs of Angelus. But since he's not a vampire anymore, that concept is out."

The weapons cabinet opened with the sound of metal clanking against wood. "I'm not staying in here while people are dying just to hear your 'hypothesis', Wes, but I need to find Spike. And Angel."

"Buffy, it's too dangerous for you to go out."

"So you're saying I should just leave Spike and Angel out there alone?"

They continued on for a few moments. Buffy, the fast-paced girl who had that sassy code of honor, and Wesley, reliable, strict, and able to dish it out with the best of them. Faith eased away, moving from the office into the lobby. She hated this. She'd come all this way, escaped all the pain and torment. She was happy now. But to see everyone falling apart, arguing, pain and madness and fallen glory—

BZZZT!

"What the–?!"

Faith cursed, yet her lips remained invisible. The lights darkened to black, and she could not see anything, only hearing the similar surprised comments from Buffy and Wesley, who in turn, stopped arguing. After a moment or two, a light flared up, and she could see that Wesley held a lighter in his hand, taken from his pocket.

"What's going on?" Not afraid, because after all, this was Faith, and she wasn't supposed to be afraid. She settled for moving to Wesley, while Buffy looked around, squinting.

"The power went out," Wesley replied, a general 'duh' tone.

"The hotel is old, but I'm surprised the fuses just blew like that," Buffy added. She started to go to the office, but stopped in her tracks, looking to the front door. "Oh…"

Her eyes gleamed with the beautiful ferocity of fire, the city skies burning. There were police cars, fire engines, cars, and people, all in chaos. It looked like the Bull Run in Madrid. People screamed, and she could see trashcans turned over, carts left behind.

Wesley came up behind her, followed by Faith. The three stood by the door, watching, listening.

"I'm going," Buffy affirmed, images of horror and painful memories still fresh in her consciousness.

They didn't argue with her.

*

Days before…

"Cordelia… I don't deserve you."

Straightening, Angel's eyes squinted to fight off the glare of the mirror. He stared for a second, before fixing his hair. He parted it, became frustrated and messed it up. Forgetting how aggravating long hair had been originally. Back then, it had looked good. Now it was just annoying.

Hair covering eyes tactic. No good. Face still there. Shame, loathing, torture there.

As far as Angel was concerned, he had lost every single thread of sanity. Except for one, and that was Cordelia, and so he stood there, mundane things, trembling wrists, black and blues, and red hands.

Hands that had grabbed that lovely neck, tightening his hold on her, pushing down the pillow to cut off her air supply.

Fingers gripped the edge, body shaken, worsened by these blows. He could stare, for all eternity until his uneventful death, and still see that horrible reflection, mind no longer 'good'… no, because all these images in his head were wrong. That wasn't supposed to happen. He lived a double life, spooked, freaked out by the other.

Because it was so… so right in comparison to this.

There was a baby, Angel remembered. A beautiful baby swaddled in blue cloth, a boy. Feeling connected to this child—blood, mind, whatever the case may be—Angel wanted to know for himself. Was this chain of events his own doing? Someone else's? Would he ever see his son again?

He didn't know. Damn it, he didn't know.

Angel could hear heavy gasping, a thunk of a body falling to the floor. Getting up, moving, moving to the door, hurrying downstairs.

And then, just when the wave of sadness and remorse, the pure depression he knew in his century of solitude, overtook and made his knees buckle, a scream.

A pure and raw, heavenly scream.

"ANGEL!"

Ohh…

- She kicked his side, frowning. He coughed, wincing when she kicked his stomach another time. Cordelia bent down slightly at her waist, brushing the long, wavy dark brown tresses away with both hands.

Glaring at him, the girl sneered, a look of pure loathing.

"God, you're disgusting."

Another painful kick, and she stood up straight once more. "Look at you. Big, bad 'Scourge of Europe'. Now what? One ugly bastard that's the Slayer's whipping boy. Not to mention, somehow manages to get his ass kicked by girls all the time, with one arm tied behind their backs."

"Cordelia,," Angel breathed, her name on his tongue, feeling strange in his mouth. He looked up at her, now seeing himself.

It was him, but different. More muscular and pale. Hair fashioned in short, dark brown spikes, wearing black clothing. He looked like he did years before, but more stronger, a bit heavier.

When he was an exceptionally tortured, but strong vampire. Not the pathetic human being he was now.

He was in vamp face. "This isn't you."

"Then who am I?" Angel asked, rolling onto his side.

"The champion. You need the muscle, brains, spirit, and heart. Your heart's gone. Take her back."

"Buffy?"

"She's not even close." –

CRASH!

The mirror glass shattered, a chair thrown against it. A dark fist flew up out of nowhere and caught Angel's left temple. He buckled and fell to the floor.

Pulling his hand away from his cheek, Angel felt a searing cut bleed over old scars. His head snapped up to view the perpetrator.

Then, another blow and the world fell to black.

*

The Present

Although Cordelia had left him, Angel was determined to follow her. He remembered the situation now. How he attempted to choke her, smother her. She retaliated, punching him, throwing him off. There was no yelling; he escaped to the bathroom while she rested in a crouched position on the corner of his bed, staring wildly.

It was all starting to make sense now.

Angel attempted to kill Cordelia, he knew. And she escaped. She left while he was in the bathroom. That scream was of her capture perpetrated by Wolfram and Hart. He remembered being knocked out, waking up in their offices. Drugged. So he couldn't remember anything.

It still didn't explain all those flashes of memories he was having. The other life.

He'd follow Cordelia, and she would help him.

Calling out her name, Angel staggered after her, seeing her run down the empty street, alone. She ignored him completely, and it wasn't until he put his hand on her shoulder that she showed any signs of recognition.

As much as pushing him away roughly could be called a sign.

"Get away from me! Don't you dare come near me!"

"Cor–"

"I mean it!"

"Shh!"

Pausing, a split second, Angel raised a hand. He looked around, and she followed suit. Almost speaking again, Cordelia heard it, a crash in an alley nearby, the deserted street becoming more foreboding. Turning, questioning. Another killer, another stalker, and God, why did this keep happening to–

BAM!

"Damn it," Angel gritted, flexing his hand. The skin on the air of his hand screamed, on fire after the blow. He had backhanded her, a bit too rough judging from the pain and the black and blue he caused on her forehead. She slumped to the ground, and he scooped her up quite easier than expected, given his human inability and discomfort.

His own eyes lifted to the skies, and trailing the line of fire and blood soaked heavens, he started to make his way home.

---

Part 16

Cold hearted as he was, Spike couldn't let Buffy down. He decided to find some information for her, those fires, and he'd found a lot more than he expected. The usual haunts, bars, bordellos, magic shops had been ransacked, looted. Screams cried out in the distance, as police cars whizzed by, sirens blaring. Random fights had broken out, demons he recognized, and many he did not. Debris and small fires littered the ground, broken glass, blood flowed.

On another day Spike would have rounded up something tasty, a student perhaps, and joined in on the fun.

However, now it was all for Buffy.

"You there. You're a big, strapping type. Intellectual, to my eyes. Think you can explain this?" Spike asked a thin and gangly vampire, a surfer with a deep tan from his human life, and golden eyes.

"The city's burning, man," he responded, shoving his fist through an electronics store window.

"I can see that," Spike said calmly, hands clasped behind him as he looked at his boots. But what particularly 'caused it, then?"

"Try finding someone who cares, dude!" The vampire pulled a small black and white TV from its display. He dropped it soon after, Spike's strong fist on his throat.

Spike grinned, teeth sharp. "Now say it again boy, only this time more nice."

"The- the lawyer firm! Who else would it be? I don't know man, but they've been talking about doin' something like this for days now," he responded, worried.

"Ah. There it is." Nodding Spike released his grip. He eyed the window, then the vampire. "Take something home for your honey lest you risk her bothering."

And he, the vampire, took Spike's advice to his cold, unbeating heart.

*

"Angel!"

Exiting the office, Wesley could see Angel walk in, holding a limp body in his arms. Nodding to the piles of books and research materials on the small sofa near the staircase, Wesley moved forward immediately and scooped them up. Placing them on the counter, he glanced over to where Angel laid Cordelia out, propping up a pillow behind her.

He moved over to him, standing side by side. It was mind boggling, confusing, amazing... She was there. There. Alive.

He hoped she was alive.

"How did she-?"

"Now's not a good time, Wes. Where's Buffy?" Angel clipped, turning to Wesley, the thoughtful look replaced by a determined glare.

"She went out looking for you," he responded, eyes lingering on Cordelia's sleeping form.

Frowning, Angel opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by the bounding steps of Faith.

"Wesley! The natives are gettin' restless outside! They might want to burn down the place."

"I'll be right there!" Wesley called back, touching Angel's shoulder briefly. "You sure you don't need any help?"

Angel shrugged, sitting down slowly. "Not that I can think of."

Other than figuring out who I am.

*

Buffy felt like she was old, lately. Always tired and crampy. Perhaps it was the double dose of headaches received courtesy of Spike and Angel. Light, dark. And vice versa. As much as she'd hate to admit it, she cared for Spike. Not in the love way. No. They weren't there yet - at least, she wasn't there yet. But they were close. Same with Angel. She cared for him for so long, so it only seemed right to protect him. Since he couldn 't take care of himself anymore.

That didn't stop the whole ordeal from being crappy.

Chaos abundant, Buffy stepped over the debris and trashed items from crack window storefronts. There was looting in this little section of Los Angeles, and the Slayer did not like it one bit.

More so because it kept her from finding Spike or Angel.

And she kept on lookin'.

*

Caressing the curve of Cordy's jaw, Angel waited. Faith and Wesley both checked the parts of the hotel, looking for fallen torches, in case someone wanted to burn the place down. They were doing a clean sweep, and meanwhile, after a hurried explanation, Angel waited for Cordelia to wake up.

Her eyes fluttered open, darkened coals.

One, two, three, and then she spoke: "Angel?"

"Sorry about the punch. Had to get you over here to figure out things," Angel apologized, gesturing with a nod of his head to the hotel surroundings. "Cordelia, I think I have an explanation for all this."

She hesitated, then proceeded to rise. Angel stopped her, eliciting a growl from her.

"Let me go," Cordelia snapped, tolerance thin. Fidgeting was one of many things she excelled at. She rose again, but this time Angel held her wrists down firmly, body moving on top of her to block her further.

"Don't even think about it."

Pausing, considering what he said, Cordelia seethed. Jaw set, she complied, but not without smacking him across the face. He grabbed her wrist, wincing for a second before a determined glare crossed twisted features.

"Uh-uh uh. Cordelia listen to me, all right?"

"I don't have to listen, Angel. You're not-" She stopped, cut off by the sound of breaking glass. Wind whipped through the gaunt hallways of the hotel, carrying flames thrown in by a torch. A hazy light glowed from the top of the staircase, Angel could see, could hear Faith yelling.

FWOOSH!

Angel pulled her to a standing position, eyes darting about. She drew close to him momentarily, then as if realizing her move, Cordelia stepped away. A cracking noise echoed, and the sound of Wesley and Faith shouting in the distance was followed by the crackling noise of flames tearing through the hotel. Soon they would reach the lobby, and with all the chaos outside, Angel didn't know if they'd make it out safely.

"Torches... They got in. Wolfram and-"

Another large sound, explosion... practically a mini earthquake ripped through the hotel. This time Cordelia did lunge towards him and cling for dear life.

- She held on to him as the subway rumbled by. He explained the reason for the vibrations, and she relented... -

Frowning, Angel held her at arm's length. "We've got to get out of here."

"Yeah, we-" Cordelia hesitated. She wasn't sure leaving was a good idea. Leaving, mind you, with the same person who days before proclaimed his love, only to try and smother her. But now was not the time to go over things, and as another burst of flames attacked the hotel, she pulled away, dashing over to the door.

Black vehicles were lined up outside on the block across. Jeeps, lots of trucks. Practically fifty cops, L.A's SWAT teams and for Pete's sake, the National Guard was most likely there. However, they were all wearing dark clothing, ski masks if available.

And they all worked for Wolfram and Hart.

Lunging forward, Angel grabbed Cordelia by the elbows and pulled her away from the door. Shock registered on her face when she took note of the heavy security outside. It did not deter her from smacking him away, but Angel would have none of that.

"We REALLY need to get out of here," Angel shouted, the burning fire ripping throughout the hotel making it hard to speak without choking on the smoke that flared up. It had reached the lobby by now, and Angel could hear more glass being broken in the establishment. Wildfire, it consumed everything in its path, the piles of books near the office, the counter, and the couch-

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Cordelia nodded, putting a wrist to her mouth. "What about Wesley and Faith?"

Latching a hand onto her arm, Angel guided her to the direction of the basement. "They'll be fine! Let's try to head out through the sewers."

And as the plaster, marble, metal, wood came down, the two with clasped hands made their way out.

Into the hands of darkness.

*

Burning in flames, the legendary Hyperion Hotel cast a huge funnel of smoke into the night sky. All because of a few little fires, torches, bottles thrown at the windows. To think that these elite teams with their high-tech gadgets and extensive authorization could do such a thing with simple materials.

It was ludicrous, but effective.

Wesley's hand clamped onto her forearm, Faith coughed into the scrap of a handkerchief Wesley had found in his pocket. He pulled her along, and she complied, unable to see too clearly. He shouting something then, and her arm was tugged as he pulled her out of the way of some falling plaster. Bodies crouched, they made their way to the back door, Wesley kicking the already burned wood down.

"Faith! Watch out!"

She pulled away from him and spun into a kick, connecting with the midsection of a man with dark clothing. Her arm shot out, hitting another man's neck. She was blind by fire and adrenaline, hitting those who got in her way. Shouting, punching, and Wesley tugged at her shoulder.

Her eyes opened for the first time since she left the hotel. Faith didn't look at the unconscious bodies on the ground, just following a somber Wesley instead.

*

Buffy couldn't stand roaming the streets alone. She was tired, shirt ripped and torn, a gash on her forehead. It had been productive though-five vampires staked so far, more to go. And yet, as she wiped the scrap of wood on her shirt, from which she dug out from a dumpster after falling into it, she could not feel more like a failure.

Angel. Buffy tried calling out to him, but the running people, families, cars mowing past her, choked her, lungs begging for air. And she could breathe, but they screamed with a ferocity that was unimaginable and yet real at the same time. She shielded her eyes, sparks flying off the edge of a vehicle as it careened and screeched past a bus bench and then bounced off the pavement harmlessly, tearing down the street.

Still no Angel.

Or Spike.

"Back to square one," Buffy murmured, putting a hand to rub the tension growing in the muscles of the back of her neck. She turned her head this way and that, too quick to jump out of the way-

The storefront glass shattered in front of her, a television set thrown and crashing to the pavement. Buffy lurched back, falling painfully on one knee, then to the ground, glass digging cuts all over the place.

"You silly bint! Why you-"

Voice cut short by realization, the Slayer could hear the familiar accent, could feel cold fingers wrapping around her wrist. The flutter of a leather trench coat, and Spike was there, lifting her gently. Eyes opening slowly, Buffy could see a female vampire run off at this opportunity. She tried to tell Spike to take off after the vamp, but instead Spike only shook his head firmly, helping her up.

"What were you doing?" Angry, resentful, was he?

"Looking for you. And Angel."

"Angel can take care of himself. You don't need to worry about him," Spike replied, sarcastic to a fault.

But as the fires raged, for the third time in as many days, Buffy was unsure of what to do.

*

Falling into the sewer, Angel crouched, water splashing around him. He straightened, hearing something creak, the sign of tiredness and age. It was all too brief though, for he stood and turned to the ladder. The sewers were not as ominous as he remembered them. They seemed, in a morbid sense, to be familiar and. normal.

"Are you sure about this?"

Angel waved a hand, gesturing towards himself. "Come on."

Patient, he waited as Cordelia climbed down carefully, nearly missing the bottom rung of the ladder and slipping. However, he pulled up close to it, hands firm around her small waist as he lifted her down to the ground. Water splashed from their movements, the sounds of sewage and skittering making Cordelia scrunch her nose in disgust.

"For the record, to sum up this place in one word? Eww," Cordelia said, frowning.

Glancing over at him, Cordelia could see Angel's brow furrow in concentration as he decided where to go. Left, right. That was pretty much it. Or up into the already burning building. A pang of sadness filled her, Angel's home and possessions gone up in smoke.

Wolfram and Hart knew revenge well. They had tried kidnapping her, to no avail, as she escaped. They wanted him to think he killed her, to give up. And go insane. What would they keep him for? Those prophecies, fortunes of his major role in the end of days were a load of horse manure. How could Angel, a human, a not-so-strong one at that, conquer those that waited for him in the darkness?

He chose right.

"This way," Angel instructed, heading down the tunnel. He paused after a few seconds, then reached towards Cordelia with an outstretched hand, trying to push some hope and love into his gesture. It didn't fall short, as he expected, for Cordelia took his hand in her own, and they continued onward. Sometimes walking, mostly running. The steady drip of murky water, liquid splashing and falling upon their short-lived arrivals, footsteps, caused Cordelia to speak.

She told him how they'd taken her away from him, kicking and screaming, until a harsh blow send her into a short-lived moment of unconscious piece. Dreams faded from reality, waking up in a small room lined with a mirror on the wall to the right, the desk immaculate save for a folder.

Instructions. Photographs.

Payment.

They paid her to pretend to be dead. She declined, and they settled for sending her on a trip.

To be killed, she could guess. The desert wasn't too far away.

The car skid, rolling over once, almost twice after it careened past a highway billboard, jumping, sliding, and rolling into a ditch.

Seatbelts, Cordelia knew, were the best things in a car.

All those past events, escapes didn't matter. She was here with him now, and that- with his visions, his rants, his poor self-esteem- mattered.

*

Lilah Morgan absolutely loved her job.

The whole building was abuzz, phones ringing off the hook, e-mails, letters, visions. Every client who was interested in the situation of Los Angeles, were well in contact. Heck, the firm even arranged for vacations for those lucky and wise enough to come visit before the town was burnt to a crisp.

There would be losses, she knew, but this had been said long before in the cards, before she even existed. The good would fall, the evil shall rise, and there would be no peace for all eternity.

You know. Stuff like that.

Angel's team and his refusal to join Wolfram and Hart left a thread hanging in the fabric of their master plans. He caused them great losses in time, money, operatives, and .trees. Yes, all the damn paper for monstrous file of information they had on him.

Which, given the sudden turn of events, would have to be updated to include all these new events.

Everything was arranged perfectly. The cash flow was definitely increasing, and so was the reputation. All families affected were offered help, whether they wanted any or not. They could be useful, or if not, the firm would make them to be. Call Wolfram and Hart, people said, paid, drugged, hypnotized. as long as the point would get across. More clients, more money, more designer heels.

So as Lilah sipped her martini, glass held lazily, conniving eyes peering at the chaotic city below, she grinned, a Cheshire cat.

Fire engines blared down below, sending a signal to cars to move out of the way. But now matter how many tons of metal and fire hose, and water drove to the scene, the fires still kept going.

*

The sewers stunk, the place was wet, but Cordelia pushed that out of her mind. They were silent, and soon her fingers, sticky with sweat and dirt, pulled away from his hand. In the stray light, of what little there was, her eyes lifted from the ground to look at him. Focus on his own, how he momentarily looked to her, a grim expression, eyes furtive and looking away. They approached a crossroads, tunnels going off in four directions.

Angel paused, head lifting to view the soft light cast in from the grating above. He stepped into it, crouching a little more than the usual. Blinking, as if for the first time seeing such a sight, white light casting a harsh glare on his face, blanking out the imperfections, only for a moment. He was Angel again, the real one he used to be, and not this. this. whatever he was.

"Cordelia."

He could take her name and weave it into a song, melodic tones of passion and regret. A step, two forward, and Angel turned, duster billowing around him. They stared at each other, he in the clothes of a loner, she in the requisite dark tan tank top, tight dark gray pants that would make Buffy blush. The overall effect was lovely, and even in this angelic light, sewage around her, hair a bird's nest, she looked beautiful in his eyes.

"What?" Cordelia asked, arms hanging loose by her sides, the relaxation of muscles settling in. The rush and gurgling of water followed for a moment, and then Angel stepped into the light again.

She remembered how it felt to kiss his lips, to hear his hushed whispering in her ear. The shame she felt, turning away so as to not look at him in the beginning. The shouldn'ts, couldn'ts, musn'ts. And the cans, wills, wishings, wantings, declarations.

Why, why did she like him so much?

Angel, once a strong vampire and champion. Now reduced, degraded to a messenger, human, weak, disfigured, lonely, and depressed.

He had a girlfriend for. how long had it been again? Six years? So much to atone for, ripped from his mission to make weak attempts for redemption from the sidelines. Even his sired vampire, Spike, could fight better.

Angel felt useless, but strong in her eyes.

She gave him support, complimented him, and talked to him. Cordelia kissed those lips that told her, instructed her not to like him.

There was something between them though, a connection. A strong, vibrant feeling, so strong to draw her into this dark and foreboding sewer. Cordelia wondered if that whole thing about past lives was true.

If it was, has she met Angel before?

Angel, Angel. It always came down to him.

"Angel," she began, biting her lip to keep back to rush and tumble of emotions in her. He tried to kill her, but loved her, and oh God if her heart kept beating any faster, fear or fervor-

"Cordelia. I'm sorry."

He said her name again with the soft tone as before.

Her eyes grew watery, mascara streaky upon looking at him. Mr. Summers, his adopted name, stood there, hands stuffed into pockets. He ran a hand through rakish hair, taking another step forward. Hand straightening his shirt, he tried being more presentable.

It was eighth grade all over again, despite the turmoil raging on the surface.

"Just so you know, this is me smiling," Angel began, a brief flash of white teeth before settling for that smirking, casual glare. He straightened, head bowed while she stared at him longer, now rubbing her arms.

".Don't."

"Don't what?"

Eager, paying attention to every syllable that came from her lips.

She spoke.

"Don't love me anymore."

Her heart collapsed.

Cordelia's statement was met with a confused look that darkened, turning away from her. In a voice that could break granite, Angel began, "I know what's the cause for all this. At least, I think I do."

She said nothing. He started pacing.

"It sounds strange, but Lilah-they - they drugged me. Made me tell them things. Horrible things." He closed his eyes, the bitter sting of her statement eating away at him. Spending too much time on it though could cost him everything.

"I've had the visions for two years. Doyle passed them onto me before he died. And they were painful, even more with. the accident. But these." At her confused expression, Angel began to elaborate, "Ever since I met you, I' m having flashes of another life. Someone I was, could have been. Or not someone at all. Maybe this proved I was going crazy, you know? And then I realized, after I told everything to Lilah, th- the lawyer who handled my situation, it didn't make sense.

"It was like a nightmare that never ended. And I think that life that I'm seeing is real."

Straightening, a look of pity appeared on Cordelia's face, vanishing as quickly as it arrived. "Angel-"

"No. I don't want to hear it," Angel snapped, a hand raised to ward off Cordelia's outstretched hand. "I'm not crazy, all right?"

She rubbed her chin for a moment, thoughtful. Until her fingers rose to cover her mouth. In a murmur, eyes half-mast, Cordelia deadpanned, "No. What would give anyone that idea?"

Before she even had time to finish her sarcastic remark, Angel blurted, "Then why do you stay with me?"

This gave her pause, and she looked at him hard, the light filtering in through the grating on the murky ceiling. She stared at him too often, and this time. Cordelia tried her hardest to hate him. To curse at him, insult him. She wanted to hate him so badly that it scared her, made those arms stop moving to dangle at her sides again.

The answer came true to her, clear as day.

"How could I not?"

The crunching of boots carried him over to her, and he brushed a finger against her cheek after a moment, making her flinch and turn away. He was her damnation: a love strong and powerful, sensual and equal. A man in her life would throw a wrench into things, the no nonsense feministic warrior had thought, far from the truth when she found herself falling in love with him.

He wasn't good looking, nor did he have lots of money. But with a wounded heart that slammed ferociously in his chest for those he cared for, for those he hated and killed, Angel put Cordelia under his spell.

She was more scared right now then she'd let on.

Her anger flared up again, at Angel, his charms, his talks his. God, she wanted to hate him. But she couldn't.

It was so hard.

"Taking the easy route won't get you anywhere. Life's not a show. There are ups and downs. And no matter how much you punish yourself for what happened to you, Angel, it's still the past. No one can change it," Cordelia said gently, touching the dark material of his coat on his bicep softly.

He frowned. "But what if you could alter it? And things heard off in a totally different direction?"

"Then, it happens when it happens." She watched Angel rub his chin in thought, turning away from her for a moment, then back again.

"Kiss me."

"What?"

Angel moved to grab her by the waist and he kissed her full on the mouth. They kissed slowly for a blissful few seconds. He pulled away, a soft whisper emanating out of Cordelia once she opened her eyes. It was more of a sigh than words, breathed out dreamily.

"That was," Cordelia started, straightening the lapels of his jacket. ".Devious."

- "When the two of you are done" -

Cordelia turned, the sewers fading in a swish of smoke. Both she and Angel looked at a disapproving Wesley, the backdrop of the lobby behind him, a gangly young woman, bright and shy next to him.

- "Maybe we can finish this case now?" -

"Oh my God."

Angel pulled away, mouth partially open. He looked at her, nodding. "You saw it too?"

That was. Wesley? Cordelia searched his eyes, trying to find an explanation. "He. the hotel?"

"Wes-" Angel put a hand to his forehead, concentrating. The pain was unbearable, physical, and mental. He focused, trying to push away the fog in his mind, trying so hard.

The roadblock inched, so slowly, memories fading, seeping in.

Eyes closed shut, pain flared, steel plates slicing thoughts.

He jerked away from her, collapsing, Cordelia gasping and lunging forward on one knee to balance him when he fell, back slamming onto her knee while a fit of spasms wracked Angel's body and mind.

Remember.

Her heart broke for him, anger dissipating for a moment, and she felt helpless, waiting.

Lorne, that demon they had met, his words rung uneasily in her ears.

"The visions are killing him, his mind, brain to be specific. If you get right down to it, the concussion he had, the pills he's taking, it's a cocktail for primo disastero."

"Angel's going to die?"

Angel stopped moving, eyes closed.

She waited. Helpless.

The dirty water ran over slick, uneven bricks and Cordelia kissed him again, savoring every ounce of pain pouring from his lips, if it was the last time.

*

"Angel? Angel?"

Turning, he saw her lean over the edge of a crib, fingers tickling a cute, smiling baby.

"Do you think I should feed him now?"

He moved behind her, kissing her hair tenderly, a hand rubbing her shoulder. An arm hugged her shoulders, strong and powerful, muscles coiled like a jungle feline.

"Sure. But after I eat first."

Angel growled at Cordelia, pulling her waist in close to kiss her neck, laughter spilling from her like soft rain. She smacked him away playfully, gesturing down to the infant who awoke, gurgling and smiling.

Side by side, they watched Connor smile.

*

Remember.

Pain, sliding, pulling the convertible door open as bodies piled into the convertible, taking off from the club-

No. Too soon. Too soon.

Farther. The ministrations of Spike jumbled with Cordelia singing at Caritas, faint traces of Wesley and Faith kissing around the edges. At the center and slightly off to the right was Buffy, from carefree to scrutinizing, shocked, saddened, and finally firm.

Boots kicked flesh as stakes met hearts, dust flying up into the air with the rain. The downpour fell upwards, so slowly, Angel and Cordelia moving back, back on fast-forward, from where they came.

Static crackled and sparked, the soft sheet being torn away from memories.

Leather chairs and steel manacles faded away, poorly done coffee and odd smell of beer mingled in the odor of fear and regret. Shots and needles meant nothing, head rolling back, eyes snapping shut to the sound of a mobile.. soft music.

Items thrown carelessly onto the ground, clothing, books.

A tangle of limbs and clothing gave way to cuddling, every word calculated for perfection.

That. The sweet smell of flesh and shampoo mingled with swear and giddy anticipation, wind chiming in, door opened and-

So soft and velvet, a bed of satin and roses, beautiful, ever lasting-

"Do you love me?" she asked him, a hushed tone, but also in amusement.

Angel's mouth opened slightly, eyes closing before he kissed her once more.

After he pulled away, she angled her face so that her forehead met his. Again in a whisper, Cordelia continued, "Because if not, I'll have to kill you."

"Too late," Angel answered, offering a little shrug. "I'm already dead."

It hadn't been a dream.

And then... after the pain subsided, he knew.

*

The roadblock was ripped, sunlight and past pain filtered through.

With clumsy fingers, Cordelia pried Angel's hand away from her cheek, and with the ferocity and heat of wielded metal, she pushed away from him, skittering, the water sloshing and staining her hands and jeans.

Connor.

She knew his name.

And as the rush of fire swept overhead on the surface, the murky water swooshed by, Angel, on his back, one leg up, the other down. remembered.

Angel looked over at her, clearing his throat. He remembered her. Everything. When she got her visions, got pregnant, promised never to leave him. The hurt in her eyes when he threatened her once, the joy when he bought her all those clothes. The training sessions, the moira and kye-rumption, the. the baby.

Connor. He remembered him now. His son, who cried too much, who stood silently amused when his father vamped out.

Cordelia.

"Cordy."

The soft touch of Angel's words fell upon Cordelia hard, the inevitable feeling of pain seeped in.

"I remember now. I remember everything," Angel murmured, shaking his head ever so slowly in disbelief, crawling over to her for a second before standing up again. "This. this isn't supposed to happen."

Her body turned down, Cordelia looked up to Angel, with new eyes. Looking at him for the first time all over again. She felt his hands touch her arms, firm, trying to be there, body limp and uncomprehending. The kiss had broken a dam of built up memories in her, so many that they overcame fading slips of a broken past. New York shifted and turned into Sunnydale, Los Angeles. Buffy fell into place, Willow, the groping hands of Xander, the rich car, the Queen C license plate.

Cordelia touched Angel's cheek with her hand, brow constricted. How had he done all this to her? Why did she do that all to him? And he was so broken, feeling worthless, angelic looks faded and distorted.

Everything.. just. everything

"'Your fate lies twisted and broken, as you are'," Angel murmured, looking down briefly before helping her up.

"Lorne," Cordelia started, standing up fully. She bit her lip, thinking. "He hasn't changed."

"Everyone else has," Angel followed, looking away.

"We have to change it back to the way it was."

Frowning, Angel said her name plaintively, feeling weird. Lips formed a name he didn't fully grasp yet, a nickname for the so-called starlet. "I know we do. I just don't know how everything's changed. If it has."

At her look, Angel went on, "These could be false memories coming back."

Cordelia wasn't sad, wasn't angry when she looked at him. Her fingers merely raised and lingered on the side of his face before he reached up to pull her hand away. Smooth, they trailed down his neck, past the collarbone and dark leather to his chest.

"You're human, Angel. I can feel your heart beat," Cordelia spoke softly, no warning of tears. She wasn't going to give into the screaming portion of her brain, the one that wept and rejoiced at the same time. ".And it scares me."

Angel crossed what little space there was between them, and took Cordelia into his arms.

"I know. Scares me too."

*

It wasn't until. later on that Faith and Wesley reached his apartment. The city was shrouded in night, even though the clock read different. So many things had passed in the span of days, making Wesley wonder if something was wrong with time itself. The fires burned on throughout the city, but they were powerless to stop it. Wounded, as well.

The Hyperion, in all its glory, died that night, blackened and charred by the rage and foul temperament of fire. The two were fine except for some smoke inhalation and minor bruises and cuts, but they were just dandy in comparison to previous battles.

Angel and Cordelia. They. They were alive. They had to be.

Remembering the rope, the lure Faith had given him when they escape to his apartment, Wesley leaned a little more on his elbow. He traced patterns on the flesh of Faith's arm, the sheet covering her breasts and not much else. Wesley told her explicitly that having sex while doing work was wrong. The city was in flames, and yet when they limped in, cleaned wounds, made calls, she still managed to throw him onto his messy bed.

She didn't listen to him.

It wasn't until Wesley pushed her hand away, kissing the area 'round the bandage on her abdomen, that. he knew. Seeing the healing wound on her stomach, the cross worn on her neck, so deadly, brutal.

Effective.

She jerked in her sleep, possibly dreaming of a sharp fall. Fall she did, as Faith tumbled over the side of the bed. Inching over to see her, a messy brunette popped up, and she was different. Perhaps the hair was more darker, the eyes more furtive, solid, blackened. Lips weren't as red as before, paler, pulled into a grimace. Yet she was the same, Faith, all of her, all of his paramour.

"Wes?"

The thoughts slammed into his brain, memories, clumsily falling. The pain of pride being broken at the harsh barbs of Angelus. Joining this family of sorts, after a fruitless voyage as a demon hunter. Never trusting Angel fully, sparring with Cordelia, all to the point of being hurt in the office blast. How Angel was worried sick over the two of them, cold hearted and grim when he fired them. Gunn. Fred.

The pavement slicked wet, Angel holding his infant son in his arms, sheets of rain pouring down. Fred followed, Fred with her mathematics, and cute grins, logical and illogical, and he loved that about her.

But here was Faith, in jail, but in his room, here and oh God, they had really-

Wesley nodded. Grabbing the bed sheet to cover himself, he stood up.

"Something is very wrong."

Continue on...