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.
Part 10 Dedication: To Greenie,
'cause I'll miss him dearly!
Part 20 Dedication: It's over. First
things first, I have to thank Steffi and Kath for putting up with my
ramblings, as well as Melissa, C/A fic goddess extraordinaire and Emma,
goddess of C/A screenshot-y goodness for helping too. I cannot begin to
thank everyone who has read and given feedback: your words and wishes, as
well as threats were happily received and heart warming. I love all the
comments dearly. They motivated me despite constant obstacles. Once again, I
cannot promise there will be any more stories from me in the future,
although another remake of a favorite movie looms… But I'd rather finish it,
or at least half before I post it. Also, you will be able to find some
goodies in the end. Once it's checked and scrutinized, this'll go onto the
lists. Onto the end of this massive story!
Feedback: I am a
feedback junkie, so make me high.
Part 19
Just one step at a time
And closer to destiny
I knew at a
glance
There'd always be a chance for me
With someone I could live
for
Nowhere I would rather be
Is your love strong enough
Like a
rock in the sea
Am I asking too much
Is your love strong
enough?
Just one beat of your heart
And stranger than fantasy
I
knew from the start
It had to be the place for me
Someone that I would
die for
There's no way I could ever leave
- Brian Ferry, Is Your
Love Strong Enough
*
The Los Angeles wind blew over
the pavement, sending swirls of dust, stray fliers in the air. Printed black
on hot pink paper, the dance club flier whipped and pinned itself against
the tire of the black Plymouth GTX convertible.
The slam of a car
door, the ignition turned on, and soon the flier was rolling along again,
car backing up.
Pulling away from the curb, Angel turned the radio
on. He never turned it on for himself, only when Gunn or Cordy asked him,
usually after a night of demon slaying. The thoughts of camaraderie, the
hugs and sarcastic scowls during those times made him feel nostalgic. Before
he had his friends, in Sunnydale… The only thing he would've been greeted
with seemed to be a night of lonely reading or lurking.
So it was on
now, playing something along the lines of rock, and Angel did not bother
changing it.
Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he flexed his
hand, glancing at the back of it. The knuckles were mildly bruised, the
marks fading away. After he had backhanded Lilah quite roughly, it left a
mark. It was amusing to see that sneer, that startled look when he
returned.
She honestly didn't expect him to return from that
'wretched version of his life'. He did. Didn't exactly kick her ass, but
considering the nasty bruise he gave her, it was good.
The clawed
hand of the Temsik demon, driven into her desk with a knife in the center,
would make a nice paperweight.
After all, the visit left him feeling
all warm inside.
*
A Few Days Before
It had been
decided that he, Wesley, and Gunn, would return to the scene of the crime
after he woke up from his long rest. Cordelia was still sleeping then, her
skin fiery, her breathing controlled. He had gently moved the blanket to
cover her, kissed her forehead, and then went downstairs. The apparition
that appeared as Wesley explained a lot, the whole occurrence as related by
Angel leaving them all unsettled.
"So… what happened?" Angel had
asked, nursing a glass of blood to fight off the weak feeling, the lump in
his throat. "I feel like I've been hallucinating for who knows how
long."
"You returned from the lair, as we all saw," Wesley began,
clicking the mouse on the computer. Gunn leaned back in his chair with a
sigh, resting his chin on a palm. "Cordelia was already waiting here,
watching over Connor, asleep. When Fred woke up the next morning, she heard
Connor crying. And judging by the embarrassment on her face, she was afraid
to go in, and… find you both—"
"Doin' the freaky deaky," Gunn
supplied, getting a glare from Wes.
Angel raised an eyebrow, waiting
for Wesley to continue.
"Connor hadn't been fed that night. Normally
you sleep during the day hours, but with all that strenuous fighting, you
must have been more tired than usual," Wesley said, getting a nod from
Angel. "Fred tried to wake up both of you, but it just would not
happen."
Gunn straightened in his chair. "We hit the books. Tried
figuring out if you two had been drugged, or something like that. Nothing.
Called up Wesley's friends. We found out about something them layers been
plannin' to do for a while."
"Even in the alternate reality, Wolfram
and Hart ruled," Angel muttered, feeling the icy edges of metallic cuffs
around his wrists and ankles, memories biting into reality. Cold traces of
metal that lurched, slammed up and forward, the agonizing, horrible pain of
facial fractures fading away.
"So it wouldn't be too much of a
problem for them to burn the city, with me in it. They wanted me dead. Or,
close to it." He sighed. "Sure, they set off the fires, even with a city of
potential clients. On a grander scale though…"
"…Getting rid of the
champion for the Powers meant more than mere money and power. It would
solidify their quest for domination," Wesley finished,
frowning.
Nodding, Angel stood up, brushing the rim of his glass with
his thumb. He glanced to the staircase, vanilla and wiped tears assaulting
his senses and memories of Cordelia. Long hair juxtaposed against the
shorter, blonde streaked cut, the seductive grin faded to a trusting
smile.
"…I'll let her sleep," Angel said aloud, turning to Wesley and
Gunn. "You two up for some cleaving?"
"The things we talk about,"
Gunn said wistfully, getting up to go to the weapons cabinet.
Those
things indeed.
*
Fred leaned forward, picking up the discarded
shirt Angel left on the foot of the bed. She didn't want to bother him or
Cordelia, since they were both a little jazzed, a little tired, a little bit
wacky about the whole thing. She remembered the frown that appeared on
Cordelia's face when she woke up, leaning on an elbow and touching her right
temple.
"Fred…" Cordelia took in a sharp breath then, the dark colors
of the bed and room lending color to her eyes and streaks. "Where's –
Angel?"
Standing at the side of the bed, as she had been that hour,
Fred remembered being startled. She had sat down when Cordelia patted the
bed surface, her eyes wide in that innocent look of hers.
"He went
out." Fred gestured erratically, a throwaway kind of mannerism she had
picked up when explaining things. "Out… to go kill
somethin'."
"The…demon…" Cordelia yawned, brow furrowing. She seemed
to be lost, almost as lost as that time when she woke up pregnant, as Wesley
had told Fred about the experience. Cordelia looked around again, trying to
shake off the bedtime fuzzies. "Connor?"
"Asleep."
She sighed,
trying to muster a smile. "You didn't have to watch over me."
"Are
you all right?" Fred blurted, regretting it immediately after she asked. She
paused, considering and analyzing while waiting for Cordy's
answer.
"As much as a person who has had the contents of her head
scraped and mucked around with like a tub of ice cream after a bad
break-up." She sat up. "That reminds me. I'm hungry."
Fred moved up
and back when Cordelia stood, picking her robe up in one sweep of the hand.
Her tanned skin brushing against the material, Cordelia moved to the dresser
nearby. In a chair a large canvas bag had been left there, clothing
materials poking up from the mouth of the bag.
Sitting on the edge of
the bed, Fred turned to look down while Cordelia changed her clothes. The
setting was intimate, Cordelia's fingers flicking over discarded items. Fred
then went on about how much she missed Angel and Cordy, the words 'incessant
rambling' clearly in her dictionary and used to their highest
potential.
Haunted, thin, and full of emptiness, Cordelia paused,
zipping up her jeans. Her hands felt soft and weak, tired and achy, picking
up a shirt… towel … hairpin. In bag. Slow. Slowly. She put them
in.
Angel came to her mind, draped in black, leaning forward and if
she looked hard enough, to one side. Black faded as dark brown came into
view, jacket lengthened into a duster. Pale features were there; ravaged by
accidents, pain, anger… love.
Remembering what it was like to
participate in brutal fights was not too hard. It was kissing him, holding
him, being with him and in him that made it all much more worse. She
remembered Angel's face, his lips and eyes, the features of a marble statue
brought to a painful life.
The smile fading away into darkness, the
anger that overtook him when he reached out to kill one demon, another. The
swarm overtook him, plaster falling down from the ceiling. She screamed his
name in surprise, and in pain, trying to reach out to him at that dance
club. He fought valiantly during that scuffle, even though his physical
disabilities could surely impair his fighting abilities.
But they
didn't. He survived.
Kissing him, participating in the act of love
with him was so different from the blinding reality of normal, high speed
Los Angeles. LA, with miles of sewers, hundreds of warehouses and buildings
where the dead, the evil slept and killed. The same warehouses where they...
they were waiting and—
The vision floated into her consciousness, no
pain, just the floating feeling of being the voyeur. Watching, seeing the
scaly skin of demons, the grinning and twisted maws. The sheer, ecstatic
glee came across demonic visages, watching the struggling and disfigured
Angel fall deeper into darkness, faded in an ethereal portal. The point of
view lifted, pulled back to show an abandoned warehouse, two levels. In the
center to one side there was a huge wooden staircase, like a display almost.
She prayed, and it came true, the numbers floating in.
They were
there. The Temsik demons.
Cordelia turned around.
"Is there
anything left in the weapons cabinet?"
*
Angel shifted his
position, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. He decided that Gunn and
Wesley would try out some contacts, any mentioning of the Temsik demons
hideout. This kind of event would be avenged, not left to the winds. No. He
owed it to Cordelia, to Wesley and Buffy, Faith, Spike, everyone. He didn't
want anything of the sort happening again.
And even though he felt
greedy about thinking it, shamed and selfish almost, he didn't want to see
that horrible reflection again. Lorne had mentioned the lack of moral
ambiguities in Pylea, how Angel liked being the Champion without the checks
and balances. Yes, it was nice at the time. It would have been nicer to walk
with her in the sunlight instead. But this world, this reality they
survived was not like that. It was worse. So very, very worse.
He
flipped the worn pages of a dusty book with a maroon cover, glancing past
the stack of books nearby. The supernatural bookstore was open at these late
hours, and he knew the kind old bookseller. Looking past the rows of books,
tables, Angel could see across the street. Streaky pop culture, rain, slick
black pavement and washed away dreams greeted dark eyes.
Rubbing the
back of his neck, Angel looked down at the book surface. A passage on
alternate realities was there, a lithograph of a demon. It gave the general
demon hideout description: dark places, away from prying eyes and light,
warehouses, sewers, and so on. Vague as usual. He knew Wesley and Gunn would
find something. They had to.
He had to find something for
her.
Tired shoulder muscles strained, Angel leaned back in the firm
wooden chair, flipping a few pages. He paused for a beat, and then turned
back. Furtive brown eyes scanned the pages quickly, mouth
parting.
"That's – it. That's it!"
In one fluid motion he
closed the book, picked up his jacket and left the bookstore
quickly.
*
"We're not goin' anywhere with this,
Wes."
Gunn sighed, hefting his custom made battle axe. He and Wesley
had been traveling for hours, searching for information. From Caritas to the
Asian district, they'd run the gamut of their contacts, finding nothing.
Only a scrap of paper and a list of 'suspicious looking' places they already
had.
Greaaat.
"Not to worry. We'll find something. We'll find
it," Wesley replied tersely, nodding his head towards the warehouse building
in front of him. It was worn and abandoned, but the front resembled more
like a theater than an actual warehouse building. He'd seen it before,
Wesley knew, driving by, but now it seemed cold and dead. Evil.
A
moment passed, the earnest Brit trying to recollect his senses before
starting off to the building in a quite ducking, pausing and leaping style.
Raising an eyebrow, Gunn could picture Cordelia saying plainly, "he's got
issues."
"James Bond eat your heart out," Gunn muttered, following
suit. Wind whipped and flared, dark night, he let himself be taken into it.
Concentrating, believing that if he could take them out, the pain would
lessen. The pain would not reach out with icy tendrils and envelop those
people he grew to care about. Fred. Wes. Angel. Cordy.
A cat
screamed, and then Cordelia Chase slunk out of her position near some
garbage cans and into the warehouse alone.
*
Throwing the
folder on the desk, Fred sat back in the chair across from the laptop. She
sighed dramatically, looking about. They had all left her there, alone to
hold down the fort. Watch over Connor. As if reading her mind, he kicked
contentedly, the way babies do. Fred reached into the bassinet placed a foot
away on the desk, cooing and waving her fingers. The monitor seemed to be
studded with interesting shapes and dots; either that or she was
hallucinating. Fred moved the mouse, the numerous Internet Explorer windows
coming into place. All with huge amounts of text, dark background and red
letters blending to form a cacophony of demonic ideas upon her
eyes.
Uselessness crawled into her movements, her tone of voice.
Everyone was out doing their part, the muscle, brains, heart, the champion…
And where was she? Stuck at home watching over a baby.
'No results
found.'
The phrase came up quite frequently when searching for Temsik
demons. Besides the fact that the idea of searching for supernatural beings
on the Internet seemed a bit duh worthy… but hey, it was possible. Just
think about those message boards. Fred shivered, looking over at
Connor.
"No luck, Connor. Hopefully, your daddy'll find somethin',"
Fred told the infant with a smile, and right at that moment, the phone rang.
Fred jumped, eliciting a waving of tiny hands from the baby before she ran
to the phone. Clutching the handset for dear life, Fred spoke.
"Hello?"
"Fred." Angel. "Cordelia there?"
Her heart beat
slowed from the fever pitch, and Fred cleared her throat. "Hi Angel. She's
um… Cordelia's—"
"Where is she, Fred?" His tone was abrupt, serious.
Hearing the faint sounds of horns and cars, Fred guessed he was
driving.
"I… don't know?"
Angel sighed, trying to clear his
thoughts. Still, it didn't help the fire in his voice. "What do you mean,
you 'don't know'?"
Fred blanched, looking at Connor's crib. "She –
left? She took off, and didn't—"
"Fred." She knew that voice. That
was the voice. The 'grr' face, speak quickly or I'll rip a limb off
voice. "Where. Is. She."
"Cordy went to look for the demons. In a
warehouse," Fred blurted. Hearing nothing for a second or two after that,
she then heard the creative cursing of the vampire.
"Did she happen
to tell you where?" Angel sighed once more, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Eyes snapped wide open and he scrambled to turn nearly clipping another car.
Not paying attention, listening to Fred give him the address made it all
come down quicker, faster upon him. The young physicist had been lucky to
pry the address from Cordelia before she left in a hurry, eyes determined,
mouth set in a thin line.
I hope she doesn't get herself
killed.
She can't. I won't let her.
*
It was just
as she'd seen it. The imposing columns of wood, pale and gray. The dark
shadows and bright white patches of moonlight, filtering in from the
skylights. Chains hung down, steel pipes running along the ceiling like
creepers. Dust settled, rose, blew through the building. Bristling past
hollow tubing, the ethereal sound of howling reminded Cordelia of late
Halloween nights.
She remembered the ordeal in Sunnydale, how that
slip of a cat suit protected her from going schizo. Buffy, Xander, and
Willow had all flipped out, the first two more than the latter, although the
creepy ghost thing did freak her out at the time. How long had it been? A
few years? It felt like a lifetime had passed. So many classes, demons,
people had met her eyes. How she'd changed since that stuck up, high school
bitch, to... whatever she was now.
A young woman hell bent on
revenge.
It was odd, really. She knew that it was best to leave this
up to Angel; he would take care of her and make everything right again. He
always did. Always. He'd take her in his arms, kiss her tears away, and
everything—
No. No. It would never be right again.
The
experience, for what it was, had shaken her. Angel, coming out of it all,
bruised, battered, dead, would feel more pain. Those long nights he
had endured, mind and body wracked with visions that pained him so. At
least, even when the chips were down and she cried herself to sleep at night
because of them, they hadn't been that bad. Nearly going insane, vision side
effects, and brain exploding notwithstanding but… They hadn't been THAT
bad.
He had been so weak and instead he cared more for her than
himself.
A total stranger she was, but even in another life, when
they were both so drastically different, there was that… that thing. That
kind of connection, she guessed. Cordelia knew that meeting Angel wasn't
destiny, fate, and all that kind of crap. It just sort of happened.
But this was…
Emotionally draining.
So there she was, the
interior of the warehouse filtering into her mind and eyes. Wearing a
comfortable set of clothing—gone were the tight pants and shirt, now only
sensible black jeans and a white jacket remained—Cordelia paused for a beat.
She brought a dark black messenger bag, large enough for the crossbow,
tazer… amongst other things.
The balcony ran along three sides of the
rectangular warehouse, dropping into staircases that lowered onto the raised
platform at one end, like giant's arms. It was all so familiar to her,
reminding her of the warehouse they'd been in… The Master's lackeys. Buffy,
with the bitch 'tude. Yeah.
It was so far back now.
The cries
of the hopeless rang through the night, intermixing with the sounds of
demons and their guttural language. Ducking down, Cordelia crept through the
discarded boxes and junk lying about. Crates were stacked, little aisles
threading through them. She slunk between the shadows, fingertips brushing
dirty wood. Cordy could hear the sounds of the demons talking, some words in
English, most of the words in their own language. Ceiling so far up,
darkness and soft light around her, Cordelia frowned.
Trying to think
what Angel would do.
No. He wasn't here right now. She was. Not
him.
Two fingers struck a match for light, bathing tanned features
before she, the seer with a grin on her face, dropped the tiny stick into an
open crate.
Flames licked up and reached burning hands towards the
night sky and wooden planks above them.
*
Returning to the
cold darkness of the Los Angeles nights had been a bit unsettling. Letting
it on to the others though, would be no good. One had to remain strong and
not show the flaws, the chinks in the armor. Champions had to be like that.
Perfect. A shattered remnant of perfection after all the battles remained.
So many people, creatures, beings died before the hero's eyes that one felt
jaded after all of it.
It is through the eyes and love and compassion
of friends, of family that one can find peace with the world. That
one can ignore the insecurities, the unholy passion of man in his unintended
quest for glory through the worst means possible. This is not a
generalization, no; it is merely a reflection of the common enemy: from the
highest, strongest demon, to the young and naïve lackey… they all seek
glory.
And it is the champion's job to stop them.
"Feels too
long since… Everything's been normal." Roll down the window, and one can
view the skyline. The people, the city, brimming with life and intrigue,
death and stillness.
The car door slammed, hurried steps taking the
fighter to the destination. To stop the savagery, to mend broken wounds. And
in the process, mend their own, the kind of wounds that were invisible, only
felt like stinging paper cuts on the surface of the heart.
Because
someone had to.
*
Charles Gunn didn't like long introductions.
He figured no one that he knew did, really. 'Cept for those movie stars,
royals and all that. He'd gone with Wesley down the list, and it was in a
furtive call by Fred—hope she was okay, poor girl sounded worried—that they
knew where to start looking for demons. The kind that twisted reality into
shambles, the kind that made Angel "all stoic-y"—Cordelia's words—Wesley
thoughtful, Fred curious, and Gunn damn near pissed off.
He was angry
because of what they'd gone through. And from the vague description Wesley
had said—"another reality, one in which everyone was lost and in pain"—Gunn
wanted some answers. Fast. Or else there would be some ass kickin'. Huh…
Regardless of the answers, he'd kick some demonic booty anyway. He had a
hankering for it tonight.
Standing near his ride, the truck he used
for so many nights fighting vampires, Gunn rubbed a cool hand over his
scalp, sighing. It had been a long night already, an even longer day
awaiting them. Angel was reserved, ever since he woke up in utter confusion.
He came back to the real world, collapsed, rested again. Saw Cordelia there,
how her fingers curled around his bedsheet. He kissed her forehead,
whispering everything would be all right again.
How could he say
that? Gunn didn't understand Angel… But he—he just got him, you know?
Like an unspoken truce. Sorta.
Okay, nothing had happened to Gunn.
Not really. He didn't remember anything going on. He had to admit though,
just sitting around, readin' textbooks, or going to places for info left him
uneasy. Wesley was the leader and all, but it wasn't the same. Angel brought
them all together on this mission. Cordelia and Wesley from
Sunnydale.
Fred from Pylea.
Gunn owed it to Angel. He really
did.
"Is this it?" Gunn asked, picking up the battle axe from the
cargo area of his truck. Wesley frowned nearby, squinting as he looked up at
the exterior of the warehouse. The leader of Angel Investigations had a
broad sword in his hand, sheath strapped to his back. Rough around the
edges, Wesley looked back to Gunn again.
"We'll have to look and
see." Wesley shrugged after Gunn gave him a sarcastic look. "I don't happen
to have a Temsik compass on me."
"You with the demon humor? Not a
good combination," Gunn advised. That deadpan expression from Wesley
followed, before Gunn nodded to the building. "Let's go have a
look."
He started off for the building, but Wesley did not follow.
Instead, the English man looked worried.
"What's up,
Wes?"
"Something isn't right," Wesley responded. He bent down, wiping
a thumb and forefinger to the ground, and then lifting them to give it a
sniff.
Gunn nodded. "You damn sure somethin' ain't right here. This
place is full of bad juju."
"Bad what?"
"Never mind." Pointing
at Wesley's hand, Gunn raised an eyebrow. "Get anything"
"Besides the
obvious demon ordinary," Wesley drawled, standing up. "There's a takeout
down the street."
"You buyin'?" Gunn started walking into the
warehouse, Wesley by his side.
"If they'll pack those little fortune
cookies, then yes."
*
Stepping up to the… crate, Cordelia
waited for two demons to lazily drift over to her position, talking like
they were at a water cooler. If there was one thing she didn't get, it was
demons chit-chatting. Even after all she'd seen. Freaked her out.
Weird.
The fire was burning quickly, but towards the back and hard to
be seen. There was so much wood though, so it would spread quickly, she
hoped.
She really did.
It was suddenly, scarily dark in the
warehouse, dawn not far off. Cordelia could picture Fred's pleading for her
to stay in the hotel. Just like the Billy incident. Fred was strong,
Cordelia knew, strong in certain things. The girl had a great head on
her shoulders—too great, as apparent by the near beheading she went through
for some demons—but when it came to certain things, she didn't know what to
do. Fred may have been older than Cordelia, but those long years spent
hiding in a cave were surpassed in terms of getting to know the demonic
world, as Cordelia did at Sunnydale High School.
What a bitch she had
been, and so proud of it. The head cheerleader. The "it" girl. Those snarky,
hurtful comments had left the recesses of her mind now, and only the
athletic grace of the cheerleader remained.
One, two, the leg and
stance perfectly balanced, before whipping to kick the crate she'd push a
little over the edge before. It tumbled down, overturning. Barely a "what?"
came from the demons before wood shattered on them, rendering them
unconscious under the planks and contents: antiques.
Restricting the
phrase of triumph that would echo from her lips, Cordelia decided to slink
away instead, hearing the raised voices and inquiries spreading like
wildfire.
"What was that noise?"
"I don't know. Something
fell."
"Go check."
The two words made her freeze, brown and
blonde streaked head popping up over the edge of boxes stacked fourteen feet
high to look for the source. The voice was unmistakable, if only just a few
words.
It was that… that thing.
That particular Temsik demon
that unraveled and twisted time to suit his pleasures. Whose brother may
have been around, hiding. Lurking. Some… thing…
Careful not to slip
and fall, Cordelia climbed down from the high boxes. It was like a maze, the
warehouse large and both …empty at the same time. It seemed too much like
the one Angel and Wesley snooped around in, right after that Drokken, or
whatever it was had slipped from Pylea through a portal and nearly ravaged
Caritas.
Pylea. Where she had been whisked away to and where Angel
had gone to hell and back to save her.
Fingers were firm on the
crossbow she wielded, eyes narrowed… waiting,
waiting.
SHHHH—THUNK!
Two bolts sailed through the air,
pinning one demon to a wooden column, right through his throat. The ugly maw
grinned, tongue flashing as it tried to wriggle free and became silent. Its
brother wasn't as lucky—if one could call such a thing lucky—since the arrow
nailed him in the eye. Literally.
Unfortunately, the resounding howl
from the demon snapped scaly hides into ramrod positions, one barking out
"There's a fire" before the others howled in agreement.
Well,
duh.
Cordelia jumped down again, reaching the cold stone floor,
solid under her feet. She dashed to her right, keeping to the shadows of the
crates just as a small group of the Temsik demons moved past her. The stench
was unnerving, seeing them up close just as hard. But she knew it was
them—damn well remembered that…
"There's someone over
there!"
"Kill them! Immediately!"
Doing a half turn and roll,
Cordy set herself straight, crouching. She was just about to leap up and get
the hell out of there when it hit.
The earthquake.
"Oh
sh—"
*
The ground rolled, fissures and cracks spreading, dust
falling down. Wesley and Gunn stumbled, broken from their silent entry into
the warehouse. Staggering to the exit doorframe was no easy task, but after
learning the hard way, they weren't about to be crushed because of not
paying attention. Gunn shouted something unintelligible to his friend, who
merely grit his teeth as the crates and contents came falling down around
them.
Pipes squealed, fast spurting steam escaping, metal twisting
out, down, up. Gunn raised a hand to shield his eyes, moving forward and
gesturing to Wesley.
"Come on!"
"Do you want to risk getting
your head smashed in?!"
Gunn pointed, Wesley taking the lull in
shocking thrusts of the earth to stand near him. Plaster fell, chunks of it
and dust, but they could still see. Still see Cordelia narrowly avoid
getting hit by a falling box, burned black. Still see the flames moving
faster now, the air tinged orange and shimmering. Watch the athletic grace
of the former cheerleader as she snap kicked one demon, pushing another over
the balcony to watch him tumble ungracefully to the
ground.
"Cordelia? But she's—"
"With Fred," Gunn finished,
frowning. The building stopped rumbling s much as before, fragmented images
of Cordy solidifying into her again. She moved down the ladder leading up to
the second floor balcony rather quickly, kicking off one clawing demon that
tried to grab her. There wasn't too many of them, but the shadows dancing on
the walls due to firelight meant more were coming.
"Go! Go!" Wesley
shouted, and he surged forward with Gunn into the fray of falling wood and
plaster, Temsik demons scattered and angry. They pushed and cut their way
through, Wesley's blade cutting, Gunn's axe flashing. The place was a mess
now, flames steadily increasing as the cacophony of noises
rose.
Wesley felt something slam against his back, soft not hard. He
turned, seeing he was back to back with Cordelia, who struggled to load her
crossbow.
"What the HELL are you guys doing here?!"
Ah, the
ever polite Miss Chase.
Wesley avoided the reaching and slashing claw
of one demon, ducking before he popped up again and shoved his sword into
said demon's midsection. "Saving you!"
"What he said," Gunn
acknowledged, ramming his elbow brutally into one demon's face. It was a
total melee, the three surrounded by eight or so demons, hides in dark
shades of green, gray, earthy colors. More… and it would be impossible.
There were more demons than in the original fight. The original fight that
with one tiny wrong decision changed Cordelia's perspective on things
greatly.
Changed him, and her heart bled for him.
Cordelia was
pissed off. Pissed off Gunn and Wesley had found her and done the thing good
guys do: save the damsel in distress. This time, things were different. She
was tired of telling Angel not to leave. She wanted to be with him, but in
this world of darkness being with him meant accepting him. Accepting the
fact that no matter what, life wouldn't be just boring and simple. There
would be nice times, yes, but there would be those twisting gut, cry your
eyes out times. Cordelia was used to it. She had to be.
In order to
be with him, she needed to stay alive. Learn to fight.
Those aching
muscles and innuendo charged lessons with Angel had paid
off.
Shhh—thunk!
Another bolt met the stomach of one creature,
Cordelia lashing out with the crossbow to nail one rotten looking Temsik in
the face.
Gunn grinned at her, swiping with the long handle of his
custom made axe. "Where'd you learn to—?"
"…Angel?"
Cordelia
smacked Gunn's shoulder, pushing him to turn as she fumbled with the damn
contraption of a crossbow. He turned, quick enough to see the trail of
gasoline about forty; fifty feet away ignite, only for a few seconds.
Rapidly, it flew and burn, collided with a soft crash into crates that gave
way to an explosion. The blast sounded incredibly loud, searing, Gunn
crashing into Cordy and bringing her down. Wesley fell and turned away,
shielding himself from the blow.
Flames gave way, parting by the
gesture of one hand.
The leader, the Temsik demon who appeared as
Wesley before, stood there on the other side of the flames, growling
menacingly. Adorned with a belt of trinkets, weapons, seeming to be larger
and more brutal than Cordelia had last seen him.
The misshapen,
almost reptilian head twisted into a grimace, but no, he didn't look through
the flames. He was looking at his side, the fire a dancing flame on the odd
tableau.
Clad in the requisite black leather, Angel, vampire faced
and grinning, loosely waved a broad sword from strong fingers.
He
shrugged, the loose manner reminding her all too well of
Angelus.
"Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"
Angel leaped forward
in the unnatural style only he perfected.
*
Swinging the sword
low, then up in a graceful arc, Angel's blade connected. Blood spurted out
like a pump, flinging upwards to splash down on the pavement, the demon
roaring in pain. Spots of ruby glittered on Angel's face, and he licked the
corner of his mouth quite maliciously while shoving the sword in.
It
only went deeper into the demon's shoulder, Angel's imbalance to the
creature's advantage, a hand surging down to deliver a crushing blow to the
back of Angel's leg. He grunted, falling on his side to twist and kick up
into the demon's chin. The head snapped back, the Temsik falling back to
grasp at its face.
"You'll pay for that, vampire!"
"Yeah,
yeah. Been there. Done that. Didn't like it much," Angel replied
sarcastically, jumping low and using a sweeping kick to take the leader off
its feet. The creature went down hard, struggling to get up once more, were
it not for the boot that pressed firmly against its neck, pinning the thing
down.
Head canted, glimmer of light reflecting off that set of sharp
teeth, face contorted, Angel nodded. "Face messed up. Body broken. And man,
the outfits? Anyone hear of hello, black?" It tried again, Angel reaching
down to punch it in the face, a soft mushy sound. The fires still raged, his
friends still fighting. The wounds and damage to the building were getting
more numerous now, and it wouldn't be long until—
"You put yourself
in that situation," it responded maliciously.
"You put
Cordelia in that situation. You took away my family. What
gives you any right to exist?"
Surging up with renewed strength, the
Temsik demon threw Angel off with a rotten grin.
"I exist only to
hurt you."
Angel got up quickly to plant a roundhouse to the demon's
face. "That's for Cordy!"
The head snapped back again, but the
momentum of the punch made the creature move, almost like rubber to snap
back at Angel. A snake in demon's clothing, tapered fingers clenched on
Angel's wrist, grabbing and pulling his arm up to make the vampire
wince.
"You think I'd let you win so easily?" it asked, mouth opening
to reveal very long, and very pointy incisors.
Angel grinned back,
although in pain from the blow to his leg and other aching. He made a point
to show his own set of also long and pointy teeth, reaching in to tear
Angel's head off. "Not really."
SHHH—thunk!
The familiar sound
of an arrow whizzing through the air greeted Angel's ears, hitting its mark,
the demon arching in agony. He roared, flinging Angel like a rag doll to the
ground. Through sparkling flames, the warehouse coming down all around them,
it could see those little friends of Angel, still fighting on the other
side. Wait. One was… missing…
A larger whizzing sound, hollow and
metal, swooshed through the air, a flute. A very large, very steely pipe…
flute.
The creature turned only to hear the resounding crack of the
demon's now broken jaw reverberating through the open area. With a clanging
sound, the huge, six foot long, steel pipe swung lazily from the chains on
the rack holding it to the ceiling. 'Home Along' gone wrong. It fell to the
floor with a good distance, Angel turning from his cramped position on the
floor to find the reason.
Cordelia stood towards a wall, ignoring
the proximity of flames. She lowered her hand away from the switch, the
machinery she had turned on to knock the demon out.
She was firm, too
firm even, sweeping low to pick up something, something metallic Angel
guessed. Light reflected off it. The demon struggled to get up, bright blood
spurting from its mouth.
The 'athletic beauty', the fallen grace
coalesced in a broken heart, sending power to weak limbs. The creature's
head rose, and her hands, clenching the sword, came down and right to cut
its head off.
With an unearthly scream, the headless thing
collapsed.
"Cordelia."
Trembling fingers dropped the sword,
Angel's sword, now shiny with blood. Cordelia fell to the ground not unlike
a rag doll, legs pointing at odd angles, body slumped and strands of hair
falling into her eyes. Approaching so slow, careful, Angel moved to her. He
didn't want to take too long, as he was well aware that the building was on
fire, but…
"Cordelia," Angel repeated, moving down slowly on one knee
to take her into his arms. "We have to get—"
"Don't you touch me!
DON'T TOUCH ME!" Cordelia shouted, waving a hand to smack him away.. She got
up violently then, backhanding him. "Get away from me! You weren't supposed
to come! This isn't your fight!"
"Cordelia… Cordelia!
Please!"
The soft touch of Angel's hands on her hardened, his hands
gripping her wrists. She continued to smack him away, arms flailing. Angel
grabbed her arms and she struggled. He pulls her close and wrapped his arms
around her keeping her still. She kept sobbing, falling to the ground in a
heap with Angel. Strong arms enfolded her into his embrace, and while
everything fell down around him, Angel smelled her hair.
It was
erratic, inappropriate but it just felt… right. The sense of 'what if?'
since returning from the other reality faded away. The feeling of not
belonging, not seeing or knowing left Angel. The scent of shampoo, springy
and clean aroused him. Brought him back to the ground. Let him know that,
despite the battle raging around him, inside him, all would be right. It
kept his soul anchored to him, to her, rendered him numb and content. Not
enough to extinguish the clash between man and demon, raging inside him
constantly.
Angel belonged here. Los Angeles. The Hyperion. With
Cordelia, her attitude, tactful sayings and compassion for him and his close
friends.
Fighting back the urge to cry himself, Angel instead
consoled the sobbing vision girl. Ignorant of the systematic deterioration
and swirling puffs of smoke that the Temsik demons became, Angel held her.
He held her despite the familiar scent of vanilla and supernatural
tendencies above him. He knew his savior, knew her friends, and so on, but
they didn't exactly matter. None of them did.
"I am so, so
sorry…"
Who said it? No one knew.
Wesley wiped his eyes,
staring at where the demons had been. Gunn, inquisitive and tired, looked to
his friend for an explanation. "They're connected. The leader… The appointed
leader is dead."
He kicked the charred body in front of him, turning
it over with his boot. The husk of one of the dark green demons, adorned
with almost as much ornaments as the one Angel had been
fighting.
"Wounded, he stepped down and his brother, the cause, took
control," Wesley surmised. "Let's get out of here."
A terrible
creaking sound ran through the echoing building, the foundation, walls and
ceiling about to collapse.
All Angel could do was hold
her.
*
"That's enough."
"You sure about
that?"
"Don't get trigger-happy."
Sighing, Spike lowered the
crossbow. He squinted at the planks of wood being consumed, looking over at
his companion. Buffy, gripping the railing of the balcony, looked down at
Angel. He responded to her from below, nodding before hugging Cordelia
tighter. It was odd, seeing them like this. Together. Crying. In
pain.
Buffy had rushed over as fast as she could arrange from
Sunnydale. Insisting that he be her escort, Spike drove, and was put to good
use crossbow-wise as far as Buffy was concerned. Simplified and sleek in her
stylish mini trench coat, Buffy watched Angel pick up Cordelia, take her
into his arms. He regrouped with his friends, and the four of them made
their way out of the warehouse, just as the ceiling began to cave
in.
"Let's go home, Spike. Let's go home."
Spike lowered the
crossbow, cold fingers lingering on Buffy's arm as he gently guided her out
from the balcony exit and down the stairs.
Part 20
*
See the stone set in your eyes
See the thorn twist in your
side
I wait for you
Sleight of hand and twist of fate
On a bed of
nails she makes me wait
And I wait… without you
With or without
you
With or without you
Through the storm, we reach the shore
You
give it all but I want more
And I'm waiting for you…
With or without
you
With or without you
I can't live… with or without you
~ U2,
'With or Without You'
*
Never one for the easy route,
Angel drove his convertible to the curb, dangerous intentions brewing in his
mind like a storm. It had taken a while to recover from the state they had
been in, explaining the strong fatigue he felt when rising from the long,
long dream. No. No. It had been real. Except in this world, he had merely
never risen from sleeping. It had been like traveling to another
dimension.
The memories of years spent in Hell came to him then,
decades had passed there, and yet in Sunnydale only months had passed. It
was a cruel twist of fate, to come back, crying and broken to Buffy, only to
find she had let go of him, but soon the love returned.
It didn't
last.
The blonde Slayer herself had been puzzled as to what happened,
Angel had found out when he called her on the phone right after he woke up
from that... nap. Tired, arching. She sounded frazzled, confused, and most
of all, embarrassed.
"Angel, you and I–"
"I don't remember any
of it," he lied.
"Good. Good. How's – Cordelia?"
"She's fine.
We're both – fine. How are you?"
"I don't know." Her tone was sad,
depressed almost. A muffled sound followed, and Angel could hear Buffy's
voice louder, yelling. The muffling was gone, and she spoke again. "Sorry.
Dawn was being a pain in the neck, as usual."
The irony of her
statement crept into his thoughts, the years of fighting with and against
Buffy, loving her, hating her, surfacing. Angel had been a pain in her neck,
only quite literally, when he was forced to drink from her to save his own
life, the poisoned arrow shot by Faith into his shoulder. Had it been Faith?
Were they really the same person? The one who fought side by side with him
for more than a year, reckless and strong. Or was she really that confused
girl, trained to fight, falling into murder, destroying everything so she
wouldn't see her shattered reflection?
Faith.
Huh.
"Angel."
"Buffy." He cleared his throat, shifting in his
position. "How's Spike?"
Then, realizing the idiocy of that question,
Angel clamped his mouth shut, opening it too late to take it
back.
"Spike?" Buffy seemed almost incredulous, then her tone
relaxed. "He won't get over saving you. It's driving me up the wall. He told
me to tell you to remember that. Still the same old… Spike. Chipped, whiney.
"
"Figures. Look I—"
"Wait a minute." More muffling sounds,
then Buffy's voice came on again. "Angel?"
"Yeah?"
"I have to
go. Ride's out front. I'll catch up with you later, okay?" Her tone was
sympathetic, but also in a rush. Angel said his goodbye, returning the
handset to the cradle that he stared at for a long five minutes
afterwards.
*
Wesley leaned back in his chair, glancing at the
office walls. He flipped a pen over numb fingers, peering over the rim of
his glasses to view Connor's basinet. Fred was on the computer again,
pushing up her glasses in that - that way of hers, glancing over at Connor
and smiling.
She really knew how to smile.
He felt himself
sink down even farther into the cowhide.
*
I wait for
you…
Oh, to drive and drive for all eternity, until the sun
scorches flesh and brings the clarity of eternal stillness.
Turning
off the ignition, Angel pried off his fingers from the steering wheel. He'd
nearly twisted them—like metal, crashing down on flesh—but not enough, not
enough to make him give into memories that didn't exist. Instead he focused
on the task at hand.
He got out of the car, closing his door shut
and after coming round, picking up a paper bag filled to the brim. It had
taken a while to reach this place, the fault mostly on his part as he had
made purchases. The air was clear and pungent with the smell of flowers, of
fresh-cut grass that made his heart long for sunny days. Walking up to
Cordy's house wasn't the hard part. No, Angel enjoyed the walk, taking note
of his surroundings.
It was seeing her outside that made it
worse.
There had been a soft mist in the air, one that accentuated
details and moisture to his vampire eyes. It would fall, cascade from the
heavens. Water fell, the sky crying, rain bathing all available surfaces
with its spattering beauty. Angel merely clenched the top of the paper bag
closed, tilting his head up, eyes closed.
Droplets of cold water fell
on otherwise marble features, defined, silent. It was one of those quiet
moments, even as his books, dark black shirt, pants, and the old, familiar
duster took him to Cordelia's side.
Her back arched for a moment,
arms spreading wide open to let the rain fall in. Locks of blonde and brown
were slick wet, eyes closed, mouth curled into a small, very small
smile.
She could taste the cold rain on her tongue, watch it fall and
disperse amongst the pavement. Those boots were there when hazel eyes
followed the drops. It rained harder now, the shhhh sound both harsh
and relaxing. The sky was painted black, burnt amber around the edges,
traces of the coming morning. It was not too far off, and soon Angel would
have to go inside.
Instead he stood by her. Like she did for
him.
Cordelia straightened, swallowing down the tears of the
firmament, dejected. They did not bring about the release she strived for.
The peace she inwardly wanted. They just left her cold and clammy and
hungry. Soaked to the bone now, for the rain was pouring harder. Those arms
lowered smoothly to grasp onto each other furtively, trying to keep warm. To
push away the cold and lock it away, forever.
"It's not too far
off."
Angel.
"Day, I mean." He paused. "You're going to catch
a cold."
She took this in, and pushing out a breath, responded
flatly, "I don't care."
"I'm not going to clean up your tissues,"
Angel answered. Tissues. It was raining, it was damn cold, and he mentioned
the tissues.
Cordelia wanted to sit down, wanted to rest on her
couch. To snuggle into the coldness of Angel, place her head at the base of
his neck, from which he'd turn down and kiss her forehead. Oh, how she
wanted to, but she couldn't. She felt frozen. Alone.
"You know, it's
funny. It really is." Cordelia continued to stare at the horizon, at the
brilliant sky. "Wesley said—he told me they'd been planning this for months.
To do it to you, I mean. Human. You were human. If only for a little while.
And I remember it so clearly, while everything else gets dark and fuzzy, you
know? I remember seeing you for the first time again, in the bar. The way
you looked, acted. And I thought there was something more to you. I didn't
know why exactly. All the stuff we went through, the visions, the…
walking in on people, I loved you more and more. I didn't like feeling like
that at the time. Like I needed someone. It hurts. It hurts, Angel. If I had
known Wolfram and Hart were out to torture me again, I would have signed up
for more Phantom of the Opera face time instead. I don't know how you did
it, Angel. I really don't."
She heard him shift his position, resting
his weight on the other boot, the trench coat, his dark black, body bag,
shroud.
"Watching you. Seeing you go through all that pain and anger
and—sadness. When I got my memory back, I couldn't look at you without
remembering that you were warm and alive. You're not that now. You can't be
that now. You're not done yet," Cordelia finished, referring to his mission
and quest for redemption.
Angel looked to the horizon, seeing,
smelling the fiery orb rise slowly into the fading night sky. It wouldn't be
too far off. It wouldn't bring the promise of an eclipse, either. The Powers
that Be weren't doubly kind.
Taking refuge in the safety of shadows
cast near her apartment entrance, Angel watched her. The rain still came
down despite the rising sun, sending rivulets and small streams down her
arms, legs, back. The flexing muscles, white and thin v-neck blouse wet and
sticky, dark gray pants a shade of black from rain.
-- Her dress was
pure white silk, with spaghetti straps, reaching just above bare knees. The
blinding wind blew down around her, never seeming to touch her. Dress
flowing like an angel, the lovely smile present. --
It wasn't a
vision. Merely a memory of long lost dreams. He didn't need to dream about
her to feel the strong hold she had on him. Displayed now, how he stood
outside waiting for her despite the sun threatening with ashes.
Did
he have the right to plead with her, when not long ago—three years, a blink
of an eye for a vampire—Buffy had been pleading with him to not die? To not
wait for the sun to rise on Christmas Day, despite her yelling, despite his
sadness? The Powers saved him, and for that, for Cordy, he was
glad.
"Cordelia, come inside," Angel pleaded at length, trying to
ignore the old need for escape drumming through him.
She didn't
listen. She didn't want to listen.
Cordelia cleared her throat and
then, in a small voice that only Angel could hear, asked, "Did we do the
right thing?"
He looked incredulous after a moment.
"What?"
"This." She waved her hand to the street. "Did we? The
realities? Is this the one we're meant to be in? Or did we cheat, for
ourselves, from the real one, while letting people die and live in the
process—"
"Cordy," Angel said softly, his eyes closing for a second.
"There's no way to know for sure. But I'll tell you what I think. We did the
right thing. If another choice meant losing you again, I couldn't accept
that."
"Did we? I mean, the fires—"
"They were out to kill me,
Cordelia. They wanted to kill you. Champions, remember? They figured we were
meant to die, and would take out everyone, even if it meant clients. That…
reality, whatever it was, became a tool for them to do so. It doesn't mean
anything, Cordy."
"Angel. I tried to hurt you," Cordelia said at
length, brow furrowed.
"And I tried to kill you. Do you think I could
stand doing that, now? I'm not Angelus. If I was, you have full permission
to kill me. Burn those silk shirts, while you're at it," Angel quipped, but
he could see that she found this to be no laughing matter. Cordelia was
visibly shaken, rubbing her arms now. The sun still rose, waiting for no
one.
He moved to her, very slowly, gritting his teeth. It wasn't like
the sun rose immediately, but old senses honed kicked in, screamed wildly.
The sun would cast its harsh and bitter light down on him, screaming down
and obliterating. Angel grabbed her arm, could feel the dangerous prickling,
so soft… soft needles…
Smoke, and he asked her softly, "Cordelia,
let's go inside, okay?"
Cordelia hesitated, then complied, falling in
line with the familiar trip to her door, it swooshing open with supernatural
guidance, and going inside.
Dennis was worried, she could tell. He
hadn't seen her for a while. As luck would have it, she missed the
cable-surfing phantom.
Angel escorted her inside the apartment,
wincing. Guiding her, he left her in the living room area before heading to
the dinner table, placing the bag he was carrying down. Combustion avoided.
Mental damage in the long road getting there, priceless. Angel felt a sense
of deep concern for Cordelia, wishing that her pain would go away. The
damage they'd received had been only mental, nothing physical here. They
were weary, though. Tired from lying, cheating, kissing, and
hurting.
The vampire sighed, eliciting another wince when he
stretched to look over at her. Cordy was at his side after carefully
controlled steps. Pushing, ignoring his stray complaint, Cordelia felt his
side, eliciting another wince from Angel.
She pushed away his trench
coat, lifting the dark shirt to view the makeshift bandage.
"Why
didn't you tell me you were still hurt?" Cordy asked, and pointing a finger
in his face before he could make his rebuttal, followed with, "Take your
jacket and shirt off, and go sit on the couch." She raised a pointer finger.
"No 'buts'."
Angel closed his mouth, nodding demurely. He did as was
told, the shirt-going-over-head thing a bit tricky and
oww-inducing.
"Damn… Next time I get into a life or death fight,
remind me to wear shoulder pads," Angel called, hearing her shift through
items in the drawers of her room. Adding as an afterthought, Angel muttered,
"Or possibly chain mail."
Cordelia came back, an eyebrow raised. Hair
falling to frame her face in wet wisps, her shirt and pants still wet and
dripping, she held the first aid box in her hands. Placing it down on the
couch near Angel, she waited for him to turn his side to her, from which she
proceeded to clean the reddened wound—claw marks, scrape, it was healing but
still a bit bad—despite his flinching.
After what seemed like hours
(it had only been a minute, but the stillness of her room was quite
deafening), she said, "As long as it's not a jock strap."
Angel
laughed. Cordy liked hearing that sound. Almost as much as his heart
beating, leaning on his chest and kissing it—
"Angel—"
"I know
I had—well, have problems. A lot of them. As you put it before…" He drawled,
reminding her of the time she listed the good points and downsides during
her 'Fred has a crush on you' speech. "Whatever you've gone through,
whatever you'll go through, you know I'd do anything for you,
right?"
Cordelia took this in, then after a beat, responded, "No.
You're not."
He looked at her, the glimmer of reality, brutal,
confusion, clarity in his eyes.
"It's not gonna happen, Angel," Cordy
said flatly. "You can't protect me all the time. You can try, you can get
hurt, and get others hurt. One of these days you won't be able to save me.
And you'll hate yourself for it. I can't let you do that, Angel. Not for me.
Not even for Connor."
There was a double entendre in her words, a
prophecy so soft and fleeting…
"I won't let anything happen to you.
Not if I can help it. I don't care—"
She ripped the bandage off the
roll, a sharp, hushing sound. Cordelia proceeded to bandage the
wound.
"Don't. I can't let you do this to yourself. You have a
mission. Follow it."
His eyes lifted upwards, taking this in before
shaking his head ruefully. "In all my two hundred and forty odd years, no
one's ever used that approach when they dumped me."
Did she want to
leave him? To ensure that he wouldn't be so damn focused on her, that
one-track mind of his. The one that got him into the twists and bends, the
bound of a seer to a vampire. It was ridiculous. The fate thing came up
again, always there. Champions, kye-rumption. Couldn't it be covered in
slime, fighting, yelling, innuendo, friendship, and advice instead? Couldn't
it be shades of black and blue, cool, sleek, soft pale colors, instead of
murky gray, gold and so much red?
Cordy sighed, her fingers pinching
accidentally. "I'm not – dumping you."
"You paused for a second. You
are," Angel accused, frowning.
"No I'm not. Believe me, I'd let you
know if I was dumping you. The old bitch would be back and rearin' to
bite people's heads off."
Angel flinched away from her, trying to
deflect her ministrations. "…You don't have to lie about it."
"I'm
not lying!"
"Yes you are! I know when you—"
"Oh, can we CUT
the five year old act, please?!"
"Five year old? Five year old! Two
hundred and—"
"Blah blah blah! Gee, think you can pull out the
damn birth certificate as proof too?!"
Angel stood up abruptly,
looking down at her. Cordelia sucked her teeth, holding one end of the
bandage tape roll by her thumb and forefinger. He looked a trifle drier than
she was, but just because that gel lathered idiot looked more composed than
her—save for the icky, gashy wound—did not make the girl back down. Hazel
clashed with brown, amber flicks and—
"You're not making any sense,
Cordelia."
"Try me!" She hesitated, a breath released, stamping her
foot and snapping her eyes shut. "You know what I
mean!"
"Cordelia."
"I don't want this anymore, Angel. I don't
want to keep hurting 'cause…"
For once, in so long a time, Cordelia
Chase was at a loss for words. Taking in a deep breath, she deflated,
brushing a hand past her forehead to comb stubborn blonde streaked strands
behind her ear. A dismissive gesture and her hand dropped, moving up again
to cross her arms in front of her.
"I don't know. I don't know,"
Cordy repeated, tact and tired.
The look present on his face—gone was
the tired and weary, gaunt expression—made those icy walls melt, the furor
of expletives in her head building to the sound of denouncing his 'puppy
dog' look tactics. Angel followed with cold fingertips trailing down her
hand, her wrist after she let her arms hang down at her sides again.
Cordelia flinched away, but Angel took this opportunity to grab her wrist,
then her waist, pinning her to him.
Cordelia growled, elbowing him.
"Stop it. I'm not in the mood."
Angel continued to hold her arm even
after she pulled away. If only she had a stake. Or a shoe. A nice pump. Yes,
yes, where were they…
"Stop it! Come on, Angel. I mean
it!"
"Cordy, please."
Almost in a salsa-like move, Cordelia
pulled away only to be pulled back with a spin into Angel's arms. Into
Angel's embrace, feeling Angel's lips upon her own. Fidgeting, trying to
pull away, the soft touch of hands on her shoulder, the small of her back
wouldn't let her go. The pain and severity of alternate lives flowed away,
dissolving and slinking down like sticky oil. Ocher and insoluble, the same
gunk that crawled down her throat once the body bag pulled away, shifted and
fell from her. Outside and in.
The fierce gaze and strong grasp
filled her with a semblance of peace, and it was not long before Cordelia
kissed him feverishly, his lips, his neck, chiseled features of marble.
Angel was hers, perfection in his own way, stillness and glory that picked
her up, her legs wrapping 'round his waist for him to plow into a wall.
Mouths pulled apart to grin before Angel whipped an arm out to clear the
table, the grocery bag falling to the floor but thankfully not
overturning.
However, one thing overturned, her chair when Angel
kicked it out of the way.
Bullets blazing, screaming, blood, gore,
plaster, falling fast and hard. Still kissing, Angel carried Cordelia over
to the kitchen table, having swept the stuff on it onto the floor and laying
her down on it.
There was no end to the pleasure he received from
trailing a line of kisses down her abdomen, her back on the hard surface of
the table. Angel scooped Cordelia up again, relishing the soft groans and
the heated arousal, just damn it, get to the damn bedroom…
Dark eyes
trailed the curves of wet flesh, the see-through shirt going over her head
to fall unceremoniously on the floor. His shirt went up, fingers unclasping
her bra sheepishly before falling—so soft and slow—onto her bed, collapsing,
releasing sighs of oxygen and craving more.
They hadn't even reached
the good part yet.
*
The compact lowered, eyes focusing on the
reflection. Angel gave her a real shiner all right, and Lilah did the best
she could to mask the blemish. The cruel exterior had been marked,
reminiscent of being pummeled by that idiot, Gavin. She figured Angel earned
it—had the plan been executed flawlessly, his death would be no fun. He
figured it all out all right, not going insane in the process. So, he knew
what tipped it all off. Punching her out gave him some
satisfaction.
"Good for him," Lilah murmured, placing the compact
down onto her desk to begin shifting through the stack of papers and folders
there. She needed to look good for the meeting that day. It was early, too
damn early, barely sunrise. The walls of her apartment seemed to expand
outwards, reflecting off sound and wind. In the pile, a folder marked 'Angel
Investigations'. A composite profile and full frontal shot of Angel, not
from here, from the altered reality.
The one that hadn't been
flawless.
No matter. The translators were working hard on the
available information they had regarding Angel. New filing cabinets were
added every month to Angel's files, and the texts recently translated proved
to be interesting, if not vague.
"The Destroyer," she said to no one,
tapping a pen on the desk.
The room began to feel
cold.
*
The ripping sound of sheets was no match for the gasp
that drummed through Angel, body falling down to the surface. The lithe
woman pinned him down for a second, a moment to pause and kiss those lovely
lips. Touching, neck strained to taste her again, watching muscles flex and
stretch, her back arching. She walked along his arm with weak fingers, he
cupped her chin and turned her. Angled her so carefully, not to bruise the
fragile—in his mind, far from true—woman.
No, she wasn't a little
plaything. She was real, bone and veins, laughter spilling from Chap Stick
smeared lips. Angel kissed Cordelia roughly, bracing himself against the
headboard of her bed. The movements caused the sheets to fall from the small
of his back, but by then he didn't care.
He needed
her.
Angel had been the perfect picture of domesticity, buying her
food, items she needed. It had been days, Cordy was lax, and Angel was
concerned. Finding her alone outside her building aroused the striking sense
for her, of her, only Angel possessed. Had, wanted, needed her, needing her
now to move, oh slightly, there, THERE—
She remembered her fingers
tightening on sheets, his hand clamped on a pillow, smothering… soft…
death…
"Angel," Cordelia breathed, lids snapping shut to keep the
rain from falling, mouth parting to let a full-bodied sigh escape, the
climax, the perfection…
*
"Damn."
Turning the Game Boy
off, Gunn sighed, throwing it dismally onto the desk. Another lost game/
Cushioned from the fall by the massive amount of papers covering it, the
small clatter brought Fred to the present. She was researching, as usual,
because Cordelia had another vision earlier. She'd phoned in, her voice flat
and unusual. Fred gave her the benefit of the doubt because of all the stuff
she'd gone through, but still. It was unnerving, and made Fred nostalgic of
the days when things were so less complicated.
Maybe Angel would help
her. He sure knew how to complicate things.
"Couldn't find anything
yet, Fred?"
Gunn's question snapped her out of the pondering about
Cordy funk. Fred shook her head, pushing her glasses up. "Nope. Nothin'.
I'll try cross referencing it in—"
"Why don't you two head upstairs
for some sleep? I'll handle the details and ask Angel to take care of it,
once he gets back," Wesley piped up from his office, crouching near the
small cabinet. Gunn leaned forward in his chair as he rose, legs barely able
to stand straight. English was right. This was the time before he'd take
Fred out for breakfast, and they should be sleeping. He only hoped that the
case would be over and done with soon, that way they could take some time
off. Maybe head down to the beach.
There was always
Vegas.
"Well, we could rack our brains as to where to start, but
that's sounding like an even better idea," Gunn drawled, showing that bright
flash of a smile. Fred smiled warmly, nodding in return.
The shrill
ring of the telephone broke them out of their fuzzies, Gunn still smiling as
he walked over and picked it up.
"Angel Investigations."
Gunn
nodded, listening to the other end. Soon, his smile faded and he held the
receiver at arm's length.
"Wes. It's for you. It's
Faith."
Wesley dropped the folder he was
holding.
*
Nails dug furrows, eliciting growls—pain or
pleasure, choose your preference—from the vampire, half energized, half
awake, all hers. Hand, fingers buried in her hair, her mouth parted and
smiling—thunder and strings drumming through her. A cry escaped the tired
throat, his hips bucked up, and soon she fell onto him contentedly. Cordy
murmured a curse under her breath, knowing that Angel had heard her. He did
that thing of his. The comfortable thing. Angel gently moved to let her rest
her head on his chest, after a one, two kisses of payment.
"Mmmm…"
Her breathing was steady now, not heaving sobs or ragged gasps. Cordelia
looked at Angel, studying his profile before saying quite slowly, "…I hate
you."
Angel nodded, and he gave that jerk of a grin. "I
know."
The tiredness remained with her, not only from the act of sex
they had participated in, but from the emotional stress she endured. Hate
was a harsh word, and Angel knew it had been used in jest, but that didn't
put the pain lingering… It didn't put the pain aside. It ached terribly
within him, a pulsing beat matching beat for beat, the rhythms of the
waves.
Waves… Water. Crashing down—
"How was it?" Cordelia
asked, after a long pause of silence. The lights were off, and he felt her
body wrap around his own, his free hand twirling strands of her hair.
Resting his head against the headboard, Angel looked to the window, thanking
Cordy inwardly for she had closed the curtains. It seemed too different,
Cordelia's room. Her dresser, her clothes, her makeup. All there.
Possessions. Her possessions.
She was his.
The airy, spacey
atmosphere took Angel off guard for he had remembered her apartment best at
night.
Angel cleared his throat, staring straight ahead. "How was
what?"
"You know what I mean," the young woman said matter-of-factly.
"When I was disfigured…?" He trailed off after that, then continued
with a reassuring poke. He didn't want to frighten the girl anymore than she
needed to be. "It was – different."
"You think?" Cordelia readjusted
herself, nuzzling his chest. "Different in what capacity? Don't look at me
like that. I was in the top percentile. I know big words. Well, at least a
few. Did I mention those stuff texts come—"
"It was brutal clarity,"
Angel started, his eyes haunted and far away. "To go in and out, every day.
Sometimes, when the chips are down, I think about all the bad things, and
how they'll never go away. But to see yourself, to have other people see you
this way and not be able to change it. To give your reasons, to avoid the
sympathetic looks and the ridicule. The only way to survive here is to live
in it. To take all the crap life hands over to you, broken face, arm,
whatever. It reminded me that there were people who were worse
off.
Every day there was a new pain. The feeling of being buried
alive, the smell of sterilization and magnolias, and Buffy. Buffy, with her
smell and taste and touch that I couldn't have. Because I didn't want
to have it. I didn't deserve it. I had lost what meant so much to me when I
grew up. Looks. That's all it came down to. Looks. I wasn't superficial,
depressed yes, but not superficial. It was the relationship based on rushed
feelings, the mutual attraction. So when I lost that, what had been natural
and not a curse, or a death, I had nothing. No friends, no family, no… love.
It was my own stubbornness that brought about the downfall, as well as
Buffy. She and I never had what we have. And I'm glad for it," Angel
admitted, letting strands fall from cold fingers.
"You were human
Angel, even if it wasn't real," Cordelia added, those eyes rising to look at
his own. "I don't think you can just forget that."
There was true
pain in her voice, her mind wondering, trying to read his. Those years with
Buffy—
"It wasn't," Angel replied flatly. "Real. I don't want it. Not
yet. I'm not finished yet. The things I could do with you, Connor, everyone.
I can't take a choice ill gained only to not have you or them in the end. I
couldn't help people. I couldn't even help myself. Cordelia, it wasn't the
disfigurement that irked me, it was... just…"
Cordelia let out a
sigh, tracing patterns on his arm while she did so. "Living."
"Yeah."
Angel nodded, eyes far off and staring. "Living."
She nuzzled him
closer and he kissed her forehead.
*
"Faith…" What was there
to say? To follow the name with? 'How's jail?' Wesley blanched at the
thought of 'pissing' the rogue slayer off. Willingly turning herself in to
the authorities surprised him at the time, but the act of staying, not
straying from the repressive cell took a lot of strength. Faith had been
fragile, broken when Angel took her in, happier when he visited
her.
He hadn't seen Faith for two years.
"Hey Wes." Her tone
was surprisingly light and airy. "Am I the only one or did Wolfram and Hart
get all Mojo Jojo on your head too?"
After a beat, Faith explained,
"They have cable. Power Puff Girls. Y'know?"
"Right, right," Wesley
blurted, prying his eyes away from Fred's profile to lean forward at the
counter for the hotel. Occupying himself with the notepad left there for
messages, he instead started to scribble away, trying, lord he was just
trying to make this go well.
"Wesley. You sound all pensive.
How's C and her vamp? Buff? And excuse me for even mentioning the selfish
sonuvabitch, Spike?"
"Faith, you—"
"You weren't that bad, Wes.
You weren't that bad."
He turned away from Fred, from Gunn. From the
baby. The brooding storm in Wesley's eyes crackled with the intensity of
memories.
Angel and Cordelia weren't alone in their dream. Their
desires.
Neither was he.
They didn't have to know. They'd find
out. But now, just now, Wesley talked to Faith on the phone. He didn't feel
like talking to them. Not just yet.
*
That
Morning
It had been four minutes.
"Buffy… After all that's
happened, I think we—"
"We what?" she asked.
Angel cleared his
throat, trying to convey what he felt in his stomach, in his bones. "We can
make it work. You and me."
He paused, but only for a second, a mere
second to cut her off.
"The friendship thing. We can do
that."
Now it was Buffy's turn, and pause she did. He could visualize
her nodding, the cascading blonde tendrils on her forehead shake and caress
the soft curve of her face. God, it was so strange now. Like the Mohra
demon, the day gone, only this time it was two years.
Two years of
her, being with her, that faded away, gone, unlike the day of bliss Angel
had experienced, remembered, once longed for again. Yet that was in the
past, and as he arranged himself to hold the cell phone in the crux of his
neck to see her, Cordelia was his future.
"I know. I know we can. We
can try," Buffy said slowly, but there wasn't any regret. No delayed answers
leading to hanging up and crying. No solemn looks. There was seriousness,
flashes of maturity, something Angel had not fully experienced during his
time with her.
Running fingers through ruffled short and spiky hair,
Angel let out an unnecessary breath. "Is everything all right? You sounded a
little worried the other day."
"Demons. Big, stinky, summoned demons.
The usual. You know how Tuesdays get."
"Do I ever." Angel pulled his
eyes away from the sheet, dark gaze trailing along the edge of the bed, to
the chair nearby. His duster, unceremoniously thrown, her heels resting on
them.
"Take care of yourself," Angel said at last, licking his lips.
It would always be uncomfortable around Buffy. Angel knew that. But she was
his ex. Nothing would change that. "Okay?"
"You too, Angel. You too.
…Bye," Buffy replied, her own mind running on twelve cylinders.
That
was another story.
Click.
Pulling back, one could view the
ivory sheets twisted, hanging off the edges. How the items of clothing were
thrown, heels in awkward positions. The vampire leaned forward, pale but
firm, tender, weak and …hot at the same time. Leaning on an elbow after
putting the phone gently on the dresser nearby, Angel slowly glanced down to
his left, then just as slowly wiped the sleep from his eyes.
She
rested there, Cordelia, mouth set in a tiny smile. Her chest was covered,
facing towards him… Flesh yearning for a touch, a kiss. He hated it
sometimes, how his body screamed to touch and feel her own. That she was
there, skin and sinew and bone there, wickedly calling out to him. Making
him yearn for her.
So long. So hard.
Tracing the back of his
fingers along her arm, Angel moved to her face, gently nudging her lip. The
dreamy look of solitude appeared, eyes lazily opening. Cordy smiled at him,
a slow one that reminded Angel of the sunrise in Ireland. The memory was
vague, since it was more than two hundred years ago, but he had also been
terribly drunk at the time. The rolling hills of green, the smell of fresh
produce at the market had been ignored, courses set straight for knickers
and bosoms.
"Hey," Angel greeted her, his voice undeniably soft. "How
are you?"
Cordelia fidgeted, pulling her hair back behind her ear and
covering herself. "Feeling a terrible imaginary hangover. You?"
"I'm
hungry," he confessed, a sheepish grin.
"After all that, you're…
hungry?" Cordelia smiled fully, and it was the first time in a long
while that he felt the brilliancy of it. "You don't even EAT."
"I
didn't say I was hungry for food." He leaned forward, rubbing noses with her
before pulling back. "You are. I can tell."
She raised the bed sheet,
covering her mouth. "Don't go all vamp sense-y on me."
He ruffled her
hair and she whined in jest, kissing his fingers when he paused to caress
her cheek. "I'll go make you something. How does eggs sound?"
"Good.
It sounds very good."
Cordelia watched him rise from the bed,
appreciating the marble stature and naked body. Pleasantly smiling, Cordelia
fell back onto soft pillows, and after a couple of minutes she could hear
the actions and sounds of the kitchen. Pans, the fridge being opened, Angel
muttering about her selection of food. The spurting and crackle of eggs,
bacon, its salty and pungent smell making her conflicted. Rise from bed, to
the world, or sleep away the evilness that befell her.
Sleep away and
let him pull the covers up, kiss her gently, and leave the room just as so,
after picking up her heels, straightening. To feel his cool hand on her
forehead, the soft smirk on his face. Or, she could merely wait for him to
call out to her, telling her the food was done. Angel would come in, she
knew, trying to get Cordy out of bed. If the girl felt more energy, she'd do
it herself. Shuffling into the kitchen bundled in a robe, accept the kiss on
her cheek early in the morning. Sitting down, reading a
magazine.
Cordelia could have all of that. But she remained in
between, hand on her forehead, staring at the ceiling. Temples throbbed, a
headache, reminding her of the recent vision. Yet there was none, but there
would be more again. There would be pain, loss… The overwhelming feeling of
anxiety stole through her, evaporating as soon as she'd felt it. For there
was a light sound, the sound of… there was the sound of whistling, coming
from Angel. A rare, precious thing.
"Cordy. It's for
you."
I could tell you about what happened that day. What Angel
made for breakfast, the joke we laughed at in the morning. Our case. But I
don't feel like it. And it's not that important. What's important is that we
got through it. They tell me not to worry about him, or Connor, or everyone.
How can I not? I'm not Connor's mom or anything like that, but with Angel as
his father… Someone who needs to be held, to be loved. Both of them. That's
different though.
If I had known how lonely and heart wrenching it
could be, I would have never told Angel about my vision. But then, people
would die, and it'd be the same old thing again right? Just like that old
saying. 'Damn if you do, damn if you don't.' Well damn it, who comes up with
those old sayings anyway? It's like the whole vicious children's rhymes
thing. Jeez. Really fundamental, aren't they?
Back to my point.
Right. Anyway, in the end, everything will be okay. All that matters is that
family, OUR family is together. Because that's all we have left. Each of us.
One. We go on, day by day, and we take care of the pain and blood, and
hurting in the world. We try as best as we can because that's what champions
do. Save people, ideas, and ways of life. If you take that away, the wish to
be not normal, but equal, then what do you have left? Nothing. And it feels
like a void.
A void that opened and from the remains of the
warehouse, you could see a clawed hand trying to climb out and be free. I
won't tell you if it succeeded.
I could tell you about how I miss
Faith, and Buffy, and even Spike. How Angel's versions in his mind were
different than what I know. Fabricated into something solid and true. But I
won't. I can't. Why give away the ending? It's not happy, it's not sad. It
can never be both.
It's just… living.
End.