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On Impulse
Written: Feb 13, 2002, updated Feb 12, 2003.
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Prologue:
He moves like the wind and flies in shadows, avenging wrongs.
Like an angel in the night.
On this most sacred of days for him, he is seeking a mission. More specifically, he's desperately seeking a reason to forget today, all of its meanings, and all of his memories. He pauses as he passes a lone man, surrounded by beautiful living things, and briefly thinks of her as he caresses a red rose. Carefully, so as not to prick himself on the thorns.
She would like this one.
But they're not there yet. So he reaches for a bright yellow one.
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Angel is brooding.
That in itself is not abnormal, but the focus of his brooding is not something an ordinary person would mull over. Then again, never let it be said that Angel is an ordinary person as Cordelia often reminds him consciously but makes him forget unconsciously. And these days, it's always about Cordelia. The picture he holds in faintly unsteady hands is from her desk. The pictures he holds is of the subject of his brooding.
The picture had been taken the morning after her fateful birthday. It had been taken because she wanted to assure herself that she could still photograph well, now that she was a half-demon. She wanted to be sure that her photogenetics hadn't vanished with the acquisition of her new demonic existence. To reassure her, Angel had become the reluctant photographer. As she fussed over her makeup, her clothing, and the perfect pose, he watched her. He wasn't the only one. His son also watched, and as if he needed reassurance, he cried until she picked him up. Angel looked on as Cordelia cooed at the infant, nuzzled his belly, and calmed him as only a mother could. It had been an immensely cherished moment and for not the first time, his soul shifted slightly in almost absolute joy. Almost.
Afraid of the consequences, he broke the moment by calling her name and lifting her camera up somewhat curtly, under the guise of a reminder. Her response was a tolerant sigh and turning the baby towards the camera, she shone a magnificently radiant smile as the camera clicked. And that was his Cordy, never missing an opportunity to mug the spotlight. That had been three weeks ago - three weeks before that damn Groo-thing had appeared. Now his Cordelia was absorbed with entertaining the "love of her life", out on the town on the most romantic of nights.
Angel growls in frustration as he thinks about his Cordy and that man or any man. He needs to punch something, to release his tension; preferably on a demon. Ordinarily, he'd brood about his past wrongs and occupy himself by dwelling on past torment. Only this year, he is distracted from revisiting his unpleasant yet familiar past; instead, he is unsettlingly occupied by happier moments and lighter memories.
This year, he only sees memories of her.
Like the time he'd gone shopping with her, about two weeks before her birthday. It was, ostensibly, an innocent trip to buy suitable baby items for Connor. Regardless, he could never say no to her, his closest friend. As they'd passed yet another prestigious jewelry store, she'd become mezmorized by the glittering trinkets and dragged him into the store, all the while mumbling about how they were calling to her. He kept his head down for fear that he'd be vanquished by blinding lights. They made their rounds, with Cordy "oohing" and "aahing" when she suddenly stopped and became very quiet. Looking up to see what had silenced his beautiful companion, he followed the trail of her eyes to a single glass cabinet. Peering in, he immediately recognized the two gold hands clasping a gold crowned heart. He immediately recognized its symbolism. He saw her press her palms against the glass. He observed her press her face against it as far as possible to get a closer look. He watched as mists formed on the glass pane in front of her mouth.
"Ohhh..." she breathed, entranced.
Remembering a similar gift he'd given to someone else what felt like a lifetime ago, he whispered, "It represents eternal love, friendship and loyalty."
Cordy turned her eyes towards him then. When those wide and hazel ones fell on his dark and brown ones, that lifetime ago flew away. Wordlessly, he nodded as she led him back out of the store. Two seconds later, she was incessantly chattering on about the other unnecessary necessities they were to shop for. While she was busy critiquing the seventh pair of blue booties that day, Angel dashed back to the jewelry store. When he emerged, he carried a square gold box, tied with a delicate ribbon. When he joined her again, slipping the box into his coat, she'd been none the wiser of his disappearance. He'd smiled secretly, immensely pleased; something he couldn't remember ever doing before.
Each day after that, he'd pull out the box and twirl the gift in his steady hands. He would imagine the look of pleasant surprise as he handed her the gift box, her large luminous eyes opening as wide as round orbs. Then the look would be replaced with pure excitement and happiness as she would anticipate unwrapping the present. Finally, she would open it to find her heart's desire, and he would be graced by her softly widening grin. The glory of it, all his.
But then, she'd had that almost head-splitting vision which had sent her into a coma. In the weeks that followed her wake-up, there hadn't been an opportunity to give her the gift again, nor the perfect reason. As he fingers the frame of the picture, he sets the gift box in the middle of her desk and then puts the frame right behind it. He knows she'll stop by the hotel to check on Connor. And maybe, to check on him. He picks up a fountain pen from a nearby desk and briskly scrawls out a casual note, buried feelings underlying the words. As he lays a single yellow rose beside his neatly handwritten note and the box, he hesitates. On impulse, he reaches into his coat and lays down a single red rose instead. As he swiftly heads back up the stairs, the delicate fragrance of rose petals gently sways around him through-out the Hyperion.
~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ @ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~
Epilogue:
She comes back from a fairly pleasant evening with a man who obviously adores her. Her ears are still ringing from the elaborate compliments and earnest admiration. If anyone had asked her two years ago, she would have expected her perfect date to do and be nothing less. Then why does she still feel that there must be something else? Or someone else?
This is why she always returns to the hotel. When she's there, she feels safe. When she's around her beautiful baby, she feels at peace. When she feels the gaze of his father, she feels herself drawn to his presence. When they're together, she feels content.
They're partners. They're best friends. They've grown together. They've grown closer.
Her eyes sweep around the darkened lobby, resting on her desk. A faint smile lights her eyes. She glides to the gold box and daintily brings the beautiful rose to her nose. As the heavenly scent settles in her mind, she opens the box. The round shape of her eyes becomes gentle, as tears threaten to spill. She slides the ring on the only finger she would ever place it on. A perfect fit.
Nothing less.
On impulse, she sweeps up the stairs to the only room he would be in. The rose is clutched to her chest, but she knows him enough not to prick herself on the thorns. When she enters the room, she doesn't see him at first and a breath catches in her throat. She comes up to the baby's crib and softly kisses the baby's forehead as he slumbers. Then, a shadow by the window moves, and stares right at her. As she gazes back, the eyes lock. For a moment. For a lifetime.
For eternity.
On Impulse
Written: Feb 13, 2002, updated Feb 12, 2003.
~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~
Prologue:
He moves like the wind and flies in shadows, avenging wrongs.
Like an angel in the night.
On this most sacred of days for him, he is seeking a mission. More specifically, he's desperately seeking a reason to forget today, all of its meanings, and all of his memories. He pauses as he passes a lone man, surrounded by beautiful living things, and briefly thinks of her as he caresses a red rose. Carefully, so as not to prick himself on the thorns.
She would like this one.
But they're not there yet. So he reaches for a bright yellow one.
~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ @ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~
Angel is brooding.
That in itself is not abnormal, but the focus of his brooding is not something an ordinary person would mull over. Then again, never let it be said that Angel is an ordinary person as Cordelia often reminds him consciously but makes him forget unconsciously. And these days, it's always about Cordelia. The picture he holds in faintly unsteady hands is from her desk. The pictures he holds is of the subject of his brooding.
The picture had been taken the morning after her fateful birthday. It had been taken because she wanted to assure herself that she could still photograph well, now that she was a half-demon. She wanted to be sure that her photogenetics hadn't vanished with the acquisition of her new demonic existence. To reassure her, Angel had become the reluctant photographer. As she fussed over her makeup, her clothing, and the perfect pose, he watched her. He wasn't the only one. His son also watched, and as if he needed reassurance, he cried until she picked him up. Angel looked on as Cordelia cooed at the infant, nuzzled his belly, and calmed him as only a mother could. It had been an immensely cherished moment and for not the first time, his soul shifted slightly in almost absolute joy. Almost.
Afraid of the consequences, he broke the moment by calling her name and lifting her camera up somewhat curtly, under the guise of a reminder. Her response was a tolerant sigh and turning the baby towards the camera, she shone a magnificently radiant smile as the camera clicked. And that was his Cordy, never missing an opportunity to mug the spotlight. That had been three weeks ago - three weeks before that damn Groo-thing had appeared. Now his Cordelia was absorbed with entertaining the "love of her life", out on the town on the most romantic of nights.
Angel growls in frustration as he thinks about his Cordy and that man or any man. He needs to punch something, to release his tension; preferably on a demon. Ordinarily, he'd brood about his past wrongs and occupy himself by dwelling on past torment. Only this year, he is distracted from revisiting his unpleasant yet familiar past; instead, he is unsettlingly occupied by happier moments and lighter memories.
This year, he only sees memories of her.
Like the time he'd gone shopping with her, about two weeks before her birthday. It was, ostensibly, an innocent trip to buy suitable baby items for Connor. Regardless, he could never say no to her, his closest friend. As they'd passed yet another prestigious jewelry store, she'd become mezmorized by the glittering trinkets and dragged him into the store, all the while mumbling about how they were calling to her. He kept his head down for fear that he'd be vanquished by blinding lights. They made their rounds, with Cordy "oohing" and "aahing" when she suddenly stopped and became very quiet. Looking up to see what had silenced his beautiful companion, he followed the trail of her eyes to a single glass cabinet. Peering in, he immediately recognized the two gold hands clasping a gold crowned heart. He immediately recognized its symbolism. He saw her press her palms against the glass. He observed her press her face against it as far as possible to get a closer look. He watched as mists formed on the glass pane in front of her mouth.
"Ohhh..." she breathed, entranced.
Remembering a similar gift he'd given to someone else what felt like a lifetime ago, he whispered, "It represents eternal love, friendship and loyalty."
Cordy turned her eyes towards him then. When those wide and hazel ones fell on his dark and brown ones, that lifetime ago flew away. Wordlessly, he nodded as she led him back out of the store. Two seconds later, she was incessantly chattering on about the other unnecessary necessities they were to shop for. While she was busy critiquing the seventh pair of blue booties that day, Angel dashed back to the jewelry store. When he emerged, he carried a square gold box, tied with a delicate ribbon. When he joined her again, slipping the box into his coat, she'd been none the wiser of his disappearance. He'd smiled secretly, immensely pleased; something he couldn't remember ever doing before.
Each day after that, he'd pull out the box and twirl the gift in his steady hands. He would imagine the look of pleasant surprise as he handed her the gift box, her large luminous eyes opening as wide as round orbs. Then the look would be replaced with pure excitement and happiness as she would anticipate unwrapping the present. Finally, she would open it to find her heart's desire, and he would be graced by her softly widening grin. The glory of it, all his.
But then, she'd had that almost head-splitting vision which had sent her into a coma. In the weeks that followed her wake-up, there hadn't been an opportunity to give her the gift again, nor the perfect reason. As he fingers the frame of the picture, he sets the gift box in the middle of her desk and then puts the frame right behind it. He knows she'll stop by the hotel to check on Connor. And maybe, to check on him. He picks up a fountain pen from a nearby desk and briskly scrawls out a casual note, buried feelings underlying the words. As he lays a single yellow rose beside his neatly handwritten note and the box, he hesitates. On impulse, he reaches into his coat and lays down a single red rose instead. As he swiftly heads back up the stairs, the delicate fragrance of rose petals gently sways around him through-out the Hyperion.
~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ @ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~ ~~ * ~~
Epilogue:
She comes back from a fairly pleasant evening with a man who obviously adores her. Her ears are still ringing from the elaborate compliments and earnest admiration. If anyone had asked her two years ago, she would have expected her perfect date to do and be nothing less. Then why does she still feel that there must be something else? Or someone else?
This is why she always returns to the hotel. When she's there, she feels safe. When she's around her beautiful baby, she feels at peace. When she feels the gaze of his father, she feels herself drawn to his presence. When they're together, she feels content.
They're partners. They're best friends. They've grown together. They've grown closer.
Her eyes sweep around the darkened lobby, resting on her desk. A faint smile lights her eyes. She glides to the gold box and daintily brings the beautiful rose to her nose. As the heavenly scent settles in her mind, she opens the box. The round shape of her eyes becomes gentle, as tears threaten to spill. She slides the ring on the only finger she would ever place it on. A perfect fit.
Nothing less.
On impulse, she sweeps up the stairs to the only room he would be in. The rose is clutched to her chest, but she knows him enough not to prick herself on the thorns. When she enters the room, she doesn't see him at first and a breath catches in her throat. She comes up to the baby's crib and softly kisses the baby's forehead as he slumbers. Then, a shadow by the window moves, and stares right at her. As she gazes back, the eyes lock. For a moment. For a lifetime.
For eternity.