SUMMARY: Takes place immediately following 'Rain of Fire'. The Powers That
Be decide to settle the score with a little help for the good guys.
'SHIPS: F/G, C/C for now, but I LOATHE that storyline . plus there's someone else about to make an appearance.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of them; they all belong to demi-god Joss . don't sue me. The song's 'Left and Leaving' by the Weakerthans (great song!) and the poem's a snippet of Robert Frost's 'Fire and Ice'. Cheers! Reviews are wonderful!
****************
My city's still breathing (but barely it's true) through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you, all sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know.
They never take me anywhere but here.
Those stains in the carpet, this drink in my hand, these strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say
"I wanted it this way" and wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.
All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
some matches, a blanket, this pain in my chest, the best parts of Lonely,
duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires, and every birthday card I threw away.
I wait in 4/4 time.
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.
She woke.
Two bright, brown eyes opened, peering into the surrounding thicket of darkness.
(-Is it over?-)
The scattered remnants of candles, colourful wax puddles, adorned the bookcase, the shelves by the bed. They hadn't bothered to blow them out. What was more fire to the flaming halo engulfing the city? It was done . it was done. Let the end come as it would.
Cordelia untangled herself from Connor's gawky, tender embrace; his pale, stick-thin arms wrapped tightly around her mid-section. He was all jutting limbs and bony joints, regressing to the look of a newborn foal in sleep, frail and awkward. A prepubescent jumble of a body.
(-sickly grey headache sky, and the birds . oh god, the birds-)
A little boy. Young. Innocent. Stripped of everything he held dear; deprived of everything he was meant to have. Memories of his arms, his sweet breath, flooded her mind.
(-they're flying-)
Cordelia quietly slipped into her clothes, which lay strewn across the loft floor. Glanced back at the little boy tucked comfortably into a nest of blankets, mousy brown hair feathered across his pillow.
(-It doesn't matter, it's done now . or it will be soon.-)
She took post next to the window, a silent sentinel, watching the city burn. The rain continued, burst of flames falling soundlessly from the sky. Tiny blazes had sprung up around Los Angeles, but Cordelia knew the burning, this baptism of fire, was only the beginning.
(-Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice-)
Cordelia forced back a maniac giggle; swallowed it with a painful hiccup. A wave of quiet sobs racked her body; she spared a glance at the comatose form of her young lover, hoping he wouldn't wake. Let him sleep . she would watch the City of Angels burn . Repenting. Atoning.
(-from what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire-)
I couldn't stop it, she thought miserably. I had the arrogance to believe that all of this was part of my destiny. She leaned her forehead against the cool cement wall, eyes mercifully closed against the fiery onslaught.
(-my fault?-)
Cinders, still bright hot and swept from the ashes of L.A's decimated buildings, danced on the humid breeze, marking her skin. A coal-hued cloud rose heavily above the city, hung there, suspended. The rain continued.
(-is it?-)
Suddenly . a sharp splinter of the most brilliant pain cleaved through her head, a million lights exploded in her mind. It seized her without warning, the intense ache driving her body unceremoniously to the ground.
(-ohgodohgodohgodohgod-)
Cordelia lay in a crumpled heap, clutching her head and shrieking for relief, tears streaming down her ashen face. Her limbs thumped and twitched rhythmically, unbidden; her torso was a lifeless harbour to the mess of flailing arms and legs. Then-
-it was done. Cordelia lifted herself weakly on one elbow, rubbing her temples in agony. Since the Beast rose from the bowels of Hell, her visions had become unbearable, horrifying. She could feel Connor's comforting presence beside her, obviously woken by her cries of pain. He gathered her in his arms, rubbed her back soothingly. (-Everything's so muddle; I can't even see straight-)
Words broke through her confused collection of thoughts. (-A question? Her vision? Connor?-) Cordelia attempted to stand, but collapsed clumsily back onto the floor. She brushed her eyes carelessly, feeling the warm, wet salt of tears. Every fiber of her being simply ached.
(-Somebody's talking to me-)
She peered at Connor again, steeling herself for the rush of nausea and spinning images. Nothing. It was gone. The physical pain was beginning to subside, but still that ache, that sense of wrongness, remained.
"Cordelia?" Connor demanded, worry evident in his voice. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, if somewhat forcefully, fingers still massaging her temples slightly.
"What did you see?"
Cordelia paused, sifting through the fragments from her vision. She turned to face the open window, considering the siege of fire still assaulting L.A. Her words were so quiet, at first Connor wasn't sure she'd even spoken. Then, repeated, more insistant, but barely above a mutter.
"What, Cordelia?" he questioned. "What did you see?"
The girl faced him, her eyes unusually bright. A slight smile played on her lips. This time, the words clear, distinct:
"They sent help."
***********
Across the city.
The habour. A long-neglected pier littered with wooden boxes, crates, random debris left to gather dust. Abandoned equipment and supplies strewn across the boards. Strains of fire sailed through the air, landing with a sizzle in the ocean, safely extinguished.
Lightening cracked through the red-streaked sky; pounding thunder followed. All across Los Angeles, people looked up. It was dismissed as the next step towards impending doom by most, who returned to their fearful hiding, their mending of the wounded.
But a few saw something more. Fred, huddled in a diner seat, clutching her useless cell phone in one fist, gazed through the shattered window in amazement. Welsey, arm still wrapped tight around Gunn's inert form, paused the struggle to drag his unconscious friend to shelter and stared with confusion. Angel, still stationed outside the loft that Cordelia and Connor shared, perched on the adjacent roof, considered the extreme weather with a measure of perplexity. Lorne, now surrounded by the relative safety of the Hyperion's walls, looked out the bay window, a strange emotion washing over his green features-something akin to hope.
The lightening continued to rage.
Back over at that neglected pier, a young man's comatose form had now appeared. He was clothed in heavy boots, jeans, a green sweater and a battered leather jacket. A silver Claddaugh ring adorned the third finger of his right hand. The man did not move; simply lay still, not even rising in breath. His frame was rigid with death, or perhaps, more correctly, a very deep sleep.
Suddenly, he woke.
Two bright blue eyes opened, pierced the darkness, and his chest arched as a gasp of air flowed through his lungs.
Allen Francis Doyle was home.
**************
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know.
They never take me anywhere but here.
'SHIPS: F/G, C/C for now, but I LOATHE that storyline . plus there's someone else about to make an appearance.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of them; they all belong to demi-god Joss . don't sue me. The song's 'Left and Leaving' by the Weakerthans (great song!) and the poem's a snippet of Robert Frost's 'Fire and Ice'. Cheers! Reviews are wonderful!
****************
My city's still breathing (but barely it's true) through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you, all sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know.
They never take me anywhere but here.
Those stains in the carpet, this drink in my hand, these strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say
"I wanted it this way" and wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.
All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
some matches, a blanket, this pain in my chest, the best parts of Lonely,
duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires, and every birthday card I threw away.
I wait in 4/4 time.
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.
She woke.
Two bright, brown eyes opened, peering into the surrounding thicket of darkness.
(-Is it over?-)
The scattered remnants of candles, colourful wax puddles, adorned the bookcase, the shelves by the bed. They hadn't bothered to blow them out. What was more fire to the flaming halo engulfing the city? It was done . it was done. Let the end come as it would.
Cordelia untangled herself from Connor's gawky, tender embrace; his pale, stick-thin arms wrapped tightly around her mid-section. He was all jutting limbs and bony joints, regressing to the look of a newborn foal in sleep, frail and awkward. A prepubescent jumble of a body.
(-sickly grey headache sky, and the birds . oh god, the birds-)
A little boy. Young. Innocent. Stripped of everything he held dear; deprived of everything he was meant to have. Memories of his arms, his sweet breath, flooded her mind.
(-they're flying-)
Cordelia quietly slipped into her clothes, which lay strewn across the loft floor. Glanced back at the little boy tucked comfortably into a nest of blankets, mousy brown hair feathered across his pillow.
(-It doesn't matter, it's done now . or it will be soon.-)
She took post next to the window, a silent sentinel, watching the city burn. The rain continued, burst of flames falling soundlessly from the sky. Tiny blazes had sprung up around Los Angeles, but Cordelia knew the burning, this baptism of fire, was only the beginning.
(-Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice-)
Cordelia forced back a maniac giggle; swallowed it with a painful hiccup. A wave of quiet sobs racked her body; she spared a glance at the comatose form of her young lover, hoping he wouldn't wake. Let him sleep . she would watch the City of Angels burn . Repenting. Atoning.
(-from what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire-)
I couldn't stop it, she thought miserably. I had the arrogance to believe that all of this was part of my destiny. She leaned her forehead against the cool cement wall, eyes mercifully closed against the fiery onslaught.
(-my fault?-)
Cinders, still bright hot and swept from the ashes of L.A's decimated buildings, danced on the humid breeze, marking her skin. A coal-hued cloud rose heavily above the city, hung there, suspended. The rain continued.
(-is it?-)
Suddenly . a sharp splinter of the most brilliant pain cleaved through her head, a million lights exploded in her mind. It seized her without warning, the intense ache driving her body unceremoniously to the ground.
(-ohgodohgodohgodohgod-)
Cordelia lay in a crumpled heap, clutching her head and shrieking for relief, tears streaming down her ashen face. Her limbs thumped and twitched rhythmically, unbidden; her torso was a lifeless harbour to the mess of flailing arms and legs. Then-
-it was done. Cordelia lifted herself weakly on one elbow, rubbing her temples in agony. Since the Beast rose from the bowels of Hell, her visions had become unbearable, horrifying. She could feel Connor's comforting presence beside her, obviously woken by her cries of pain. He gathered her in his arms, rubbed her back soothingly. (-Everything's so muddle; I can't even see straight-)
Words broke through her confused collection of thoughts. (-A question? Her vision? Connor?-) Cordelia attempted to stand, but collapsed clumsily back onto the floor. She brushed her eyes carelessly, feeling the warm, wet salt of tears. Every fiber of her being simply ached.
(-Somebody's talking to me-)
She peered at Connor again, steeling herself for the rush of nausea and spinning images. Nothing. It was gone. The physical pain was beginning to subside, but still that ache, that sense of wrongness, remained.
"Cordelia?" Connor demanded, worry evident in his voice. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, if somewhat forcefully, fingers still massaging her temples slightly.
"What did you see?"
Cordelia paused, sifting through the fragments from her vision. She turned to face the open window, considering the siege of fire still assaulting L.A. Her words were so quiet, at first Connor wasn't sure she'd even spoken. Then, repeated, more insistant, but barely above a mutter.
"What, Cordelia?" he questioned. "What did you see?"
The girl faced him, her eyes unusually bright. A slight smile played on her lips. This time, the words clear, distinct:
"They sent help."
***********
Across the city.
The habour. A long-neglected pier littered with wooden boxes, crates, random debris left to gather dust. Abandoned equipment and supplies strewn across the boards. Strains of fire sailed through the air, landing with a sizzle in the ocean, safely extinguished.
Lightening cracked through the red-streaked sky; pounding thunder followed. All across Los Angeles, people looked up. It was dismissed as the next step towards impending doom by most, who returned to their fearful hiding, their mending of the wounded.
But a few saw something more. Fred, huddled in a diner seat, clutching her useless cell phone in one fist, gazed through the shattered window in amazement. Welsey, arm still wrapped tight around Gunn's inert form, paused the struggle to drag his unconscious friend to shelter and stared with confusion. Angel, still stationed outside the loft that Cordelia and Connor shared, perched on the adjacent roof, considered the extreme weather with a measure of perplexity. Lorne, now surrounded by the relative safety of the Hyperion's walls, looked out the bay window, a strange emotion washing over his green features-something akin to hope.
The lightening continued to rage.
Back over at that neglected pier, a young man's comatose form had now appeared. He was clothed in heavy boots, jeans, a green sweater and a battered leather jacket. A silver Claddaugh ring adorned the third finger of his right hand. The man did not move; simply lay still, not even rising in breath. His frame was rigid with death, or perhaps, more correctly, a very deep sleep.
Suddenly, he woke.
Two bright blue eyes opened, pierced the darkness, and his chest arched as a gasp of air flowed through his lungs.
Allen Francis Doyle was home.
**************
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know.
They never take me anywhere but here.