Twice Cursed
To Feel

Cole slowly edged out of his hiding place and laid himself on the ground, his imagination running with all the things that could be wrong with Phoebe. His love, his life…who had vanquished him. Twice. And left him to the Wasteland to spend for eternity. The woman who had repeatedly pushed him out of her life, even as he fell into the abyss of his own insanity.

That decided it. She had moved on a long time ago even before he was dead, and it was now time for him to do so as well. As much as it pained him, Phoebe could work out her own problems by herself—he wasn't needed. His newly brought back rationale had made his head clear. He didn't know why he was resurrected, he didn't know why he was here, but it was his chance to start anew. He wanted answers, sure, but he doubted the Charmed Ones could help him, even if they wanted to. And they would as soon as blow him up over and over again before they would even consider the possibility of helping him.

Cole glanced around the attic, already forming in his mind a plan. He would shimmer away from this home, as far as he could manage with the limited strength he had, and then go about his way to find answers for his sudden rebirth. Then after…he didn't know. All he knew was that it was time for him to leave. He closed his eyes, drew upon his small reserves of strength, and simmered.

Right into Phoebe's bedroom.

Cole opened his eyes and looked around before chuckling sadly to himself. Who was he kidding? Even without thinking, this was the first place he went to. Phoebe may have been able to move on, but he—he could never do it. He could go halfway around the world, and it wouldn't make a difference. He couldn't do it in death; he certainly couldn't do it in life.

He turned on Phoebe's bed, which was where he had shimmered himself to, and deeply inhaled the lingering scent on her pillow. He didn't know what was more intoxicating; the soft mattress underneath him, soothing his tired body, or the smell of Phoebe, which rejuvenated his soul. This bed—they had shared it such a long time ago, back when things were just as perfect as they could be. He could think up a ton of priceless memories of the very spot he was lying in.

How long ago was it, anyways? He shifted his head toward her nightstand and stared at her multifunctional digital clock. Monday, November 21st, 2005. He sighed and buried his face back in her pillow. He had been dead for a good solid block of time.

He laid there for a long time, really not caring anymore if someone found him out. The door of her room was closed, which gave him some protection, but all he could think about was every single moment that he shared with Phoebe while being surrounded with her essence.

After a while, he slowly got up, meaning to explore a bit without intruding entirely on her privacy. He went to her closet, running a hand lightly through all her clothes, noting the new ones and noting the old ones, and picturing in his mind what each of them would look like on her. He glanced briefly at the cardboard box sitting in the back of the closet, partially hidden by a mound of shoes, before turning away and walking toward another part of her room. He touched the things on her dresser. Her Chanel No.°5, her hairbrush. Then he looked up at his reflection. He looked the same as he did on his birthday.

I am really alive? Cole wondered. Even though he felt solid, there was always a chance that he was wandering around as a ghost and that nobody could see him. Then again, there was no way he was going to try this out in the Halliwell household. Maybe he could go somewhere else and try; but he still lacked the energy to go shimmer anywhere that was out of range of the Manor, and his clothes were pretty much burned to a crisp. He scratched his chin. God, and he needed a shave too—looking at his reflection, he could understand why he seemed so frightening during the months before his demise. His disheveled appearance, paired with the psychotic look in his eyes; he didn't only look dangerous, he was dangerous. And the pain that he had caused the Halliwell family…he winced.

But she hurt me too, a little voice sounded sadly in his head. Cole lowered his head and let his gaze fall on the framed pictures on Phoebe's dresser. Each picture of her—her and Paige, her and Piper, an old picture with her and Prue, a family picture with the girls and two young boys sitting on Piper and Leo's laps—all caused a separate pang of pain and longing deep within his chest.

But there was this one particular photo that made him stop and pick it up. It looked like a cameo picture that one of her sisters' must have shot—probably Paige, Cole thought. Even though Prue was the family photographer, Paige was next in line with her arts. The image was a close-up taken from behind; the photographer obviously must have called her name, because whoever took the picture caught Phoebe mid-turn, her short hair whisking around her, a smile on her face.

Cole closed his eyes and clutched the frame to him, as if the combination of glass and metal could transform into the body of his former wife. When was the last time he had seen her like this, her features relaxed, so genuinely her? He gently rocked on his heels, a mantra playing over and over in his head. I love you…I love you…I need you…

Suddenly, Cole heard noises outside her bedroom, muffled by her door. His eyes flew open and he took a step forward, wanting to shimmer away though knowing he couldn't. He kept still, his ear cocked to hear if anyone was going to venture outside. He could make out Piper's voice, along with a loud boy's. "But mommy," Cole could hear him say, "It's too early!"

Cole allowed himself a little smile after he heard Piper and her son go down the stairs. The boy must have picked up that phrase from both her mother and his aunts. He stooped down and picked up a small object from the ground, which he had stepped on.

He slowly straightened, staring at the object he held between his thumb and index finger. Shakily, he set the picture frame down. He was holding a wedding ring.

He didn't wonder what it was doing on the floor, he didn't wonder why there was no picture of a man on her drawer, he couldn't think at all as a single tear made its way down his face.

A/N: As always, a big thank you to all my reviewers. Don't worry, Shel, they'll see each other. Eventually. (I know, I'm terrible)