Chapter Thirty-One - The Way We Weren't
"This Vail guy was one seriously creepy guy," Xander remarked, flipping through another dusty tomb. "This stuff makes the books in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts look like the Dr Seuss collection."
Not quite getting the pop culture references that had been flying thick and fast from both Dawn and Xander for the past half an hour, Giles frowned and turned the page in the book he was perusing.
"He clearly had access to very powerful magicks," he remarked, leaning in closer to read a passage in particularly small type. "There are spells to kill from a distance, spells to prolong life."
"Ooh, does it mention Horcruxes?" Dawn wanted to know, her eyes wide.
The watcher glared at her over the top of his glasses. "Perhaps if you spent more time reading actual magical texts and less time reading Harry Potter, I might have some clue as to what you're talking about."
"Ah, but you know I was talking about Harry Potter, Giles, so at least we're making progress," she replied with a cheeky grin.
He suppressed a chuckle. "Better that than Star Wars, I suppose," he admitted. "If I had to listen to Andrew rabbiting on about that bloody…" He stopped himself short at the fallen expression on Dawn's face and it suddenly struck him – he would never hear Andrew rabbit on about anything again. He was gone.
In mere seconds, any joviality that had temporarily settled over them fled the room, and the harsh reality set in. They had lost so much – in just one day. So many people they had considered friends, or at the very least comrades-in-arms, were gone.
They were much more somber as they went back to their research. It was a while before anyone spoke again.
"Giles?" Dawn said quietly. "Do you think…?"
"She'll be just fine," he replied, knowing the young girl was referring to Buffy. "Willow will look after her."
"How're they doing?" Faith asked as she entered the make-shift hospital ward. She glanced from Angel to Cordelia, who seemed to be in some kind of trance, and then down to Buffy.
Willow, hard at work with a pestle and mortar, looked up and gave the slayer a strained smile.
"No change. Yet."
Faith crouched down at Buffy's side to check on her, but was side-tracked by the contents of the small bowl in Willow's hand.
"What the hell is that smell?"
"It's a poultice," the witch explained. "I raided the cupboards here and found a lot of magical supplies. It should help with the swelling and the concussion."
"And if it doesn't?"
Willow wasn't prepared to be that pessimistic yet. "I'm planning on helping it along."
Gently, she applied the foul-smelling, green concoction to the wound on Buffy's head, before placing a damp cloth on top of it. Wiping her hands, she held out one to Faith.
"Take my hand."
"Gee, Will, I like you and all, but I'm not sure we're at the 'holding hands' stage yet."
"Ha Ha," Willow shot back, gesturing for Faith to take her proffered hand. "And hold one of Buffy's hands too. I'm going to channel some of my energy into her, but it wouldn't hurt to add a little slayer strength to the mix."
Looking skeptical, Faith finally did as she was asked.
"Now, close your eyes," Willow told her, as she began to work her magic.
The room she found herself in looked so familiar, but it took Cordy a moment to remember where she was. And when realization did hit, she closed her eyes and sighed sadly.
Here they were again…
It was your typical suburban house in any American city. Comfortable, bright, airy – most likely complete with a lawn and a white picket fence outside. It was the stuff the American dream was made of.
Or, in this case, a nightmare…
When she opened her eyes again, she noticed that things were different this time. Angel wasn't part of the happy family living out their lives in this slice of suburban paradise. Instead, she saw him skulking in the shadows, watching as the scene played out.
She saw herself, curled up on the couch, her head resting on a man's lap, as his fingers contentedly stroked her hair. It was a peaceful scene – restful and sweet – but for one small problem. It was so very wrong.
She watched herself sit up and brush her lips over the man's – a familiar and loving gesture that soon became more passionate. As the man pulled her doppelganger onto his lap and ran his fingers up her spine, she was forced to look away. But she couldn't shut her ears to the sound of her own voice.
"I love you, Connor…"
Looking back towards Angel, she saw he was transfixed, his gaze locked on the kissing couple as though in a trance. He had not seemed to have noticed her arrival all. But then, neither had the others.
"Angel?"
He didn't react, but as she moved closer, she spotted what looked like tears gleaming in his eyes.
"Angel, this isn't real."
There was still no response, save for the silent anguish that was coming off him in waves.
She reached out and grabbed him by the shirt, trying to drag his gaze away from the horrific sight before him. He jerked away, trying to free himself. He didn't look at her, but his hands grabbed hers and held them away from his body.
She took it as a positive sign. At least he knew, on some level, that she was there.
"Angel. Look at me!"
She struggled to get her hands free, but his grip was too tight. Finally, she pushed forward with all her weight, succeeding in pushing him against the wall. In surprise he let go of her hands and she took the opportunity to grab his face and pull it toward her.
"Look at me, damn it!"
His eyes were so dark and full of pain when they finally met hers, that she almost wished he would look away again. Then she saw the confusion there and realized that he was starting to snap out of it.
"Cordy?"
"Yeah," she replied with relief. "It's me."
"But I…" his head turned, his eyes returning to the other Cordy and Connor on the couch, but she grabbed his face and turned it back towards her own.
"That isn't real, Angel," she insisted. "That isn't me. That isn't Connor. It all just some sort of bad dream."
"No."
She was incredulous. "No?"
He shrugged sadly. "It's just the way things were meant to be."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
It was the oddest sensation – similar perhaps to floating in an isolation tank (not that she'd ever done that before, but it looked cool when she saw them on TV). She felt completely disconnected from her body, simply drifting with no sense of time or space.
The voices had started intruding a while ago – how long, she couldn't be sure, as that would require a greater sense of awareness. But she could hear them – somewhere very far away – muffled as though she were hearing them from underwater.
The first concrete sensation she got was in her hand. Her hand which she hadn't felt or even knew was still there suddenly had a tingling sensation in it. The feeling spread, up her arm and into her body until, finally, she was an actual solid body and not an abstraction.
That was when the pain started…
Her head throbbed – the last time she felt this kind of pain in her skull was when she drank far too much whiskey with Spike one time. And there was something else. It didn't register at first but, as her brain slowly began to focus, she realized what it was.
There was a seriously funky smell coming from somewhere.
It was the smell, more than anything else, which prompted her to open her eyes.
Willow's smiling face beamed down at her.
"Hey there, sleepy-head."
"Angel! Wait!"
She ran down the stairs behind him and pulled up short when their surroundings registered with her.
They were back in the Hyperion.
The sound of laughter rose from the lobby, and Cordy hurried down the rest of the stairs to see who it was coming from.
"Would you quit staring at me – I'm trying to get some work done."
"I can't help it. You just get more beautiful by the second. I'm afraid if I look away, I might miss it."
Her breath caught in her throat. Right there in front of her, as though nothing had changed…
"Wesley!"
"I'm sorry, Fred, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to get used to it."
She giggled again and got up from the desk, crossing the room to the Englishman.
"I'm never going to get this paper written with you around, am I?" she teased.
"Unlikely," he replied, meeting her approach with a kiss.
Tears formed in Cordy's eyes as she watched them. She looked away and found Angel, back in the shadows but this time with a contented look upon his face. As she walked towards him, she heard the door open.
"Yo, English. I just got a beat on another nest. Time to saddle up."
Wesley and Fred stopped kissing, their annoyance at being interrupted well hidden beneath their exhilaration at another job coming in. This was what Cordy liked to remember most about the old days – not the pain or the loss, but how downright excited they could be about fighting demons.
"We should call Cordy and Connor in on this," Wesley suggested.
Gunn nodded. "I already called them. They should be here any minute."
Turning her back on the scene, Cordy went to Angel.
"Angel, we have to go," she said gently.
When he didn't reply, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
"This is how it should have been," he finally told her. "Now, they're getting a second chance."
She shook her head. "No. They're not. This isn't really happening."
He wasn't listening. "This makes more sense. My life, for all of theirs… it's the way it always should have been."
"But it isn't the way things are, Angel," she insisted. "This is just a trick. If you don't snap out of it soon, everyone's going to die. And their deaths -" she gestured towards Fred, Wesley and Gunn – "will have been for nothing."
The door opened again and a smiling Cordelia-clone and Connor entered, holding hands.
"Look how happy they are," Angel said, his sincerity sounding as though it were being forced past a lump in his throat.
The dreamily detached vampire was starting to grate on Cordy's last nerve. They were running out of time and he was content to play It's a Wonderful Life in reverse. It was time to snap him out of it.
"Angel!"
He suddenly turned on her, grabbing her by the shoulders forcefully and slamming her against the wall.
"Who are you?" he snarled.
To Be Continued...