Historically, Angel has never been particularly good at talking to his girlfriends. He tends to put his foot in it, to stumble over himself in his effort to get it right, and sometimes when he's not paying attention it comes out with a side helping of Byronic crap, too. Cordelia, who is equal parts girlfriend and best friend and business partner and life partner, is unfortunately not much easier to talk to.
Case in point, the first thing Cordy says, after he tells her, is: "Should I be offended, right now? It feels like I should be offended."
Angel treads the path well-trod, and stumbles.
"No, seriously," says Cordelia, one eyebrow hiking up. "I'm not perfect happiness material, is that it?"
"No!" says Angel, and then wonders if he'll ever have a day where he doesn't say something stupid. Just once would be nice. "I mean, yes, it's just— what I'm trying to say is that, you know, you and me, it wouldn't—"
He reaches for the right words and comes up empty. "Lorne explained it better."
The other eyebrow goes up. "You talked about our sex life with Lorne?"
"Uh." He scratches at his neck. "Not exactly?"
"Oh, honey. You sang?"
"Neil Diamond," confesses Angel. "It's just— I wanted—"
He covers his face in his hands. It's pretty bright down here in the Hyperion's lobby, so maybe the second-hand sunlight is getting to him. That'd explain it. He sinks down onto a couch and says: "This isn't going the way I practiced it."
Cordelia laughs, big and bright and beautiful, and some of Angel's embarrassment slinks down to the sewers. "Do you want to get back in the shower?" she asks. "Say it to the curtain? Oh, I know, picture me in my underwear!"
"That's… not going to help."
Cordelia tuts and puts down her coffee, the cup teetering dangerously close to the book of prophecy they just got rebound for Wesley's birthday. She abandons the front desk in favour of coming around to the couches, batting his hands away from his head and climbing into his lap instead. It doesn't really help to clear Angel's head, but it is nice. Makes him feel like less of an idiot. It's a good thing she likes 'em stupid.
"It's just," says Angel, running a hand down her arm and watching the hairs glint, "I want you to… have everything. That you want."
Her smile softens. "Got a pretty high opinion of yourself, there. You're not so good that I'll go all demony, are you?"
"No. I mean, yes. Not the demony part. God, somebody shoot me."
She grins again, pats him consolingly on the chest. He's pretty damn lucky he managed to fall for someone who thinks he's so hilarious. "Calm down, big guy," she soothes. "I think I know what you mean. But—"
She frowns, eyebrows coming together into an assessing little pinch, and Angel feels dopey just looking at her, like he could fall asleep right here in the comfort of her arms. That's the thing about Cordelia: she brings the sun in.
"We're good, right?" she says, after a moment. "Because, y'know, I'm really happy with us just Angel and Cordy-ing it up right now. I don't need you to…"
"No, I know. I just, like I said, I wanted… I want you to have the option. If you want."
"Do you want?"
"I…" God, this should not be so difficult. "I mean, I've thought about it."
"I betcha have," says Cordelia. She shifts on his lap, and Angel puts his hand on her thigh to keep her steady, no other reason. He's rewarded by her head tilting the side, the smile slipping from her face as she leans in to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. She tastes like triple-strength mints and her skin is hot even through her capris.
"Angel," she says, as they move firmly into workplace-reprimand-territory. She pushes him away and over her shoulder he sees the ABSOLUTELY NO SEX IN RECEPTION UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES sign glaring accusingly at him from where it's been tacked-up on the pinboard. Underneath it is a second, slightly smaller addendum which reads: I DON'T CARE IF IT'S LIFE OR DEATH, IT ISN'T.
Cordelia follows his gaze and groans.
"Urgh," she says, hands retreating from their exploration into his hair. "Can't you take that thing down? I don't see why we should be punished for other's mistakes."
"I thought you were the one to put it up."
"Well, yeah, but I was traumatised." She shifts off him and onto the couch, huffing. "You try watching Glurggs mate and see how you like it."
Angel hums. One of her hands has found his own on her thigh, and she twists their fingers together into a lock. "You really think we can have sex?"
He lifts his shoulders. "That's what Lorne said. I think he would've mentioned if killing and rampaging was anywhere in my future."
"God, how weird. I mean, yay, I guess, but I really thought I was signing up for a lifetime of celibacy. It's like being a better dressed monk."
Angel squeezes her palm. "I like you in brown."
Cordelia grins. Her pulse is beating out a steady rhythm under his hand, still running on five-four time, and he runs his thumb back and forth over her skin. "You know," he says, faux-casual, "it occurs to me that we're in a hotel."
"We are."
"Plenty of rooms."
"M-hm."
He waits. Prods: "You wanna test a theory?"
"Oh my god," says Cordelia. "Five minutes after being told you can have sex again and you're already signing away your soul? You are such a guy."
"I'm not— that's not— if you don't want to—"
"I didn't say that," she says, patting his hand. "But tone down on the gung ho-ing, okay? I don't wanna be the girl who turned L.A. into Los Angelus."
His mouth quirks. "That's pretty clever."
"It is so not funny."
He sobers. "I know," he says, quietly, "and I wasn't… I just meant that if you wanted it, I could. I'd— I wanna do this for you, Cordy. But we can— today can just be us. Just the usual."
"No sex," says Cordelia, in her business-deals voice. Then, as if she can read his mind, she adds: "You know what I mean."
His mouth tips ups again.
"No sex," he repeats, in answer. Something loosens in his shoulders, makes it easier to press a kiss to her hand. A century of brooding's given him a pretty good sense for what trains of thought he's better off not following, so he lets this one leave the station and doesn't think about what it might mean. He's sure it's fine.
"Yeah, okay," says Cordelia. "But later. You might not have noticed it while you were so busy being dazzled by my beauty, but it's pay-day tomorrow. I've got to fill out the checks or your employees are going to riot, and the primary rioter will be me. Payless have some strappy sandals that I want."
"I'll be quick. You can still cash the checks."
"Oh, what every girls longs to hear."
"Which bit?" asks Angel, and she hits him. He laughs and pulls her close again, tries to kiss around her smile, and her hands start winding their way back into his hair, which seems to be their favourite place to be. He lets her guide him to her neck, his hands slipping up under her shirt, and grins against the vibrations in her throat.
"We can't," she says, laughing, and then she tilts her head back on a sigh when he kisses the skin under her jaw, "Oh, but we should—"
"Hotel," reminds Angel. "No sex."
"Bedrooms," she agrees.
"Upstairs."
"Gotcha."
They stumble towards the stairs, Angel winding his hands behind her back and trying to get started on her ridiculous top with all its little shoestring back-ties. He swears women's clothes get fiddlier ever decade— even corsets weren't this bad. Cordy makes a noise down deep in her throat and Angel accidentally walks them into a pillar. Some of his buttons have been undone.
"Cordy—"
"Not reception," she says. "This is the staircase, definitely."
"There are children here," says Angel and she groans, taking her hands from where she's trying to shove him to his knees.
"One child," she corrects, "but, fine. I guess it's better not to traumatise our clients."
"Exactly," says Angel, kissing her mouth. "Come on."
He pulls her to the stairs, her laughter singing like a songbird, and tries not to be so glad that the conversation got tabled. They'll get back to it, he knows they will, but for now he's got his best friend in the world to shower with love and appreciation, and that tops sex any day.
(He used to be limited to doing so with just take-out and clothes. This development's been doing a lot of favours for his wallet).
Cordy pulls him to a stop before they can get too far up the stairs, her hand squeezing his and a question in her eyes. "Hey," she says, "this conversation? We'll come back to it. Just let me think on it."
Something writhes low in his belly. He makes himself smile back.
"You got it," promises Angel. "Whatever you want."
So, look, it's not like Angel went to Lorne with the express purpose of asking about the sex. He was subtle about it, made out like it was a general Cordy question and not one he'd been rehearsing in the shower for two weeks. He'd even managed to get to the second verse before Lorne stopped him, so he can't have been that transparent.
("Oh, sweetie," said Lorne, handing him a Bloody Mary (extra blood, it's not that bad), "We have got to work on your image."
Angel raised a hand to his hair. "What's wrong with my image?"
"Externally, not much. Internally? You're more shaken up than a daquiri.")
So, sure, maybe he was having some doubts. Some questions. Angel's been doing a lot of thinking, lately, about Cordelia and Sunnydale and Buffy, and he wants to do it right this time. He doesn't want to leave Cordelia in a blaze of red and blue, doesn't want to leave her at all, and that's… terrifying.
He left Buffy because it was right. He knows that like he knows his own name, because she wanted a normal life and she deserved to have it, the kind with summer afternoon barbeques and beach days and sunlit church ceremonies. So much of her life was about people dragging her down to the dark, and Angel didn't want to do that to her. He loves her, of course he loves her, and he probably always will, because she's his girl, but he loves her enough to let her go, to want her happy even if it's not with him.
Cordelia—
Cordelia's different, and Angel doesn't know what to do with that. She's thrown herself into his life by choice, dug her heels in even harder, and Angel's not sure he likes what it says about him that he'd rather keep her in this dank, dark, sewer-filled half-life if it meant she'd only stay with him. He's got to be better than that. He's got to want better for her, not to covert her like she coverts her one-of-a-kind blouses. He ought to be encouraging her to have friends, to have a life outside her crappy job that can't even offer dental, and instead Angel doesn't.
He's a crappy lover, a crappy friend, because he takes her word for it that she's fine and he always has. He makes her food so she won't have to go out for it, and he buys Connor cute little stripy t-shirts so she'll have something to coo over in the morning. Cordy's not his girl, not in the slightest, and yet— she's so—
"Mr. Angel?" says their new client, and Angel snaps back to reality. Mr. Flynn and Cordelia raise their eyebrows at him in tandem, still waiting on the end of Angel's sentence, and Angel clears his throat, gesturing at Cordelia.
"This is Cordelia," he explains. "She's my, uh… everything."
"I'm his business partner," says Cordelia, after a moment. She tosses her hair back and shimmies her shoulders slightly, salesman-smile in place as she shakes Mr. Flynn's hand. "I run the show."
Flynn shoots a bemused look at Angel, who shrugs. "That's about right."
Wesley coughs. "Technically I'm in charge," he says, and huh, Angel didn't even realise he was here. Oops. "How can we help you, Mr. Flynn?"
Flynn says the usual sort of thing, with the usual kinds of disclaimers peppering into his speech (I mean, it sounds crazy, I know, but I swear it's true…), and Wesley nods solemnly, extending a hand to guide Flynn towards his office.
"I completely understand, and I assure you, we're very discreet," he says. "Please, follow me."
As soon as their backs are turned, Cordelia leaps halfway over the counter in her attempt to successfully whack him, her shoes kicking loudly against the wood. Angel jumps back.
"Ow!"
"Have you forgotten how to be normal?" demands Cordelia. "What the hell was that, she's my everything? Who says that?"
Angel flounders. "I just— you were— you're just so pretty."
Cordelia huffs, and shoves a yellow spiral-pad in his direction. "Come on, Laser Brain," she says, following Wesley into the office. Her ponytail swishes around her shoulders like a horse's, which Angel guesses is why they call it that.
"Hey, I saw that movie," he says. "She totally liked him."
Cordelia ignores him. Angel looks down at Connor, who's spent this entire conversation snoozing in his baby carrier, and tucks some of his hair behind his ear.
"You still think I'm cool, right, bud?" says Angel, and Connor lets out this tiny huff that Angel assumes means yeah, totally, dude. Fred and Gunn keep insisting that Connor's gonna grow up speaking Californian, but the kid's also growing up around Wesley, so maybe instead he'll say stuff like "smashing".
God, Angel's mam is going to kill him if he ever gets to the grave. He bends his head to kiss Connor's crown.
"You're not gonna grow up English," he says softly, "right, champ? You're not gonna do that to your old man?"
Connor doesn't answer. Angel takes that as an affirmative.
"I think it's a lucrative business opportunity," says Cordelia later that night, while Angel watches her slather herself in lotion. She has her hair tied back in a bun and one small curl of hair has stuck to the back of her neck, and Angel's just spent forty minutes stewing on the sex thing while making broom-broom noises with Connor. "And since I'm your everything, I think you should consider it."
"You're not letting that go, are you?"
"Nope. It's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me."
She catches his eye in the mirror and grins, which has to be mostly luck. "Did I get you?"
"You got me."
"Score one for Cordy," she says, running her fingers under her eyes. "So, go on, enlighten me. Why aren't we gonna destroy the world?"
The question pulls him up short, makes that squirming feeling take root again. He thought they were talking about opening the hotel. Still, he's been practicing again in the shower, so he knows what he wants to say.
"Well," he says, kicking his heels against the bed, "uh, Lorne was poking around in my head, and he said if I kept worrying enough to bring the house down he'd never get a decent signal. And I said, y'know, what the hell are you talking about, I'm not worried about anything, and then he said I'd better get used to vibrating on the parental-anxiety wavelength, and then he called me a beefcake."
Cordy grins at him from the mirror. "If the shoe fits."
Angel grimaces.
"The thing with the curse," he says, as her hands travel down her neck and leave glossy streaks of cream in their wake, "is that it isn't about the sex. Buffy and I gave it a bad rap, but it's really just— love, and happiness, and not feeling guilty for the things I did. And, I mean, you've met me. It's not like I'm ever not."
She moisturises behind her ears, dark nails flashing under the ensuite's lights. "I feel like I should be offended again," she says lightly. "Buffy can drive away the guilt and I can't, is that it?"
"No." He runs a hand through his hair. "It's— look, do you believe in soulmates?"
"Is it better or worse for me if I say 'yes' for this conversation?"
"Buffy and I," he says, and then backtracks. Cordelia keeps massaging. "I mean, you know this world. Me and Darla, me and Dru, Dru and Spike, we all made each other. That isn't— that sense of purpose, of becoming, it's not something you can describe. It's beyond duty, beyond love. It's intoxicating. And Buffy—"
"Buffy made me," continues Angel, feeling sick. "Not Angelus, but me. As soon as I saw her, I loved her. She was my salvation, I became something for her, and that she wanted me, that she saw what I'd become and she thought that it was good, it was… I can't explain it. It was perfect. She made me forget. One hundred and fifty years of pain, and she made me forget."
He shifts, pushing past the writhing snakes that have taken up in his belly, his intestines squeezing as if dragged through a clenched fist. Cordelia's taught him a lot about shame, about which bits of it are useful and which bits of it aren't, but it doesn't make it easier to roll over and show her this.
"I wanted to be good," he says quietly. "I wanted to be good, and Buffy was good, and it was easy. And that's what broke it."
"Oh," says Cordelia. She turns, towels off her hands, and makes a sympathetic face. "And you can't do that with me."
"You wouldn't let me. You don't let me. This isn't Pylea, there's no black and white justice here. There's not gonna be a day when I wake up and all's forgiven, and I finally get that. I've got a whole family now, with you and Wes and Gunn and Fred, but redemption—"
He breaks off, looking down at the carpet. It's a beige colour that he's sure can't be in fashion. Cordy crosses over from the bathroom and puts her hand on his face, and he turns to her like a sunflower to the sun, helpless in the face of it. She raises an eyebrow and he sighs. "Redemption's not in the cards for me and I know it, so the curse can't break the way it once did. Does that make sense?"
"I think so," says Cordelia, and strokes her thumb across his cheek. She smiles, a gorgeous soft one that could send the whole world to war, Angel's very own Helena. "You're doing a whole lot better now, aren't you?"
"Thanks to you," he says, and she pinches him.
"Flatterer."
"I mean it."
She sits down beside him and he pulls her hands into his lap, smoothing over her lotion-glossy knuckles. "Anyway," he says, more lightly, "even without that, you think I'm ever not worrying about Connor? I think about that kid twenty-four seven. Notre Dame's not cheap, and this recession we're supposedly in? I'm freaking out all the time— Lorne said you could tune a TV to me."
Cordelia pulls a face, equal parts fond and exasperated. Her bare feet worm their way under his leg and they feel cold even to him, so Angel has to add new heating for the hotel into his already stretched-thin budget. "So, let me get this straight. You're saying that the world's so messed up that you can't ever know perfect happiness again? What if you get Stockholm Syndrome and end up associating us having sex with, like, the ozone melting, and then you can't get off without National Geographic in the background? Angel, that's horrible."
"I don't think that's gonna happen."
"It might!"
"It's not about the sex," says Angel, again. It kind of feels like it's about the sex. "Unless, I mean, is it about the sex?"
She sighs. "I don't know," says Cordelia, linking their fingers. "I mean, it's not that I don't want it, or anything, it's just— I thought we couldn't. It was like, okay, fork in microwave, don't go there! And I know Lorne's saying it's okay, and I even asked Wes about it, but… I mean, aren't you even a little worried?"
"I am," says Angel, immediately. "Geez, Cordy, you know I couldn't bear it. I just— I kinda think that's what'll keep it safe."
"You can not want to sleep with me this badly," says Cordelia.
He looks away. Cordy stares at him.
"Is this about what I said?"
Angel squirms a bit more. Jesus, he's pathetic.
"Oh my god," says Cordelia. "I was trying to be creative!"
He very purposefully unclenches his jaw.
"Angel," says Cordelia, and he sighs.
"I want to give you this," he says, again. "I can give you this, Cordy."
She frowns, her hand tight in his and her eyes zig-zagging all over his face like she's trying to figure him out. Bitterly, Angel thinks: good luck to her. Even he doesn't know what's happening in his heart right now, and he's gotten pretty damn good at figuring out his woes over the last century.
"Okay," she says eventually. "Fine! But if you go evil, I am so putting I Told You So on your headstone."
It's really not about the sex.
But it might be a bit about the sex.
It's not like Angel's foreseeing a problem in this area, exactly. Like, sure, maybe he'll turn out to be a bit rusty, but Cordelia already knows it's been a while. And they always say, don't they, that it's like riding a bike? Angel's been doing this for centuries, he can totally ride—
Okay, so Cordelia's not a bike. Obviously. A Lamborghini Miura, maybe, not that he'd ever tell her that, although Cordelia does like beautiful things, so maybe she wouldn't mind. He's got a picture of it in an old car mag somewhere that he can show her. And it is beautiful, Angel'd kill to get one, and Cordy would look just fine behind the wheel, scarf around her head and sunglasses in place, a powerhouse of a woman in a powerhouse of a machine.
Of course, the Miura has its drawbacks. No dead pedal, and the layout itself is a bit awkward. If Angel had his way—
"What are you thinking about?" asks Cordelia, pulling a face, and Angel looks up from where he's been staring absently at the rotating Angel Investigations logo on their website.
"Huh? Oh, uh. Cases."
"Sure," says Cordelia, leaning over to click onto Demons, Demons, Demons in the other tab. "In that case, maybe you could start here. You know, with finding the big guy?"
"Right," says Angel. "Sure."
"Because you're thinking about the case."
"Yeah," he says. In the back of his mind, he thinks it would be easy to ruin Cordelia. She's strong, stronger than she thinks, but Angel knows her. First, she'd lose the visions. He could pay any number of demons to see to that, could do it himself if he had hold of a Kungai horn. That'd sever her connection to the Powers, and next would come the mission; not loudly, not overtly, but slowly. He'd have her watch Connor for an evening, be a bit too late defending her in battle and have her sit out a few evenings more. Take too long to answer when she asked about it. He wouldn't say anything— would never say anything— but she'd work it out. She'd take herself off the board.
Even then, she'd keep going. She'd help out with the admin, and he'd make it so she made mistakes. Make it so her Cordy-only filing system got people killed. The guilt would set in, the doubt too, and Angel could play the long-game, when it was fun enough. She wouldn't last. She'd lose the visions, the mission, her friends, then Angel. And when all she had left was Angel's little baby boy, he'd make sure she lost him, too.
Cordelia raises her eyebrow expectantly, and Angel swallows down the bile, the funny weightlessness in his head. "I—"
Wes would be just as easy to ruin, the man's got father issues you can see from the moon. Fred would be less delicate, less of an intricate deconstruction and more of a brutal battering, evil that her scientist's mind wouldn't ever make sense of. Angel's not sure about Gunn, but maybe Fred's torture would be enough. Angel'd probably just kill him. That's his usual approach to risks.
"I was thinking about you," says Angel finally, because he always is. It's always there, lurking in the corners of his mind, because the truth is that it's not his mind. It hasn't been his mind in a long time.
Buffy would tell him that he's not Angelus. Buffy would hold his hand and she would look at him with all the faith in the world, steadfast in her belief that he could be good, that he was good, that he was Angel. But he's not Angel. He's a demon with the soul of a no-good Irish boy whispering right and wrong into his ears, and he isn't— he can't—
"Then why do you look like you're going to throw up?" asks Cordelia. "Do you need a ginger ale?"
"No. I was just thinking."
"Okay, weirdo," she says. "And just so you know, you might wanna get that whole face thing under control. You'll scare off our clients."
His mouth's dry. "Where's Connor?"
"Wesley's on it. I think they went to the park."
He doesn't have to think about Connor. He knows what he would do, and wherever his soul would end up when it was gone, his soul would know it too. And that would make even heaven hell.
"What about a prophylactic?" asks Wesley, because he's the best friend Angel's ever had. "Cordelia had something made for her, do you remember? When she was dating the Groosulug and at risk of losing her visions."
"Oh," says Angel. "That guy."
"I wonder if there's something similar…" He reaches for the phone book, flipping through to 'B' for 'brothel'. "If there already exists a potion that can prevent the transference of supernatural abilities, perhaps there's one that can ensure the continuance of your own curse. This might turn out to be quite the revolutionary course of study."
"You think?"
"Yes." Wesley pushes the book towards him, index-finger pointing to 'Anita'. "I had Willow send through the translation of the original curse, the one she used to restore your soul during the fight in Sunnydale. Look here."
He turns the computer, points to a line of the spell. "See, the problem is not so much your moment of happiness, as it is that the existence of it makes the curse itself null and void."
"I don't get it."
"Well, the intent was always that the existence of your soul would provide you with eternal torment— that's this section here, see? It's conditional, although I don't know that it was meant to be. Probably no one imagined that there ever could be a time you weren't tormented by it. But in the event that you aren't, then the conditions of the curse are removed, and it no longer holds. It's really quite an ingenious loophole, the difference of a few words. But if we could find some way to anchor it without the preexisting conditions, to keep you in, in supernatural stasis, then—"
"It would hold," repeats Angel. "It'd hold no matter what I felt about it or what I did."
"Exactly," says Wesley, looking up at him. Angel feels dizzy. "In fact, there's no reason why we'd have to limit it to the one occasion. A witch as skilled as Anita might be able to create something more long-lasting, as a preventative measure." His mouth twitches. "You might consider it a form of birth control."
"Very funny," says Angel, collapsing into a chair. "Wes, this is…"
"I imagine so."
He looks at the phone book and then at Wesley, thinking about Cordelia. This isn't simple speculation, this could be fact. It could be the removal of every bit of her hesitation, every lingering memory of Sunnydale. This could change things for her. This could mean—
Angel shifts, stomach rolling, and glances at the clock on the wall. It reads as just gone ten, which means Wesley should be heading home rather than staying late to help Angel with his personal problems. He scratches at his ear. "Hey, uh, did you want to do something? Like, go out somewhere? We could stop by the bookstore."
"At this hour?"
"We could go clubbing, then."
Wesley laughs.
"Yeah, okay," says Angel. "I just— I really appreciate it, man. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He smiles, sitting back in his chair. "You know, this really is quite the occasion. We should celebrate, if it works out."
"Celebrate me and Cordy having sex?"
Wes gives him a flat look. "Actually, I meant eliminating the potential for you to turn evil and kill us all, but by all means, if that's what you want to call it…"
"No, uh. Your thing is good."
He looks down at his hands, a buzzing in his ears. Repeats: "It's good."
"Oh, yeah," says Cordelia, peeling away his shirt. "That's not good."
"It was just a little demon," he says, wincing as the fabric parts with his skin. That's another shirt ruined, and he liked that one, too. "Honestly, I could've taken it."
"Uh huh," says Cordelia, dabbing on antiseptic. She raises an eyebrow and Angel is reminded of an incident several years ago, of Cordelia crouched down in front of his car and trying to buff out the person-sized dent with nothing but the sleeve of her cardigan, looking up at him with her oh, officer, was I going too fast? smile and saying: "I mean, it's Wesley's fault, really. Like, you saw how that demon came out of nowhere, right?"
That's how he feels now, as Cordelia fixes him up. You saw how that demon came out of nowhere, right?
"I really didn't mean to," he says again. "Honestly. I just had a hankering."
Cordelia smooths down a piece of tape, finishing up the bandage, and bends her head to kiss the injury. "You need to be more careful," she says flatly, and Angel hums. She pokes the wound dead centre and he yelps. "I mean it! I'm not going to patch you up every time."
"Aren't you, though?"
"I'll get mean about it. I'll start buying Hello Kitty bandaids."
"I can handle that."
"Oh, sure, that you'll wear. When am I going to get you into a nice plaid?"
"I'm okay," he says, as she starts zipping things back into the first-aid kit. She tuts, loudly, and Angel doesn't want to smile, because he's pretty sure it's just going to piss her off, but it's hard not to. He stood under the Victory of Samothrace, once. It was a dead-ringer for Cordy. She catches his grin and her own curls up at the corners.
"Loser," she says fondly. She pokes him again, although really it's more of a caress, fingers pressed against the neat white square. "You've got a kid to look after, you know. And me. I like this shoulder in one piece."
He loops a hand around her wrist and pulls her into his lap, kissing her soft and gentle.
"Everything important's intact," he promises, squeezing her hand and letting her slide the other behind his neck, so that her fingers can wind into his hair. She quirks an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Her other hand slides down, arcing gracefully around the bandage, and she shifts her hips pointedly, wicked smile on her face. "I can tell."
He rolls his eyes and kisses her again, settling his hands on her back because he knows she likes it. Her mouth is warm and he thinks she might have bitten her cheek while eating her dinner.
"Cordy," he says, and she sighs, winding her arms tight around his neck as she presses close. "Cor—"
"Yeah, that's it," she mumbles, smile in her voice. "I get off to my name."
He laughs. "Cor—"
She gives a theatrical moan, a real When Harry Met Sally kind of thing, and Angel laughs even harder as he shifts beneath her, hands on her thighs. He tilts his head forward and presses it into her collarbone, kissing her sternum. "I love you."
"Back atcha, honey. Say my name again."
"Cordelia," he says, and she grins at him. He doesn't see it, but he knows she does. She kisses his ear and Angel kisses his way back up her neck to her mouth, slides his hand behind her head. This time she sighs for real, sinking into him, and it's nothing they haven't done before, it's nothing they don't do, but Angel has a little blue bottle living in the drawer of his nightstand now, and if he wanted—
She breaks the kiss, pulling away to look at him with her lips pressed together in thought, and he feels something shift in the air between them. He waits, and then she leans in to press another kiss to his mouth. Angel burns.
"Cordelia," he says, and it's nowhere close to funny. Her lashes are dark and her body is heavy, and when she kisses the corner of his mouth it somehow feels more intimate than anything else they've done together. Her trembling hands slide over his shoulders and her heartbeat pulses like a drum.
"It's okay," she promises. "We're gonna be okay."
He swallows, and Cordelia presses one, two, three kisses down his neck, slow and careful and wanting. His hand clenches around her thigh, she rocks her hips slowly, encouragingly, and Angel—
"I have to see Connor," he says, stumbling out from under her. She makes a slight oof-ing sound as she falls back onto the bed. "I'll be back, you just— you just get into bed, I'll be back, I just have to—"
"You— what?"
"I'll be back," he promises, and kisses her quickly on the mouth again, tripping over his feet as he tugs on his shirt. "We'll wind down, I'll make it good—"
"Angel—"
"Connor," Angel says, and falls out the door. In the corridor, he closes his eyes and takes a deep, unnecessary breath, curling his hands into fists and resisting the urge to put them through the wall. He can't afford the drywall.
Next door, Connor's already sleeping soundly in his cot, snoozing away after being put to bed by Lorne, who Angel is really going to have to start paying an hourly fee. The kid sure is loved by a lot more people than the ones who ever loved Angel. He sits down at his bedside and counts all of his tiny toes once, twelve, two hundred times, listening to Cordy's heartbeat and the undecided pacing of her footsteps.
Eventually she gives a frustrated sigh that gives way to deep breaths, and only then does Angel slink back into his room. He curls around her sleeping form and tries not to hate himself for the way she presses her nose into his shoulder, how her hand curls unconsciously around his arm. She's done this ever since she was a teenager, she's the only person Angel's ever known who's seemed to instinctively think of him as safe, and he can't give her what she wants.
"I'm sorry," Angel says, into her temple.
"Lame," mutters Cordelia.
In the morning, Angel cooks eggs. He's in a shitty mood and he's already drunk half a pot of coffee, so when Gunn shows up to work with a low whistle and wandering hands, Angel can admit he's not that gracious about it.
"Damn," says Gunn, swiping the top pikelet from the pile and fist-bumping Connor. Angel's not sure if it counts as fist-bump if it's really just one person touching their fist to the back of another, unparticipating toddler's hand, but who's he to say? "You get in Cordelia's bad books?"
"No."
Gunn smirks. "Right," he says, and takes the seat closest to Connor's high-chair. "That's why you're up at your equivalent of three a.m."
"Those are for Connor," says Angel, batting away Gunn's hand as it makes a beeline for the packet of strawberries. Connor looks up at the sound of his name.
"My strawberries?" he says, although it comes out more like my stor-bees? Angel catches Gunn beaming at him, because Angel's son is awesome, and it goes about halfway to softening Angel's mood. He pushes the packet closer so Connor can reach and starts in on coffee number six. Soon he's gonna be going pot to mouth.
"That's right, champ. You can put them on your pikelets."
Connor picks up a handful and decorates the countertop with them, which Angel cringes over. Those things are two dollars a punnet. Gunn sighs and grabs another pikelet.
"Man, you are just like your daddy," he says, leaning back in his chair as he slaps cream cheese onto it with a knife. "He's always gotta be painting it red, too."
The egg yolk breaks in the pan when Angel flips it. "Paint red," says Connor.
"You know that's right. See here, you've got strawberries."
"Stor-bear," says Connor.
"Yeah, strawberries."
Angel's eggs have all stuck together and turned the pan into a mess. There are leeches crawling up his neck.
"Did you want something?" he snaps finally, and Gunn looks up at him with raised eyebrows.
"Oh, excuse me for playing with my nephew. Is that the attitude that's got you making the full continental for Cordelia?"
Angel twitches. He puts the mangled eggs on a plate and pushes them towards Gunn, which is simultaneously both a peace offering and a passive aggressive outlet. He cracks two new ones for Cordelia and an additional two for whenever Fred comes down, and Cordelia wanders in right as Angel's prodding them with the spatula, which obviously means he misses and splits the yolk.
"God dammit," says Angel, and gives up. The pan makes a clattering sound against the stove.
"Uh oh," says Cordelia, stepping into his space. She puts her hand on his arm and kisses his cheek, so maybe he doesn't need to go Defcon Five just yet. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the coffin. Hey, Gunn."
"Cordy. Are you the reason we're being treated to this here's magnificent feast?"
"Nope! That'd be Angel's own stupidity."
"I am right here," complains Angel. Cordelia puts both hands out towards Connor's grimy little face and kisses him smack on the forehead, smoothing down his hair.
"How's my favourite little champion?" she coos. "Do you like your breakfast?"
"Breakfast."
"Oh, you're having strawberries," she says, and then, looking around for a cloth, "and getting them everywhere."
Gunn hands her the rag Angel's been using to clean up, and then takes a tissue to Connor's mouth. It mostly only succeeds at transferring the globs of oatmeal from his chin to his shirt, but points for effort.
"Connor, man, that's nasty. What did you do yesterday?"
"He went to the park with Uncle Wes and Auntie Fred," says Cordelia, sitting herself down and helping herself to the strawberries. She has her hair tied back but her earrings in, and is wearing a distinctly non-strappy shirt. Angel might have to stake himself.
"Yeah? How was that?"
"Went park," says Connor.
"I made you eggs," interrupts Angel, and Cordelia shoots him an unimpressed look. He adds: "They're apology eggs."
"Hm," she says. "I thought they were sorry I ran away from an honest conversation with you eggs."
The sizzling suddenly sounds very loud, as does the fan, and Angel wishes that they were in Cordelia's apartment instead of this morgue-like industrial kitchen (it might give her ideas). The eggs are spitting and he's pretty sure eggs aren't meant to spit, so he's probably charred them. Angel looks at Gunn, who gets the hint.
"Yeah, so, I don't need to be here," says Gunn kindly, packing up his eggs for the road. "Hey, Connor, you wanna see a crossbow?"
"Crossbow!" says Connor. Gunn lifts him like a football and lets the door swing closed behind him, and Cordelia steals the abandoned pile of pikelets and raises her eyebrows at him, waiting. Angel wonders why the hell he decided to make six kinds of breakfast food. Cordelia taps her nails against the countertop.
"Do you think those things are child-safe?" blurts Angel, and Cordelia faceplants into her hands.
"I'm sorry," he says, against the backdrop of the fan. "I'm an idiot."
"Yes, you are," says Cordelia. "Angel, if you didn't want to sleep with me, you could've just told me."
"I did!" says Angel. "I mean, I wanted to, I just— in the moment, there was— with the— okay, does that fan sound loud to you? I think there's something wrong with the mechanism, I should probably—"
Cordelia puts her fork down with a scraping sound as Angel clatters about with the frypan, turning off the gas and putting the pan down with a clang. He turns off the fan and realises immediately that that was a mistake, because now the kitchen sounds quieter than an audience at one of Cordy's plays. Cordelia's wearing too much perfume and Angel's chest hurts and it's not meant to be able to do that anymore.
"So," says Cordelia, into the silence. "You're terrified too, huh?"
He looks away. "Cordy—"
Cordelia gets up and hugs him. She wraps her arms around him and Angel closes his eyes and presses his face into her shoulder, and her body is a livewire to the dead thing he calls his own.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "God, Cordy, I'm sorry."
She squeezes him tight. "You're so stupid," she says, a little choked. "Geez, Angel, what did you think I was doing? I don't wanna end the world just to get laid!"
"We're not gonna end the world," says Angel miserably.
"You don't know that—"
"I went to that demon brothel."
"You what?"
"For the— not— for a potion!" says Angel quickly. "That witch Anita, you remember? I had her make me something to keep, uh, everything where it is, when we... y'know. Wes called it a, uh, curse anchor. It anchors… curses."
"Oh," says Cordelia, slowly. "Oh, so—"
"So I'm not gonna lose my soul. Not ever, so long as I'm taking it."
"…Wow," she says, stepping back. "Okay. I mean, that's good, right?"
"Yeah." He sighs, scratches his neck. "Yeah, it is. 'Cause it's not— I mean, it's not just you and me here, you know? It means I can watch Connor grow up and not have to worry about missing it. Not have to worry that watching him take his first steps is gonna be the last thing either of us ever do. Did you know he was walking at ten months?"
"Yeah, honey. I was there."
"Right." He clears his throat. "Point is— I know it's not gonna go bad, I do. But I can't shake the feeling that it might. I've been trying— I want to give this to you, Cordelia, I do, I just— I got in my head, and I freaked out, and I'm sorry."
Cordelia squints at him.
"Angel," she says, "You get why I'm mad, right?"
"Yeah, I— next time, Cordy, I swear. I'll get a handle on it."
"That's not— Angel. You made me feel bad."
"What?"
"I don't want you to sleep with me if you don't want to!" cries Cordelia, letting go of him. "God, could you be any more you about this? You wigged, you totally wigged, and I realised that you keep talking about me, and doing this for me, and it's like— I'm not gonna be the only one in the bed, here! Angel, what do you want?"
"I want you to— have everything," says Angel. "You're— you deserve so much better than me, Cordy, you're young, you don't have to be saddled to me, and I just thought that— that I could— I didn't want to put this on you—"
"Oh my god," says Cordelia, with wide eyes. "You know, I didn't believe Buffy when she told me, but you are so annoying. Angel! My baggage is so not your baggage! You went evil and tried to end the world! I dated Xander! Those things are not equal!"
"I mean—"
"And for the record?" says Cordelia, "I am not saddled to you, you are saddled to me. And I don't care what your guilt-complex is telling you, I like it that way. I love you! Gimme a damn suitcase and stop being weird!"
Angel blinks at her. "But—"
"Angel," she says, again. "Please. I don't need this from you. Stop trying to pretend like I do."
Something in Angel wobbles.
"You used to have a tan," he says, into the cold metal kitchen that doesn't have windows, and her whole face crumbles.
"Oh, honey."
"It's not just that," he adds hurriedly, looking away from her again. "It's everything. You could've been— you could've done anything, Cordelia, you know you could've."
"Yeah," she says. "I could've been a super famous actress and you could've been crazy with the PTB broadcast, and I chose you. So just— just do me a favour, okay? If you love me, if you really love me, then stop with the woe is me routine and accept it. I'm vision-girl, you're stuck with me, and I love you."
Angel swallows. "I mean, you know I really love you."
"Great! So it shouldn't be a problem."
"But—"
"Lalala not listening," she says. "And, look, if it's the sex thing that's freaking you out, then let's just table it, okay? I've got no problem being Saint Cordy a while longer."
"I mean… monks aren't technically saints."
"Whatever. Would you wear a plaid if I got it in brown?"
Angel wrinkles his nose. "You don't think it's a little lumberjack-y?"
"It'll match your eyes."
"My eyes are blue," he says. Then: "My eyes aren't blue?"
She shakes her head.
"That can't be right."
Cordelia scrapes the ruined eggs into a bowl and puts them into the microwave, leaning against the counter-top while it spins. He frowns down at the floor.
"Connor's eyes are blue."
Cordelia rolls her own eyes and Angel clears his throat, tries to redirect back to the matter at hand.
"I can get used to it," he says. "The having sex again thing, I mean. I think I just needed time to get used it. But— it can't be that bad. It's just sex."
"Keep talking like that and you'll buy yourself some time," says Cordelia, getting out the eggs and pulling a face when she tries them. "We'll go slow, okay? No more running to hide in Connor's room. We can figure it out together, by talking."
"Okay," agrees Angel, sheepishly. "Yeah, okay."
"Great!" chirps Cordelia. "Also, we need to hire a chef. We'll never get off the ground if this is what you're serving up to guests."
He does the numbers, carries the one.
"Copy that," Angel says, resigned to it. Maybe Lorne can get him a good deal.
The next time it comes up, Cordelia's got a two-year old babbling into her shoulder as she cruises through the grocery store, bouncing Connor on her hip. Angel, who has been waiting patiently through ten minutes of silence as she tries to figure out how to put it, steers them down the cereal aisle. "I mean," she says finally, sounding for all the world like she's picking up a conversation thread, "you slept with Darla."
"I did."
"The world didn't end then. You might even say we got a good deal out of it."
"You might," agrees Angel, and pokes at Connor's tiny little socked foot. Connor wriggles and giggles and kicks, better at all three actions than any other toddler ever has been. His pudgy hand wraps around Cordy's necklace and tugs on it.
"And that was Darla," she says, laying her hand over Connor's and trying to swap the necklace with her thumb. "Not with that, honey. I mean, you probably had this weird, freaky sire thing going on, right?"
"Right," says Angel, uncomfortably.
Cordy hefts Connor higher on her hip, bouncing him this way and that and making the bobble on his knitted red hat bounce too. Connor abandons her necklace in favour of doing his best to reach the cereal boxes, and his hands make tiny, adorable grabbing motions at the shelves. God, Angel's kid is the best.
"Da, no," says Connor, proving his wisdom (sentences! At two!). "More see-al."
"Yeah, I hear ya, buddy," says Angel, noting the three-dollar price tag and promptly breezing the cart right by it. "You can have the porridge, okay?"
"Da, no."
"Listen to your daddy," says Cordelia. "He wants your teeth to be big and strong." To Angel, she adds, "What if you just pulled out?"
"What if I… what?"
"Yeah," says Cordelia, "I mean, if it's the whole moment of happiness thing that's the problem, then why don't we just skip it? Who's to say it wouldn't do for a bit of soul-control alongside the birth-control?"
Angel opens and closes his mouth. "I don't think that's how it works," he says, hoping Connor's beanie is effectively muffling his ears. Cordelia shrugs, unphased.
"I'm just saying, I'm not birthing an apocalypse baby. You want me to die in childbirth? No way, Mister!"
"You don't want kids?"
She gives him a look like he's stupid.
"I've already got one, doofus," she says, and noses at Connor. "Yes I do! Yes I do—"
Angel stares at them, so much love and affection and gratitude in his chest, and if this doesn't do it, he really thinks he might be alright, blue bottle be damned. The fear in his head is finally, ultimately put to the test, and as he stands there in the grocery store, his son and his best friend alive and happy and healthy, he realises he's never going to hit perfect happiness again. The fear of losing it will always be there to ruin it, and so long as it is, all of it is safe.
Hell, if that ain't a paradox.
"I love you," says Angel, all in a rush, words forgetting to tie their shoelaces in their haste to get out. "Cordelia, I love you."
"I love you," she says, easy as anything. He doesn't kiss her, because if he kisses her in this 24-hour grocery store he'll forget about the shopping completely, so instead he just stands in paralysed awe and wonders who messed up on the cosmic justice scale. "Yes I do. Do you know that? Do you know Aunt Cordy loves your daddy?"
"Da," says Connor, and Cordy shakes him side-to-side.
"That's right!" she says. "Cordy loves Connor. Cordy loves daddy. Can you say that? Can you say Cordy love Da?"
"Cor-da," says Connor. His big, bright eyes find Angel's, a big bead of drool hanging down over his lip that Angel wipes away with his thumb, his cheeks pink and rosy under his red hat. "Cor-da?"
"That's right, champ," says Angel, very quietly. He takes his tiny hand and holds it, kisses Connor's pudgy fingers. "Geez, I love you."
"Cor-da," says Connor. Angel loops back and buys the cereal.
"I need to talk to you," says Angel as he brings down his sword, and Gunn hits the Polgara's other arm simultaneously, so that both are cleaved from their joints.
"Sure, man," he says, over the demon's wail. "Whatever you need. What's up?"
'It's Cordy." He ducks an attempted headbutt, stepping aside at the last second. Gunn brings the handle of his axe down on the Polgara's neck, knocking it down and leaving its back wide open, through which Angel drives his sword. Gunn takes advantage of the movement to swing his axe over Angel's head, burying it in the skull of the other. Angel's glad he ducked.
"What about Cordy?" asks Gunn, offering his hand. Angel takes it, getting to his feet and pulling the sword out of the corpse with a squelch. It's not a species that disintegrates, so Angel's favourite sword comes out all gooey.
"We're thinking about having sex."
"For real? It's about time."
"Yeah, well, it's not as simple as it sounds."
Gunn crosses over to the demon, hefting his axe. It brings the head with it when he tries to wrench it clear, a disgusting wet ripping noise accompanying the action. "Oh, man, that is nasty. Come here a sec."
Angel goes. Gunn motions for him to put his foot on the head, and Angel looks sceptically down at it. "Don't hit me with that."
"Yeah, okay. Wouldn't want to make you even more of a eunuch."
"I'm not a eunuch. Why does everyone always fixate on that?"
"Beats me." The axe comes free, now tricked out with a side-helping of brains. "But not for much longer, right?"
"Well, that's the thing." They start to head back towards the sewer's entrance; Gunn hops up onto the ledge with a skip. "See, me and Cordy, it comes with this big flashing warning light of the 'end the world' variety."
"That does not sound good."
"It definitely does not."
"Hm." Gunn shoots him a sidelong look. "Would I be right in guessing that this is the friction we've all been sensing?"
"There's no friction."
"Which is friction in and of itself."
Angel huffs. "It's not like that. It's just—"
He comes to a stop and so does Gunn, apparently sensing that this isn't a walk-and-talk kind of deal. He squares his shoulders.
"It's not gonna be a problem because it's not gonna come to that," he says, looking him in the eye. "You hear me? You get even a whiff that I'm not right, I need you to kill me. And I'll be expecting it, so don't hesitate."
"Angel, dude. This is not the kind of before-date talk a man wants to have."
"But it's the one we have to have," he says. "It's— look, I need you to promise me you'll protect her. Protect everyone. You're the only one who can. And, anyway— we've always known, right? It's got to be you."
Gunn looks at him for a long time, glimmers of light dancing over his cheek and jaw. "Okay," he says, and holds out his hand. Angel takes it. "But Angel, if this is a risk—"
"It's not a risk. I'm just covering all bases."
"It sounds like a risk."
"It's not. I've got it down. But just, you know, in case… I just need to know that you'll do what needs doing. First sign of trouble."
"I will," he swears. "Yeah, man, I got you. I see any jumping and heel-clicking, I'll put a stake right through you."
"Good," says Angel. Then, after a minute; "I mean, maybe a little heel-clicking."
"My man," says Gunn, and goes in for his and Wesley's handshake, which Angel keeps up with only from a vigorous, jealousy-induced study of the movements. "That's what I'm talking about."
Angel smiles despite himself, and they start walking again. Gunn lets out a low-whistle.
"So, Cordelia."
"Don't remind me."
He snickers. "Hey, I'm just saying. I better be hearing all good things the day after, or I might be putting that stake to use a little early. That's my girl you're messing with."
"Thanks," grumbles Angel. "That's really helpful."
Gunn grins. "Wes give you the shovel-talk already?"
"Right at the start. You'd think I had a bad track record."
"Yeah," says Gunn. "Say, how'd last time work out for you?"
"I destroyed the lives of everyone I cared about and got sent to Hell," says Angel. "I don't think it gets worse than that."
Gunn claps him on the back. "Optimism!" he says. "That's the stuff."
"Okay, okay, I changed my mind," blurts Angel, slamming out a hand to hit the light. He scrambles up the bed and away from Cordelia's wandering mouth, pulling the bedsheets protectively around him. "You were right, we've got a good thing going, why change it? Do you want me to go down on you? Hey, look, the game's on!"
Cordelia pokes her head out from under the covers, lipstick smudged at the corners. "What—"
"You know, I bet Connor's getting hungry," Angel says, trying to bundle the covers in his lap and slide out from the bed simultaneously. He gets tangled in the sheets. "I should—"
"Oh my god," says Cordelia, "What are you, five? Say what you mean!"
Angel looks at her, helpless, and her bravado falls off her face like a lead balloon. Geez, but Angel's an idiot. She can talk a big game, but he should've known better than to let them dance around this like it wasn't as massive as it was. This— her face, the stuttering of her heart— this is not what he wanted.
"I can't do this," says Angel. "I just— can't."
There's a moment of silence, and then Cordelia bursts into tears.
"Oh, god," says Angel, terrified. "Cordy? Honey? Hey, it's okay, you're okay. I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
He reaches out to her, and Cordelia looks up and says: "Thank god."
She's not crying; her shoulders keep shaking even as she covers her eyes with her hands, but her face isn't twisted up like it should be, and he can see all the teeth in her smile. "I'm sorry, I can't, I just can't do it," she says, shaking her head. "I thought I could but I— oh, Angel—"
"I'm so scared," says Cordelia, laughing. "Oh, come here—"
She climbs up into his lap, which given everything is maybe a bad idea, and wraps her arms around him. Angel sways a little from confusion, feeling kind of like he's just spent an hour dangling upside-down only to be suddenly righted, but he hugs her back instinctually, because it's Cordy. Why wouldn't he?
"Cordy?" he says. "Um, the hug is really nice, and all, but—"
She pulls away, puts her hands on his face and tilts him up to her. He's still a couple of steps behind but it comes to him, suddenly, in fits and bursts so sudden it's like he should've known them all along. He's been trying to give her something, to prove that even if he couldn't give her the sunlight they could still have a damn good time in the dark, but he never needed to. What's the good of giving sunlight to the sun?
"I do not wanna have sex," Cordelia declares, and Angel blinks.
"Oh," he says. "Uh. Good?"
She laughs again, kisses him with a smack. "God, we are stupid," she says. "You're not gonna go bad, I know you're not gonna go bad, but god, what if you do?"
"Exactly!" says Angel, loudly. "That's what I said! But I thought you wanted—"
"I thought you wanted!" says Cordelia. "Jesus, Angel, I don't wanna end the world! And I know there's your weird prostitute potion and I know natural disasters get you hot, but I do not want to sleep with you this badly! And I am not gonna feel bad about it, so just. There."
He opens and closes his mouth.
"You don't want to sleep with me," he repeats. She shakes her head. "You're not just saying this 'cause you feel bad about—"
"Angel," says Cordelia firmly. "I really truly absolutely could not mean anything more."
"Huh." He blinks again. "Did I— I mean, is it me?"
"Of course it's you!" she says. "I don't want to kill you—"
She breaks off, and Angel tightens his hands in the fabric of her lingerie-dress thing. He does know what it's called, he thinks, it's just that she's always wearing it when he asks and so the answer's never gone in. It's flimsy and fragile in his hands.
"Cordelia," he says, and reaches for her face, forcing his fists to unclench. She ducks her gaze and shifts her weight, trying to avoid it, and that's how Angel knows he's fucked up. "Did you feel like this the whole time?"
Cordelia purses her lips. "I mean, I was never gung-ho about it," she says, and Angel, who is well-versed in Cordelia half-truths from the time she spent a year not telling him she was dying, feels sick.
"You should've told me. Cordelia, this is the kind of thing you're meant to tell me—"
She scoffs. "Please. I'm life-partner Cordy, remember? I take care of you. I like— looking after you.
She flushes slightly, and her embarrassment at the sentiment is as astounding as always, like she thinks it might not be welcome. Cordelia's made him a lot of promises, over the years, always tied her mission to his, and he knows he can take it for granted, sometimes, that she's professed to be with him till the end, but sometimes— now— he feels it everywhere, and the gratitude nearly bowls him over.
"Yeah," he says, thumbing at her cheek. "I get that."
She smiles ruefully. "Ok, Mr. Reverse Psychology. This is totally different. You take care of everyone."
"So do you," he says, and she scoffs. "Cordy— Cordelia. Come on. You're the heart of this place, you know you are. You keep us together. I couldn't do this without you."
She glances at him. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm—" He frowns, looking at their hands, and thinks about what he knows about her. Her family, her fall from grace, moving to L.A. to become an actress because what else might give an attractive woman with no college degree financial security? "I'm just the guy who beats people up. You're the mission, the compass. Jesus, you're the reason the lights come on half the time. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know," she says. "Vamp Boy and Vision Girl."
She sighs, holds his hand to her face and kisses his palm. Has anyone ever kissed there before? He doesn't think so. She scrunches up her nose.
"You ever think this is crazy?" Cordelia asks, and he knows what she means. The certainty that is Cordelia is hard to parse, after one hundred and fifty years of Darla and the firework explosion that was Buffy. Angel's not the type to believe in soulmates, not in the destiny-sense, but he thinks he'd do a hell of a lot, to stay walking side-by-side with Cordy.
"All the time," he says quietly, and it is. She slips off his lap and onto the covers beside him, interlocking their fingers together.
"You don't care, right? About the sex."
"Do you?"
"If you ask me that again I'm going to stake you."
She settles down against his shoulder, pulling the duvet out of his lap until it covers her as well. Her bare ankle touches his.
"I wasn't kidding about going down on you," he offers, and Cordelia smiles.
"Such a gentleman."
He pulls her wrist to his mouth and kisses it. She laughs.
"Angel."
"Cordelia."
"Angel—"
She rolls them over, and Angel's back hits the sheets. She holds out her pinkie finger.
"No sex," she says, and Angel links his own with hers.
"No sex," he repeats, and pulls her down to meet his mouth.
True to his word, Angel didn't say a single thing about Cordelia deserving to have a life outside of Angel Investigations, and nor did he suggest that there were better ways she could be spending her time. He might have said something to that effect in relation to Fred, but he thinks it was a sufficient loophole.
"You're not subtle," said Cordelia flatly, "but since I happen to agree with you, I'll ignore it just this once."
"Thanks, Cor," said Angel, and waved when her and Fred took off early to go and get themselves some food. And, of course, it being L.A., they've only been gone an hour before he gets a page saying he needs to get downtown stat.
God, Angel is going to be sick. He's going to hit someone with his car. If something's happened to her, if she's anything but alive and well and complaining about stains on her dress, if something's happened to Fred—
"Good god, man," says Wesley, pressed into Angel's side from how quickly Angel's taking the corner. "Have a care, would you?"
He throws the Plymouth into park and vaults over the door, swearing when he catches his foot and nearly gets to third-base with the concrete, but who cares, it's Cordelia and Fred and the dusty, goopy remains of their fight, the two of them battered and beaten in the middle.
But— she's fine. She's okay. Angel doesn't have to kill anyone.
"Oh, thank god," says Cordelia, and throws herself at him. He wraps his free arm around her waist and twists her as far away from the danger as he can in those two seconds, presses his face against her temple. Her hair's silky and smooth under his skin, undamaged, and that's good. Cordelia has a lot to say about the effect of demon blood on newly bleached hair, and Angel can attest to it thanks to the week he spent with frosted tips in 2001 (he and Doyle got drunk).
Now, Angel kisses her temple and hefts the sword in his hand, ready to start swinging. "You good?"
"Better now," gripes Cordy, wrapping her arm around his waist as she steps to the side. You wouldn't know it to look at her, but her heartbeat's still beating out a samba inside her chest, her breathing's still coming a little fast. There's a red mark on her cheek and Angel seriously contemplates reviving whoever made it just so he can kill them again. "We got them, but god, what's with this town? You try to go out to dinner one time."
"Well, it is L.A."
"City of Lame Ass," mutters Cordy, looking evilly at the restaurant. "Hey, do you think your axe could take down the building?"
"Cordelia, don't be ridiculous," says Wesley. "A building of this size can't be destroyed by simple weapons. We'd much better blow it up."
"Oooh!" says Cordelia, and turns to Angel. "I like that idea. Whadda ya think, an anniversary gift?"
He looks the building up and down. "I could probably do that."
Fred giggles from her place beside Gunn, having tucked herself up under his arm as soon as they got there. "Y'all are so sweet."
Cordelia smacks a kiss to his cheek, lets go of his arm. "Dynamite in the car?"
"You betcha," says Gunn, and together they skip off to gather the explosives. Angel turns to Wesley to find him already looking his way, ready as always to offer a commiserative ear.
"What the hell am I doing?" asks Angel, and Wesley claps him on the shoulder.
"I think you might be in love," he offers, and then: "Want to try the weapons anyway?"
Angel nods; cleaving a table in half's bound to make him feel better. He and Wesley have a decent crack at it, and then Cordelia and Gunn come back with the dynamite and send the whole place up in flames, which is probably for the best. Even if someone did want to fix up the ruined restaurant, that amount of goo's got to be a health and safety hazard.
He puts Cordelia in the car and has to fight around her no really I'm fine hands, even though she's rifling through the glove-box for her old migraine medication. "It's a bruise, Angel, geez."
"I'm taking you home," he says, as she struggles with the cap. "Gunn, can you drive Fred and Wes?"
"Can do," says Gunn. Wesley squeezes Cordelia's hand and Angel pretends not to see the opened pill bottle sliding into Cordelia's palm when he does. He's not that much of a mother hen. "Come on, English. Let's roll."
Cordelia downs two of the pills. Angel gets in the driver's seat. "How badly are you hurt?"
"I'm fine."
"Cordelia."
"I'm fine," she says again, but less combative. She leans back in her set and winces when she does. "Really. I've been thrown into walls before, it's no biggie."
"Jesus," says Angel. "Is your breathing okay?"
"You are such a mother hen," she says. "Yes, my breathing is okay. Will you just take me home and get me naked, already?"
Angel's brain stalls at the same time as the car.
"For a bath," clarifies Cordelia. Angel swallows and checks his mirrors, restarts the car.
"You did that on purpose."
"As if. I'm a beautiful woman, Angel. No one would blame you for being unable to get your mind out of the gutter."
"You're the one who brought up nudity," he grumbles. "If anyone's in the gutter, it's you."
"What are you, fifteen? Do I have to worry about competing with the Santa Ana winds, now, too?"
"Yeah, alright," says Angel. Cordelia grins.
"Score five hundred and fifty-two to Cordy," she says. He pulls out onto the road, watches Cordelia settle against the passenger side, suddenly tired. "I love you," she says, quietly.
"Yeah, me too."
She hums. "We should open the hotel."
"Okay."
"Maybe get a dog."
"Alright."
"We could help a lot of people."
"Yeah." He takes her hand, she squeezes his palm. Her voice is far-away.
"Keep following the mission."
"Okay," says Angel. In his head, Darla says: you know you love a missionary. Her hand curls around his arm, her voice is breathy in his ear. Do not be afraid of God, she whispers, drunk and heady. Be afraid of us.
Stop being weird, thinks Angel, and puts them on the path to Silver Lake.
Cordelia crosses the threshold of her apartment and dumps her coat immediately on the floor, groaning. A hastily made G presses itself into her hand, and she downs it while Angel picks up the coat.
"Urgh," says Cordelia, with feeling. "Thank you, Dennis."
"Can you drink on those meds?"
"Don't know, don't care." She kicks off her shoes and Dennis settles her robe carefully over her shoulders. "Oh, you are the best ghost a girl could ask for."
"I coulda done that," mutters Angel. She doesn't hear him.
"Bath," says Cordelia. "Bath, and sleep, and business plans in the morning."
He hangs the coat up and follows her into the bathroom, picking up her shoes on the way. He also picks up an old pizza box from the couch, because, come on. That thing's real leather. Cordelia cracks her neck side to side and yawns.
Inside the bathroom, everything is tiny and blue and cold. On the mirror is a vampire smiley face drawn in marker, because Angel once told her that his lack of reflection weirds him out now and then. That must have been years ago. He smiles every time he sees it, so at least it's accurate.
The taps for the bath turn on by themselves, and then Dennis hands Cordelia the bubble-bath. Does it count as handing it to her if Angel can't see the hand? Maybe he should say that the bubble-bath floats over to her. Then again, that doesn't seem right either. Either way the pipes squeak, but the water comes quick and clear and Angel hangs up his own shirt on one of the hooks. Cordelia thunks her head against his chest.
"Okay," he says, laughing. "I gotchas, sweetheart."
He holds her there a moment, smiling down at her, and kisses her head when it comes time to move again. She straightens up and hisses when she reaches for her zipper.
"Okay," she says, with a grimace. "Maybe I oversold on the whole being fine thing."
He turns her around. "You think?"
He unhooks the little clasp for her and she groans, tilting her head back and flexing her feet on the floor. "I hate L.A.," she says as he unzips the dress, pressing a kiss to the top of her spine as he does. The tap for the bubble bath turns itself off, which Angel feels a little weird about.
"Are you sure we can't send him outside?"
"He's not a dog," says Cordelia, as a loofah hits Angel in the eye. "But yeah, Dennis, give us some privacy, would you? I promise I'm in safe hands."
She leans back against him and Angel wraps his arms around her, kissing the side of her jaw. She hums again, eyes sliding closed, and Angel pushes the straps of her dress down and over her shoulders once the Dennis-presence has gone. She flinches when his hands brush her sides.
"I'm fine," she says, softly. "Don't fuss."
"You're a hypocrite," says Angel, and she twists in his arms to lean her forehead against his collarbone, arms looping and fingers settling in his belt-loops. "Jesus, Cor."
He lays a hand carefully on her shoulder blades, safely away from the damage. Times like this he hates that he ever taught her how to fight, but if she hadn't she might be dead, so. It's all relative. "Let's get you in the bath, come on."
He helps her into the bubbles, the heat from the water turning her skin pink and rosy. She settles down and loops her soapy fingers through his own, and the tile in the bathroom is cold and hard and awkward to sit on, but Angel does.
"You know, Dennis is a whizz with the loofah," she says sleepily.
"I'll keep that in mind. You want me to wash your hair?"
"Not right now. Too tired. Will you read me my book?"
It's sitting on the sink, underneath the glass that holds Cordelia's toothbrush and toothpaste. There's a grimy, crusty yellow ring on the cover when Angel lifts it down, and he smiles at it. That's Cordy.
"Cor."
'Yeah?"
"This is the owner's manual for your car."
She turns her head, opens one eye. "Oh. I wondered where that went." Sinking further down into the water, she adds: "Read it anyway?"
"Alright." He shifts to settle against the bath more comfortably, and props the book on his knee so he can read it with only one hand. One of the pages is dog-eared, so he starts there. "Auto Select. To activate Auto Select, press the button. will flash in the display, and the system will go into scan mode for several seconds."
"Yeah," mumbles Cordy, contentedly. "Just like that."
On Tuesday evening he finds Cordelia on the rooftop, her red sweater pulled down over her palms. She comes up here, sometimes, and sometimes when she wants to give Angel a heart attack, she'll float herself up so she can see all around, and Angel'll watch her while whispering to Connor that floating is a very bad idea and he should never attempt to try it himself. Tonight she's sitting on top of the air vent, kicking her heels lightly against the metal.
"Hey," says Angel, propping the door open with an old brick. She might have magic telekinesis powers, but he doesn't. "Whatcha doing?"
"I was thinking."
"Should I be worried?"
"No," says Cordelia, around a smile. He crosses over to her, hands in his pockets, and climbs up onto the vent beside her so they can look at the skyline. Their shoulders knock together as he gets settled. Wistfully, she says: "I was thinking about the sex."
"Ah," says Angel.
"Ahhhh," mimics Cordelia. Angel pokes at her thigh, then the other. "What? What is it?"
"I was just checking when you got the peg-leg, Cap'n."
She blinks at him. "That is so lame," she says, after a minute. "Seriously, didn't you pick up any good jokes in the last two hundred years?"
"I picked up you," he says, and she rolls her eyes. "I mean it! You're funny enough for the both of us."
"Oh, ha ha," she says, but she's smiling. He grins and kisses her temple, links their fingers when she takes hold of his hand. "You are so lucky I love you."
"I know. But I came up 'cause the guys want to know what you want for dinner. I said I'd cook, but pretty much all we've got is peanut butter. We've gotta hit the store tomorrow."
Cordelia hums. "The exciting life of crime fighters," she says. "The grocery run."
"It's not so bad."
"I guess not," she says. He kisses her hand, then lets go to jump back down onto the roof. He turns back to help her down and she smiles at him, lipstick dark and shiny and the tiniest flash of white showing through her parted lips. One of these days he'll have to bring up his sketchbook.
"So, dinner?"
"Angel." It's a full sentence. "We're gonna have to talk about it."
"We don't have to," he says, quietly. "It didn't work out. It's not a big deal."
"It is a big deal. You went to a whole-ass brothel about it, I can tell when something's a big deal. And, look, I know you, you big dummy. I know you've got all that stuff in your head about what I do and don't deserve and blah, blah, blah, but I need you to know that I don't care. I don't care if we have sex, I don't care if we never have sex, I want you in my life and it doesn't matter to me how that looks. But I—"
She stops, takes a breath, and Angel is in awe. "But I think it would be good for you to know," she says. "That you can do it and things won't go bad. And I think it would be good for me to know that, too. Otherwise it's just gonna keep hanging around us like a— hanging thing."
Something twists in Angel's stomach again, nerves or terror or maybe indigestion. He swallows. "Okay," he says. "But, uh. Not right now, though, right?"
"Oh, god no," says Cordelia, "I'm thinking three years from now at least. I wanna make sure we get Connor to Kindergarten."
Angel relaxes, his breath coming out in a sigh. "Okay," he says, "Cool. And you don't mind?"
She shakes her head.
"Cool," he says again, and offers her his hand. She slides her own into his and jumps down from the ledge, spinning into his arms and swaying slightly on the spot. Angel grins at her. "I mean, hey, it's not even that weird. All the books say new parents never get any."
"There's my guy," says Cordy, beaming, and kisses him. She tightens her arms around his waist and something old and anxious in Angel unwinds and learns to settle. He can do this, he thinks. He can be Cordelia's guy.
"I love you," says Angel. "You know that, right?"
"Gee, really? I love you too."
"Sweet," he says, and she laughs. She loosens her grip and settles into his side, and together they start the walk back towards the stairs, fingers interlocked. "So, if you don't want to have sex…"
"Oh, do you know what I do want? Japanese. Gunn and I went to this great place in Little Tokyo, I think even you'd like it, and they have high-chairs we could borrow for Connor. We could grab the guys and head out."
"Sounds perfect," says Angel, as they slip inside. "With the caveat that nothing is ever perfect and I'll therefore be remaining not-evil throughout the evening."
"Oooh, baby," says Cordelia. "Keep talking like that and I'll bring the years-long wait down to two."
"You got it, sweetheart. We're pretty good at this being in love thing, huh?"
"You know it," says Cordy, and together they descend hand-in-hand into the hotel.