InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Don't tase me bro!"

cordelia ۶ that vision thing (thatvisionthing) wrote in dust_till_dawn,
@ 2009-04-29 14:57:00

who. cordelia and angel
what. cordelia faces one of her biggest fears. rather - she gets angel to face it for her.
when. a night or two after the buffy/angel thread.
where. angel's apartment.
locked to. broody mcbroodster ( aka angel )
rating. pg-13
status. complete

Angel really should have been more careful about who he gave his credit card to. Granted, Cordelia was his best friend. Unfortunately, she was his best friend who had a slight addiction to clothes. Even if Cleveland wasn't the epitome of a shopper's paradise, it had a Macy's. That was all a girl could ask for. And really, Cordelia had only planned on picking up a few necessities. Those few things had turned into three bags brimming with brand new clothes. Hey, at least they had all been on the sale racks. Over the years, the Seer had learned to shop thriftily, since Angel had all but paid his employees with the bare minimum. Which had always brought up the question; how did Angel get the money to pay them at all? Somehow, Cordelia doubted that Angel had spent any time working some nine-to-five job. As she opened the front door of Angel's apartment, she made a mental note to ask him how many banks he'd robbed later on. For now, her main focus was getting the clothes to her room before Angel noticed that her "few" things had turned into a $500 dollar charge to his credit card. From the looks of it, he was in his room. Nothing new there. If Angel wasn't patrolling, he was in his room, or sitting in front of the fireplace that was really unnecessary given the rising temperatures outside.

Somehow managing to balance all of the bags, Cordelia slid the door shut as quietly as possible, before making a mad half-dash-half-tiptoe to her room. Once there, she quickly shoved the clothes under the bed like some teenager might shove their stash of porn, scared that their parents might see. Fifteen minutes later, she had changed into an over-sized shirt and was sitting in the center of the bed, painting her toenails a dark shade of plum. For all of a few minutes, she was able to forget about everything that had happened over the last couple of months. Things had been looking up for Cordelia for once. She was dating someone who seemed to be a genuinely good person ( if there was such a creature ), she was no longer in that shithole of a motel, and she had her best friend back. When she felt the corners of her lips twitch like they might smile, something akin to guilt slammed into her gut. How could she be happy when everyone else was so miserable? Yeah, things were looking good for her but what about Angel? What about Wesley? She hadn't spoken to Wesley in over a month, and after their last meeting, it was no wonder. Cordelia had seen Wesley angry. She'd seen him hurt and bitter, but never had she seen him like that. The man she had seen might have sounded like Wesley and wore his face, but he wasn't the Wesley that Cordelia had known for so long.

Smiling now seemed like some sort of betrayal. Suddenly, she was furious at herself for being happy when no one else felt the same.

Sighing, Cordelia focused once more on the small brush in her fingers. The rhythmic back and forth motion it made over the nails served as a distraction. Some song that Cordelia had heard a few times before played faintly through the radio she had set up next to the bed. In the room next to her, she heard a slight movement. It was nothing more than a creak of old floorboards, but it let Cordelia know that Angel was there. She wanted - needed - to talk to him. Ever since he'd gotten back the night before, he'd been nearly unapproachable. When he had gotten in the previous night, Cordelia had been sitting on the couch, trying to read one of the novels that Angel always seemed to have around. From the moment that he stepped in the door, slamming it behind him hard enough to shake the walls, she'd known that it was something with her. Buffy Summers, ever the mood-killer. Not that Angel had much of a mood to kill recently. Still, it had been nearly an entire day since she'd spoken to Angel, and for the two best friends, that was too long. She decided that as soon as she finished painting her toenails, she would march into his room and demand to talk to him. Or, you know - ask politely. It would all depend on the look she got when she first walked in.

When she saw a dark blur of movement out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia's head whipped to the side. That's when she saw it. It wasn't just a spider. It was a huge spider, and it was staring straight at her a mere four feet away. Going on sheer instinct, she tossed the bottle of nail polish at it. Of course, it landed on the wall just behind it, leaving an erratic arc of purple against the off-white wall. Angel would be so pleased. Right now, she had bigger problems. Speaking of which, that problem was moving towards her, its legs making a mad dash toward the bed. That's when Cordelia leapt to her feet, hoping that the bed she was standing on would serve as a barrier between her and the spider. As it got closer, Cordelia began to scream. It was an awful, blood-curdling scream and only got louder the closer that it got.

"Angel! Angel, help!"

Cordelia could face demons without breaking a sweat, but she panicked at the sight of a spider. Go figure.

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faceofanangel
2009-04-29 11:11 pm UTC (link)

By the time he'd returned to his apartment his throat burned, his lips were dry - his heart was a judas stung hum in his chest - too fast to be simply un-beating. Rain dripped down his jacket, pooling around his boots - wet and street-stained. The air was ripe with an accusation he dared not address, hearkening to his guilt.

The flat welcomed him back to its tomb of empty rooms as it usually did - drapes drawn tight against windows like hooded eyelids, a musty dankness that was all his own. The objects d'art like effigies (dusty, unsmiling); his welcome a wake.

Cordelia never really said if having the rooms dark and shuttered down affected her. She took the place of the sun he never saw, her skin reflecting the mood of the season, the color of clear honey and the smell of warm flowers. Time with the seer was piecemeal, pleasurable but fragmentary. An afternoon here, rushing through the sewers, several nights there, sometimes a weekday night spent dusting the city's undead populace. Angel found it easy to come and go, particularly since that seemed to match her own rhythm.

The recent months of madness were at last winding down; there was calm instead of chaos, and everyone was just healing, adapting or making out the best they could. Evil was finally backing off and Angel sometimes wished they were - once again - one big, quite likely unhinged, family. He needed to see Wes. Truths and lies - he was ready to take on both; to face Wesley with the truth of what he knew, and to (please god) lie convincingly enough that this would be easy, that they could just get it over with and then both of them could be on the same side again, could work together on some way to put an end to this terrible situation.

Angel momentarily paused with his book when he heard Cordelia's return, flipping back and forth until he found the most recent pages. In the margins, pushed between cross-outs and erasures: That's where he lived. Afterthought, substitute, just small enough to fit between drafts of the twist of Darla's long neck, the lift of Buffy's smile. Decorating the periphery, the borders between indistinct memories. He wondered again what love kept him here, if it was fear or faith that rooted him so. The ancient weave of the carpet beneath his feet held him fast, its crimson art a shackling beauty. Angel finally fumbled with his book, set it aside with the pages bent, shifting to grab up the shirt held aloft on the back of a chair.

The material hugged the contours of his broad shoulders. Its synthetic content adjusted itself to his torso with every slight movement. He left the cuffs undone and they draped away as he reached to slip each front button methodically into its slot. Trying to utilize the routine of the simple act to relax, the cool texture of the shirt only seemed to magnify his increasing discomfort, how tense he felt. It wasn't until he set the novel down on the bureau that he was witness to the once significant piece of jewelry.

When he'd returned to the realm of the living the first time - and really, spending ageless decades in hell never got any easier - he'd found Buffy's claddagh lying on mansion stone. He'd kept it - a silver-banded hope, a momento maybe.

It came to him, then, frozen: soft blonde hair tumbled into Angel's eyes. His fingers explored its silken texture; his mouth consumed its scent. This was nothing new, but the quality of this surcease was funereal, almost surreal, the brimstone reckoning nearly enough to choke him. In the interregnum there was little love lost to share, less the afterglow. He withdrew from their curious coition with a gathering distaste. And he'd been honest with Buffy - but not really - when he told her that their time had passed. A parting shot from a tiresome mind. She hadn't seen him slip the knife in but she had felt it. His satisfaction was (distressingly, if he cared) indistinct.

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faceofanangel
2009-04-29 11:11 pm UTC (link)

Angel silently cursed the fates, aware of the worthlessness of the gesture but unable to stop himself when he rolled the ring betwixt two fingers and then dropped it, unceremoniously, in the trash without thinking. The pain he felt in leaving Buffy had been freely and deliberately chosen. The anticipated pain of loving her only to lose her was unimaginable - and he wouldn't go through that again. Refused. They would never - could never - be friends, and the next option on the list was to cut her out of his un-life altogether.

It had become instinctual to accept certain circumstances - almost to the point of stop-noticing them. It wasn't that they couldn't be together, really - happiness wasn't on the horizon. Not with Buffy, anyway. Not when he knew the consequences. It was that he didn't want to wade knee-deep through their sordid soap opera yet again. And maybe part of it was his blind anger at her life-altering, soul-sacrificing decision.

He ruthlessly quashed the surge of conflicting feelings that resulted from calling Buffy to mind, reminding himself again that all he had to do was wait - sooner or later he would get over his disappointment and rekindle the contended state of being he'd found in Los Angeles; he was sure of it. Angel could be patient, after all, and he could easily distract himself with the miscellany of creating a new life. So he banished the thought, walked toward the door instead. Maneuvered around books and half-finished drawings; refused to pick them up, wouldn't sink into domesticity.

For the first time in what felt like forever something surfaced in him, something made its way through all those dense layers of resignation and relinquishment and cold blind apathy. With the absence of his own footsteps the muffled reverberations died away, leaving an oppressive silence. He began to suspect that what he'd thought he heard was just his mind playing tricks, another dead voice come to haunt him, when the sound came again - a startling wail, pleading.

Before he even knew what we was doing he'd abandoned the task of buttoning his shirt and burst into Cordy's room like he was about to lose the only lifeline he had left.

At first, Angel simply stared at her, lips parted in surprise, and then in delayed response his entire body stiffened, a movement of muscle under skin that once would have presaged attack. He frowned, but it wasn't particularly censorious. Not until he saw the focal point of her terror. ". .You've got to be kidding me."

His mouth thinned, puzzled. "It's just," he started, squashing the large insect beneath an even larger heel, "a spider, Cordy."

Angel looked stiff. Not rigor mortis stiff but I'm-not-big-in-a-social-context stiff. Looking for a life line. There was darkness there, and danger; ancient defenses honed to perilous sharpness and a vast, unimaginable awareness that mocked what he thought of as time. Yet there was humor and compassion there as well - an earthy, basic humanity that was no less comforting for being well concealed. It was like being safe in the jaws of a monster, like finding a companion in an enemy camp. "Give me a heart attack, will you. Not that I, you know, can have one of those - but you get the picture."

It was the honesty that always broke him, had him glancing away. She understood too much. And he let his focus wander instead to the ceiling. The plaster was chipped, forming awkward helixes where it sagged. He'd need to fix that soon. Or not.

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thatvisionthing
2009-05-01 01:25 pm UTC (link)

By the time that the door to Cordelia's room burst open with a kind of force nearly enough to break the hinges, a pillow was being hugged desperately to her chest, ready to be slammed down in a moment's notice if the curious spider got too close. There'd been times where she would emerge from a fight slick with demon innards, and smelling like she'd been living in the sewers all of her life. She could decapitate monsters like the best of them, but when it came to insects, Cordelia's maturity was reduced to that of a child's. And who could blame her? The legs, the prickly hairs, the - "You've got to be kidding me."

"Don't just stand there! Kill it!" After gesturing emphatically to the spider, she only hugged the pillow even tighter to herself. The more that she could put between her and it - the better. Finally, Angel seemed to realize that killing the spider was the only way to calm her down, and it was vanquished with a wet, crunching sound beneath Angel's heel. Oh, Cordelia definitely wasn't going to be the one that cleaned up that mess. Horrified features shifted like some sort of wave; first, there was relief. Quick lived, the relief gave way to disgust when Angel lifted his shoe, revealing the remnants of the spider.

"Easy for you to say that it's "just a spider," he who has super strength. Did you see the size of that thing?" Something relaxed in Cordelia, and her posture became looser, no longer the tenseness of a woman who thought she was going to be devoured by a killer spider. "For all we know, it could have been eating babies. Tiny, innocent babies, Angel." Dropping the pillow back to its place, Cordelia stepped off of the bed, careful to avoid any of the ... splatter left from the spider. With an apologetic look, she gestured to the ricochet of purple nail polish that had been thrown in her panic. "Sorry about that." But he was already looking away. Angel's dark eyes were fixed to the heavens, like he might be waiting for some kind of all-knowing answer. Really, Cordelia knew he was just looking at the chips in the ceiling so he wouldn't have to look at her.

They really did know each other far too well.

At first, Cordelia was going to let it slide. Let him stay in that misery he held onto so well. That just wasn't the Cordelia Chase way. "Come on," Cordelia all but sighed the words, moving around him to close the door, even if there was no one out there. "Step into my office, big guy." It didn't take a vision to let Cordelia know Angel would protest: all it took was the subtlest twitch of pale, thin lips. That protest was stopped before it could come into existence with a raise of her hand. "Don't even think about it. We need to talk, and if it takes me locking you up in here, then I'll do it." Suddenly, she seemed to soften. Subtle lines around her mouth and eyes made her look every single one of her twenty-eight years. She had been dead for nearly five years, but it seemed that being a higher being hadn't stopped any aging that would have taken place otherwise. Her expression became pleading, more than anything else. "I want to talk to you, Angel. We haven't gotten to do that much recently."

Cordelia hadn't even told Angel about Dean, yet. With his love life going down the figurative drain, she hadn't had the heart to tell him that hers was going pretty damn well, even if he would have been happy for her.

Quirking her lips in one of her trademark smiles, she canted her head to the side. "Besides, everyone needs some quality Cordelia Chase time every now and then, right?"

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thatvisionthing
2009-05-01 01:32 pm UTC (link)

Deciding not to give Angel a chance to protest should he want to, Cordelia quickly turned, and moved back to the bed. It looked typical of any twenty-something fashionista; various magazines full of clothes she could never hope to afford ( even with Angel's credit card ) covered most of the space, and where the glossy pages weren't, too-plush pillow took their place. All it took was one big swipe of her arms to clear a space for both of them to sit. When she sat down, right hand came to reach out and pat the space in front of her.

"Don't make me force you, buddy."

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faceofanangel
2009-05-01 11:16 pm UTC (link)

All at once he could see Cordelia become aware of decorum - a smooth and sudden slide to propriety, now that the real danger was over and the spider was dead. Angel was fine, just fine, dealing and coping and keeping his apprehension and his resignation nicely balanced to form some sort of equilibrium; he was fine right up until the moment that he realized that Cordy wanted to 'talk' with him, until the prospective topic of said conversation winnowed it's way repeatedly into his consciousness. Until he knew there was simply no avoiding it. He suddenly looked carved from ice, the planes of his face elemental and immutable.

He supposed, in retrospect, that he should have expected it, but - well, he hadn't.

Unfortunately, Cordelia seemed to pick up on his need for a quiet escape. There was no new-age inquisition into the state of his feelings, no overt or covert scrutiny as his mouth twitched in sullen protest. Angel let go of the breath he'd been holding, the breath that was supposed to get him out of this. Utter foolishness, to think this preventive measure could sidestep misery. He averted his gaze, turning to lean on the door, closing a hand around the steadying coolness of the knob as it closed. What had he done to deserve this purgatory? Scratch that. He knew all too well the sins he was guilty of, and they were legion.

For an excruciating eternity of seconds, he waited for the seer's voice to release him.

And for a long moment after, Angel couldn't answer for the tangle of his own conflicted impulses, the ache of wanting what Cordelia offered like a sweet draught of liquor that burned going down. "Look, Cordy--" constituted the sum of his expostulation. He supposed he should be proud he managed that much. It was the cue for a snappy comeback of some kind, but he was past repartee, working too hard trying to still himself, trying to keep his feet from taking him from the flat and right off into the night. The buzzing unease assailed him like a swarm of hornets - and it brought memories with it, memories from very far back. Even if five years was only a stone's skip to his eclectically prolonged life.

Angel turned his face blindly, following, for just an instant, and then let his head roll back, the scene drifting away from him. He felt a ridiculous sense of loss, a moment of deep tearing sadness, and to brush it away he said, "Wouldn't you rather get some sleep?"

Something made him want to stop right where he was, stop and pull Cordelia into his arms and treasure the friendship that was still there, that could still exist even though everything else had changed. There were pieces of things inside him, a jigsaw of emotions, thoughts and ideas that had been tossed sky-high only to patter down and reveal an entirely different picture than the one he was used to looking at. In that silent moment of acceptance, Angel realized what his undiminished confidence in their future friendship had been concealing from him. Awareness engendered deeper dismay, an empty-stomach sensation of appalling strength.

As he recognized the signs in himself he sank down onto the magazine scattered comforter, hands in his lap, quietly bemoaning the purple streaks of nail polish on his wall.

It almost annoyed him, stepped on his last band of constraint, flayed his overexposed nerves. But in the end . . he felt at ease. Comfortably numb, even. The perversity of the situation overwhelmed him; he felt as if his feet were slipping on a treacherous path with a sharp drop on either side. Even through the icy detachment the burden of culpability descended; he'd left Buffy on her own in a very vulnerable moment, thinking only of his own suffering as a knot of tension in his chest eased, the fear of loss dispersing into the slighter fear of the unknown. He wondered abruptly how long he'd wanted this, how long this secret had been hibernating within him.

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faceofanangel
2009-05-01 11:16 pm UTC (link)

He had his sadness and his solitude and his blessing of vitality, all living together in a mish-mash jumble of grief and contentment, coexisting from high point to low point without ever really caring where it took him because somehow it would be all right. He would sort it out. He would pick up the threads of his life again, dive back into activity. He would stand and be true and take care of those precious to him.

"Then - what's the problem?"

"That I'm okay. That losing Buffy didn't kill me. That I could deal with it."

In spite of it all, Angel enjoyed what he could, and tried to let the rest of it be irrelevant. He found himself surprised at odd moments that he really was okay - frustrated, yes; and disappointed and occasionally furious - but alive, possessed of his life in a way he thought he might never be again. Emotion knotted in the vampire's stomach, affection and apprehension and grief all tangled up together, and despite himself, in spite (again) of what he knew, his heart lifted with a traitorous spark of hope - as though he had cast aside two hundred years of camouflage, of making himself small, hiding himself in alleys and shadows and a solitary existence.

That particular observation seemed both simpler and more complex than what he'd been expecting, and yes, he had to admit, Cordelia had something there - accepting that idea as truth, as fact, was extremely uncomfortable, but they hadn't spoken so much as two words to each other lately. And they lived together. On the up-side, the part of his mind that was already three steps ahead was pretty excited - he sensed that he'd just found a big root cause of a lot of that pain he had to look forward to, and in his new life that which could be articulated could be conquered.

Declaring a moratorium on that line of thought, Angel drew a sharp, silent breath, the gentle chastisement squeezing like a fist behind his ribs. Almost imperceptibly, he returned her smile, fishing one of the magazines off the floor as if his interest had been piqued. "I used to read Cosmopolitan," he offered, giving the colorfully glossed cover a very bland look. "It was . . homework."

As if sensing the need for an explanation, his lips twitched with the imitation of a smirk. "When a guy like me is dating someone like Buffy, he picks up a little extra reading, all right?"

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tactlessly
2009-05-03 04:54 pm UTC (link)

Sometimes, when Cordelia let herself think back on all that they had lost over the years, it took her a moment to remember why they still fought at all. How easy it would be to just throw in the figurative towel, start over, maybe make a better life for themselves. It was nice to pretend, but the reality of it all was that it could never work. It would be impossible for them to forget the past, because the past made them who they were. Where they went was not nearly as important as where they all had been. She had gotten the chance to start over once. Skip had offered her everything she ever wanted - a glamorous life in the spotlight she had craved so desperately. It had been worth nothing and in the end she had only ended up right back where she had been before.

Illusions of fame and fortune had evaporated completely for the Seer, and that was okay. Cordelia didn't need the spotlight. She needed to know that her time on earth was spent doing good. Helping the helpless and all that jazz.

Angel didn't see himself clearly. He never had. That's where Cordelia stepped in. What he saw of himself was entirely jilted, a bleak watercolor in blacks and whites, rights and wrongs. But Cordelia, she could see the brilliant colors of compassion, loyalty, strength - everything he didn't or couldn't see in himself. Whenever he would forget who he was, she would step in and remind him. It worked both ways for them. They were so busy saving others that they would forget to save themselves, and that was where the other one would jump in.

"Sure, I hate looking and feeling like this, but - if I lose the visions, I wouldn't be able to help you anymore. You wouldn't need me."

"That's not why I need you. You're important. And the visions are just after market extras like Hurst shift or Krager wheels."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Cordelia offered a small, thankful smile when Angel sank down onto her cluttered bed. It had been too long since they had spoken. Really talked, not the occasionally "how are you?" that seemed to be so popular these days.

If there was one thing that she wasn't expecting, it was Angel's confession about Cosmopolitan. In question, a single brow arched. "When a guy like me is dating someone like Buffy, he picks up a little extra reading, all right?" Returning the smirk she had received, the Seer nodded once or twice. "I always said you had a gay man's taste in clothing." Off of his look, Cordelia brought the palm of her hand to her forehead, as if suddenly remembering something. "Wait, what am I saying? That was totally Wes that said that, not me. Not that you don't have good tastes in clothes because you definitely do." Fingers played idly with the material of her comforter as she opted to change the subject. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but Buffy's the reason you stormed through here last night, right?"

Buffy. Buffy Killjoy Summers should have been her name, as far as Cordelia was concerned. The two women had never been fond of the other one. Buffy thought Cordelia was an idiot, and Cordelia thought Buffy was a loser who had a superiority complex. Still, Angel loved Buffy, and Cordelia had learned to keep her opinions about the Slayer (mostly) to herself out of respect for her best friend. More than that, Cordelia had at least earned some respect for Buffy in the last month, given what she had done to save Angel from the pit. As much as Angel loved Buffy, she loved him back, and that Cordelia could understand. Loving Angel was as natural now for Cordelia as breathing.

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tactlessly
2009-05-03 04:55 pm UTC (link)

Sometimes, the two of them made Cordelia thankful she didn't have a soul mate. So far, all it had for Buffy and Angel was leave them devastated.

"What happened last night?" Knowing that bringing up anything having to do with the B-word was a sore subject for Angel, Cordelia interjected. "It's just me, Angel. You know that you can talk about anything."

Angel's pain had always been, and always would be her very own. Completely symbiotic, Cordelia's shoulders would be heavy with whatever weighed on his. She had known from the very start that he hadn't meant for their relationship to become so codependent. Angel probably hadn't meant to love any of his friends, but it had only taken some time for everyone in the Angel Investigations Team to form a family.

For a heart that didn't beat, Angel's was full of more love than he knew what to do with. Cordelia had always been able to see that, even when he didn't.

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faceofanangel
2009-05-11 09:26 pm UTC (link)

One of the worst, if most mundane, things of all in a long miserable un-life was how often you thought the same thought. So often that it might as well have been engraved on calling cards and left at the mental foyer. Angel stayed quiet and still. If he'd learned anything since arriving in Los Angeles (and now Cleveland), it was this: sooner or later, something happens. Usually for the worse, yes, he admitted that, but it was still true. Nothing stayed the same, not for long, never forever.

Another trick of reanimation, that inspiration. Breath, life, soul, all credible illusions. First came a demon in the blood, then the ravaging scorch of that damnable soul, and now, two hundred years after he should have been dust and ash, this. Her.

He'd started to hope. That's what happened.

Memory looked forward as well as backward, anticipated what was to come. Green eyes, shared secrets, longing: Buffy, Wes, Cordy. He wasn't desperate enough to believe that evolution meant anything other than change, that it carried with it overtones of improvement or ascension. It was enough to experience change, accept mutation. Filiation, branches crossing and twining between what was and what would be, was what fascinated him now.

Angel was used to this, of course, which was a large part of how annoying it all was. Guilt over the fact that he now got to feel annoyed by such trivialities slipped sourly in his gut, joined the rest of it that'd been gathering and steaming disparagingly ever since he returned. Another night spent fighting with Buffy, for which he ought to be grateful; even if he was anything but. Out of hell, back on the path, fighting the . . Well, it definitely wasn't for the good of mankind. He'd given up on that. Belief no longer mattered, not nearly as much as keeping on.

Angel blinked, processing this somewhere within himself, behind that stretched death's-head face. His barely there smile was gone, his cheeks slightly hollow as he turned again. Brows drawn over his eyes in whorls like new ferns. "With Buffy and I . . It's either all or nothing," the vampire said brusquely. His eyelids drooped and he meditated as if turning over a question. "I think our relationship here has made that pretty clear."

Remorse was hymnal, hushed but gathering like shadows and grief, always invisible over Angel's cheeks, and he could swear he heard the clanking drag of chains, deep in his skull's whited sepulchre, as the demon withdrew. Left him, yet again, alone and empty. Funny - when he'd first accepted Buffy's presence, he'd been so - so keen for the drama of it, what he saw as his chance for a turn. He'd scrabbled ruthlessly to get as far as he had in life, and for a time, before this, had owned enough sense of who he was - or who he was going to be - to believe he'd been chosen for that reason. Now he felt faceless; an arrow cocked and ready in its bow, but without direction; he needed more than this - this prolonged, voluptuous burning.

It took a moment to sink in: Cordelia actually taking this topic seriously. The gentle coaxing spoken with more feeling than Angel had yet heard from the seer - his seer - and he swallowed down a flutter of resultant nerves. A heartfelt leap of response broke in his chest. Even as his mind told him it was ridiculous to be so easily pleased, his body and soul melted with helpless mirth. God, how long had it been since someone opened up to the truth instead of shutting it out? His pleasure tasted like validation, and he was filled to the brim with a sudden, suffocating wave of disappointment.

"I can't forgive her for throwing away her life, and this - everything. I won't do it again. She has friends, family. She'll find some one else." Without effort, it went through the defenses Angel had been trying to rebuild, undercut every shred of rational caution he'd managed to hold together.

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faceofanangel
2009-05-11 09:26 pm UTC (link)

"Anyway," he gathered himself, ran a hand through his hair, felt like jumping up and yelling his frustration. The puzzle stretched out immeasurably around him, and for the first time he knew just how much he didn't know. "We agreed not to see each other again," Angel was nodding, his voice grating like stone on stone even if it was a slight stretching of the truth. "Ever." It might've been a lie, and a petulant one at that, but it was also something he intended on abiding. Like his pilgrimage to Sri Lanka, he'd already told himself she was dead.

"But that's not why I was mad," he finally confessed. Angel started to frown at that. Just a little stirring around the corners of his mouth, but that, at least, seemed familiar. Vaguely so, remote as the sun, but something. "The good guys don't always win. People who shouldn't die, do. Friends come and go, no matter how much we love them. Sometimes wanting someone with your entire being, loving them, isn't what's best for them." Eminently odd, anyway, that he felt affronted by this out of everything. Alien familiarity came back to Angel then, the coda that always occurred, that he always managed to forget.

"I spent roughly a hundred years bemoaning the unfairness of my existence. I'm done with it. I'm done with the Powers, with Buffy and her coalition of slayers. And you know what? I feel okay." And he did, despite himself. There was less stress involved in helping only who he wanted, when he wanted. Everything was plainer here, sky over city, vamps in the night, hollowed faces, the absence of a slayer. Usually, that meant the pain was plainer, too. Angel nearly felt like himself again - there was no longer any cellophane enfolding him, and his thoughts didn't hurt, didn't feel misshapen - but he couldn't be sure.

A blossom of heat opened deep at his center, and he looked away, watching the moon as it skipped across the tops of the buildings just beyond the window. "Look, Cordelia - I don't know how long I'll be in Cleveland, but you know if you ever need anything from me, I'm always here for you."

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tactlessly
2009-05-12 07:24 pm UTC (link)

The more time Cordelia spent in Cleveland, the easier it was to see the truth: dying wasn't the hard part. Dying was easy, really. Death was the only thing that was certain. Cordelia's had been surprisingly easy. Painless, in her sleep ( or coma, whatever ) - isn't that how most people hoped theirs would be? Granted, it had been a little earlier than what the Seer had hoped it would be, but life always did have a way of throwing some funny curve balls.

Some people just happened to get more thrown at them than others.

Watching -- loving -- Angel was like watching some great tragedy. Trying, failing, trying again - it was all a pattern for the Champion, and Cordelia had always admired him for it. It didn't matter how hard he had gotten knocked down, because he had always gotten back up with more gusto than before. Still, it was easy to see the toll it took on him. At least it was for Cordelia. Then again, she had learned to read him pretty well over the course of their many years together.

"I can't forgive her for throwing away her life, and this - everything." Understanding, she offered a small nod. Sure, Cordelia could see where Angel was coming from. Really, she could. That didn't mean she couldn't see the opposite side of the fence, though. "Of course you can't. What she did was rash." There was a space of silence as Cordelia just looked at him. He looked older, even if he hadn't possibly aged at all. Not physically, anyway. When she finally spoke again, her voice was soft, careful. "You're right to be angry at her. Maybe even furious. But wouldn't you have done the same thing if it had been you in her shoes? Don't get me wrong, we both know I'm not one of the members of the "I love Buffy" club, but I do think her heart was in the right place." The slight downturned set of Cordelia's lips quirked then, before she gave a nudge to Angel's shoulder. "Besides, who couldn't love you? I'm pretty fond of you myself."

Angel's confession of being "okay" brought on yet another nod from the brunette. Angel had always seemed to think that there should have been guilt involved when he was alright, when he wasn't rolling in grief. Cordelia could still remember Angel's torn feelings when Buffy had died. He had taken time to mourn, and then he had been okay. Because of that, he felt guilty. Cordelia had been the one to tell him that it was fine for him to be okay, and she would be the one to do the same now. "It's good that you're okay."

When Angel spoke about leaving, Cordelia sat up a little straighter, shaking her head as she did so. "You're not getting rid of me that easy." But what about Dean? Cordelia had a real shot at a real relationship for once. Inwardly, she decided that this was more important. The Powers hadn't let her come back so she could date. Cordelia had convinced them to send her back so that she could help. More specifically, to help Angel. "If you go anywhere, you know I'm coming. I begged the Powers to bring me back here for a reason, and you're attached to it. So, if you go anywhere, you'd better make sure you have enough room for me and the clothes you have so generously let me buy."

All at once, Cordelia seemed to draw inwards. Lips fell out of the smile, into a more sullen expression. Not quite a frown, but something close. "Angel, can I ask you something?" It had been a constant, nagging question she had carried around since her return. "How did you forgive me? For what I did?" She was referring to the months spent ruining Angel's life. The lives of her dearest friends. In Cordelia's eyes, it hadn't mattered that she wasn't herself. Every detail was perfectly vivid. She could remember being with Connor, she could remember sliding the dagger into Lilah's chest. Cordelia could remember it all. More than anything, she could see the looks of betrayal on her friends' faces when they figured out that it was her. "I ruined your lives. That's not something that you can just forget and forgive."

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faceofanangel
2009-05-13 06:32 pm UTC (link)

His first instinct was to deflect Cordelia with a joke, to downplay everything and back-pedal for all he was worth. Because letting himself get too attached was insane. A single shiver, bone-deep and frigid, ran up Angel from soles to skull as he studied her. Intently, almost to the point of scrutiny. "How did you forgive me?" he asked, his voice betraying not a twinge of apprehension.

Part of Angel had hated Cordelia for months because of that, for dying. For the swift flash of gut-wrenching panic that she had left behind, just before he ripped himself away from her loss, throwing up between them shields - the dull grey of hopelessness, disgust.

Without her portents to guide him, he'd taken to helping himself instead of those around him. He'd noticed Cordelia had been increasingly unhappy with the visions early on. It wasn't just the pain, though that curled off her like sulphur; ever since Pylea, she had wanted to do something more. Angel didn't know how to tell her that muscles and skill with a broadsword were a dime a dozen, but seeing and solving the visions were uniquely important. Over six years later, Angel found he no longer cared. He wasn't about to be a pawn for the Powers again. He had to have some kind of meaning. That much was obvious, but he couldn't seem to see it or understand it. There was something, whether that was being a champion, or working off nearly two centuries of sin, or slaving away for the omnipotent forces of good.

Angel glanced up at her quickly, an unusual gravity in his shadowed eyes. "It wasn't you." It wasn't me. Yes, it was. You enjoyed them, the small, sneering voice in the back of his head insisted, and Angel gave a snort of quiet laughter at its pragmatism. It had a point, after all - though it worried him that his own private voice of reason had started to sound like a certain sociopath. He had these memories, these moments of cognizance that felt more real than simple recollection - and he quietly treasured some of them. Angel could taste their blood, their fear, as if it'd been him. Shame, unfamiliar and irrational, hit him hard as the nights came back to him in shadowy bits and pieces.

No choice there. His memories, Angelus' memories, all jumbled up, all neatly laid out, and when he'd felt what it was to be every victim, felt the desperation, the pleasure, the silent struggles behind every terrible choice, the giddy relief following every fortuitous kill, how could he judge, how could he not understand, how could he do anything but blame himself?

Hurting Buffy was . . beyond the pale. It still was, it always would be, and yet there remained the urge to roll himself in her entrails and leave her for the carrion eaters. What surprised Angel the most was the way a certain conservatism had to be adopted. It wasn't that control was such an odd concept for him - deep down his pride in his control was large - it was just that he'd always been able to integrate that control successfully into his otherwise mellow existence.

"After the things I've done, Cordelia--let's just say I've done my share of forgetting and forgiving in the last five years." He was already at the door when he glanced back. "Forgiving yourself is the hardest part. Try and get some rest."

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