Part VII
Cordelia’s door opened easily under Angel’s hand, curtains fluttering in greeting courtesy of the ever welcoming, ever helpful Dennis; stranded in the apartment he’d died trying to escape. And yet, he had Cordelia. Cordelia who could fill all the empty space in the world with her cheerful chatter and bright smiles. The best roommate a ghost could probably ever have.
That same chatter had once wearied Angel, filled his ears, and tried his patience. Her bright smiles had so often reminded him of other smiles he’d wanted nothing more than to forget. But that staunch loyalty, her sudden and surprising feisty defense of those she considered her own, it had all opened a stream of love and acceptance he’d never felt before. And when was it that he’d begun welcoming that chatter? Reveling in the smiles she’d beamed in his direction? Maybe once he’d relaxed into her care, found comfort in her brisk tapings and bandaging, closed his eyes and drowsed in the background of her nagging and fussing. He found solace in her. She was simply there all the time and it was where she belonged. No one was going to take her away.
At least, once he found her.
He’d assumed she would stay in the house while he was gone. But Cordelia never did what she was supposed to. Only what she wanted to. And he should have remembered that.
But where else could she have gone?
The curtains fluttered again, restless energy zipping through the apartment around him, flicking lights off and on, tinkling glass statuettes and finally easing open the door. Angel stiffened, braced himself for the attack, glancing around. One swift kick to the chair seat would shatter it into shards for stakes. He could snap off the television antennae and go for the eyes. He could –
Cordelia pushed the door open with her foot, both hand busily fluffing flattened hair. “Welsey, that helmet is a travesty. Don’t you have a hair-friendly version?”
Wesley didn’t answer, walking in right behind her, nearly buzzing with concern. She tolerated his efforts, letting him hang up her coat, usher her into a seat, admonish Dennis for being too slow with the tea. “I’m okay,” she finally said. “Why don’t you see how our boss is doing instead?”
Wesley’s head jerked in surprise and then instinctively scanned the room. “Oh, Angel, you’re here,” he said, obviously struggling between relief and irritation. “Not that you should have left so abruptly in the first place. But at least now we can perhaps get something done.”
Angel ignored him, turned instead to the tired young woman sitting with blank eyes and absently twisting fingers. “Where did you go?”
She looked at him silently, something so unlike Cordelia that it sent a cord of unease through him. “To the last victim. To his house.”
Angry lectures sprung instantly to his lips, but he thought better of them and after a moment of struggle, simply asked, “Why?”
“Well, it was a stroke of genius, really,” Wesley cut in excitedly. He placed his satchel carefully on the coffee table and flicked on the floor lamp. “Cordelia thought of its calling card! Tremendous insight, actually, especially for one so –”
Impatient, Angel leant forward and cut Wes off. “What’d you find out?”
Cordelia answered immediately. “It’s a Desgial demon.”
Wes flopped down to the couch. “Hey!” he said, injured.
Angel cast his mind back. Sifted through the thousands of demons he knew of, the hundreds he’d fought, the multitude of books he’d researched. And then it clicked.
He stood, walked over to the window and pushed the curtains out of his way. Below him, the lights of Los Angeles stretched for miles, an oddly comforting blanket of illumination. From here, it all seemed peaceful. Innocent. Perhaps that was why Darla had so loved her views. She’d loved looking down on the clueless humans, allowing them to go about their day to day lives until she decided otherwise. She’d loved the power of omnipotence nearly as much as the kill itself.
He hadn’t gotten it then. He’d been bored with her and the endless hours spent lounging in front of her precious views. But now, watching the headlights of cars zipping around on city streets, every protective instinct surged inside him. These people, whether driving home from work or picking their kids up from day care, had no idea what was out there. Or they fought to preserve their ignorance, closing their eyes to the monsters that would feed off their innocence and delight in their shattered lives.
There were so many innocents. And so few of him. It was impossible to help everyone and yet Cordelia watched him with trusting eyes, believing that he would. That he could.
“Angel,” she said insistently. “Did you hear me? It’s a Desgial demon. They –”
“Suicide demons. I know.” He leant against the window but the world swirled around him and time blurred as he was cast backwards into a memory he barely recognized as his own. He was falling and even with his eyes open he could barely see and then pain shattered through him as he flew into something hard. Bone snapped sharply in the silence and his arm floundered uselessly at his side.
He rolled upright and froze, stayed perfectly motionless, waiting. For? The acrid smell of sewers teased his nose, and off in the distance, water trickled down a wall and plopped drip by drip into a growing puddle. Something struck at him in a fluid swoosh and he ducked and rolled at the same time, scrambling along the floor away from the blow.
“You know,” he muttered, “it’s usually considered polite to at least show yourself before attacking.”
“Vampire,” a silken voice hissed. “You and I are frozen in time, locked away from the world.” A purple, clawed hand swiped fiercely at him; he grabbed the wrist and yanked. It was a move that nearly always worked, jerking his opponent off balance and giving him control. But this demon didn’t budge, instead spinning Angel up in the air and flicking him effortlessly across the sewer.
He hit the wall hard and fell to the ground with a painful thud.
“You cannot beat me, vampire.” The claws stung as they stroked bloody gashes down his side. “I will take your weapons from you and your battlefield shall be one of tears and solitude.”
He pretended to think for a moment, easing away from the voice. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think so.” He kicked out both feet with a solid thwack and reflexively ducked, the demons punch whistling just over his head. His ax felt strong and comforting tucked under his coat and he pulled it free with an emphatic swirl. “I think it’s your time to die alone.”
It was still laughing as he swirled the ax down into flesh and bone.
“Honestly, I don’t know why we even bother,” Cordelia’s voice cut in abruptly. It sharpened with exasperation and he heard the distinct rasp of a magazine page turning. “You talk to him, Wesley.”
“Angel, are you still with us?” Wesley’s accent always grew more pronounced when ever he was especially emotional. He was pure Watchers Academy now, and Angel blinked away cobwebs automatically. The world edged back into view, his palms pressed flat against Cordelia’s living room window. He’d pressed his forehead against the cool glass as well and judging by the impatience on his employees faces, he’d been there the entire time.
He shoved away from the window. “I think I remember something.”
Cordelia flung out her arms. “Finally!” she said. “We’re getting somewhere.”
****
Why was it that ‘somewhere’ with Angel was never anyplace good? He couldn’t have remembered a clue in a new trendy restaurant? Or at least someplace less stinky and wet than your average, run of the mill disgusting sewer? No such luck.
This happened enough that she’d finally put together a designated sewer and demon goo outfit, made up of an old pair of jeans and a stained purple blouse that had no business in her closet anyway. But had Angel let her change before rushing her out the door? Oh, nooooo! Those five minutes might have ruined his whole plan. And so here she was, dodging dripping water (oh, God she hoped it was only water) and praying that whatever they found wouldn’t stain silk.
Angel moved effortlessly, just another shadow slipping silently around the corners. She shone her flashlight at his back, half expecting him to turn around with one of his quelling looks. The splashing of their feet was the only sound before Cordelia stopped suddenly. “Wesley,” she whispered urgently. “How does it get you? The demon mo-jo, I mean. Does it have some whammy tool?”
He was silent next to her. “I’m not quite sure, Cordelia,” he finally answered. “The texts aren’t very specific about it. I believe that since the Desgial thrives off psychic emotions, it’s never necessary for it to actually attack.”
“So it can get you without you ever actually seeing it?” she asked pointedly.
“Perhaps,” Wes said. “But you would feel different. Sadder, I imagine. Lonely.”
Sudden fear swirled in her. Sometimes people just felt sad. They called in sick, ate a tub of ice cream and curled up with a tissue box until they felt better. She’d done it, albeit without the calling in sick part since Angel wasn’t exactly forthcoming with sick pay. But countless nights when she’d felt lonely or sad, she hadn’t even stopped to question the surge of emotions and had instead just braved it out. But the Desgial’s victims couldn’t stick it out. They died, fodder for a demon that wouldn’t even show its face.
Suddenly, the ground gave way underneath her ankle with a painful twist. She barely had time to catch her breath before her legs folded and she hit the ground with an odiferous splash. She froze, forcing her stomach to be strong against the rancid stench but it was too much. Gagging silently, she clenched her fingers against the comforting heft of her flashlight. Its light sputtered and faded into nothingness.
Wesley whispered concern but she was too busy biting back frustrated anger to listen. Instead she let him pull her up, brushed off as much of the slime as she could and banged her flashlight against the wall.
“Cordelia, hush!” he said reproachfully in a very not-quiet whisper.
“Oh, shut up,” she hissed. “Unless you can suddenly see in the dark, we need the flashlight to work, doofus.”
“Guys?” Angel’s voice sounded, a beacon of safety in the impenetrable dark. “I think I found something.”
“We’re coming,” Wesley answered, and warm, blessed light bloomed from the extra flashlight in his hand. She shot him a look. “You didn’t ask,” was all he said.
She trailed behind him, focusing on stepping exactly where he’d stepped. She wasn’t going to roll around anymore in sewer muck. And when they got out, Angel and his wallet were making a pit stop at the dry cleaners. And maybe at the new boutique that had opened over on –
“Oh, dear,” Wesley breathed out and Cordelia’s heart thumped heavily in her chest.
****
Angel strode back and forth in the sewer, uncaring of the fetid water lapping at his precious coat. “It must have been bound here, contained somehow,” he was saying, but Cordelia was having a hard time focusing on him. She just saw bones. Bones and old cloth fetters, remnants from a straight-jacket and a skull with a familiar axe protruding at an odd angle.
“Okay, what exactly happened here?” she interrupted. “Doesn’t this look like a demon graveyard? Shouldn’t we be celebrating?”
Welsey puffed up in classic lecture mode. He turned the skull to face her, ignoring the congealed goo dripping down his wrist. “This does not belong to a Desgial,” he said. “This looks more like a Juahdnum, a demon known for its peculiar type of –”
“Angel!” she interrupted urgently.
He took pity on her. “It’s a guardian demon, Cordelia,” he said. “Harmless unless attacked. And the ax in its skull? Is mine.”
There was this little muscle in Angel’s jaw that always flexed when he was being especially stoic. She’d never paid attention to jaw muscles before, but when Angel’s started working it always meant something bad was on the way. It was better than an almanac. “So, someone stole your ax?” she asked hopefully, but the skeptical glance he sent her rapidly quelled that thought. “Ooooh-kay. Then why’d you kill it?”
“I don’t know,” he said shortly, and wrested the axe free from the head, dunking it in a puddle to cleanse the worst of the gunk. “I don’t remember doing it.”
Her voice shrilled, “You don’t remember?” so loud that she herself winced.
“It’s hazy,” Angel said. He still wouldn’t look at her, or Wesley. Instead, he yanked an old shred of fabric from the bone yard and used it to methodically polish his ax. “I thought it was a dream.”
Wesley jumped in as Angel sank into a full brood, staring off into the shadows. “Cordelia, Juahdnum are unemotional creatures. They’d be the perfect guards for a demon like the Desgial. Without a steady stream of emotions to feed from, the Desgial would weaken and be unable to pose a serious threat to beings outside of its immediate sphere. But then, Angel came—”
“All broody and depresso-guy,” Cordelia realized the ending and fell silent.
To be so close to a soul crammed full of agonized guilt and regrets would have been a Thanksgiving dinner for a demon that fed on emotional angst. It wouldn’t matter that Angel’s feelings were because of a curse. The demon would only sense the depth of pain and Angel wore a load of guilt on each shoulder with a spare on his back – just in case.
He had to. And he would eternally, because Angel would never risk happiness again. Not after Angelus had shredded the few pathetic scraps of joy Angel had been able to create, not to mention trying to destroy the entire world on the side. It didn’t matter that sometimes she suspected Angel enjoyed the brooding part. He didn’t have any other options. And that sucked. Big time. For every one except a demon that fed on it. It was a Power Bar for a Desgial, and this one had certainly snapped it right up.
She’d never thought of him in that way before. Sure, she had her anti-Angelus arsenal, Buffy on speed dial, and nearly every week she had a check-in/pep-talk with her boss, but she’d never really thought about what it meant to not be happy. Ever.
He was still doing his angry stalk around the sewers, unaware of her studious stare. He was supposed to just be the boss but he’d oozed into her life in so many ways. A hero. A friend. And now, a lover. But there could be no happy ending for them.
It shouldn’t even be on her mind – not with a murderous demon on the rampage and Angel himself even weirder than usual. And yet, as he carefully stashed the ax behind his coat and turned to speak with Wesley, her stomach clenched its betrayal. It hurt. To watch him and realize he was consciously keeping distance from her at every moment. To realize he would never let himself be close to her. That he would never let himself love her.
Maybe that all she’d really wanted. She’d never been that girl who wanted picket fences and happily ever after, unless they came with diamonds and a ten bedroom mansion in Beverly Hills. She wasn’t that girl … except for the tiny little part of herself that was. And Angel had this way of showing up when she was at her lowest, of saving her. He’d done it when they’d run into each other in L.A., and then he’d done it again the other night. She’d been lonely and scared, all alone in her apartment and he’d showed up all dark and emo and needing someone. And God, it had been so nice to be needed.
She’d never thought a dead guy could make her feel warm and safe, but he did. All the time. And she didn’t know if she could give that up and just what did that say about her?
Wesley was droning on in the background and she couldn’t take her eyes off Angel and the stupid vampire didn’t even notice. And wasn’t that just a flashback to Sunnydale and years she’d rather forget? She tucked her hair behind her ears, pointedly tore her eyes from Angel and interrupted Wesley’s lecture.
“Okay, I get it,” she said. “What I don’t get is why Angel’s so confused. Why can’t he remember?”
“I’m not sure.” Wes crouched down to sort through the bones and remnants. “Perhaps there was a spell? Or an enchantment?”
Angel was staring off into the distance again, frozen so still he looked like an oddly dressed statue. Or sculpture. What was the difference between a statue and a sculpture, anyway? Frustration battled against fear, and both lost to a rapid surge of anger.
She marched up to him, elbowed him fiercely in the side, and channeled her best Cher. “Snap out of it!”
He didn’t budge, but his fingers clenched almost convulsively and his eyes glazed over vacantly. He was gone again and she needed him here. With her.
Latching onto his side, she rested her cheek against the stiff leather of his coat, wishing he would curve an arm around her, look at her with those confident dark eyes and do one of those dramatic broadsword swirls. Instead he seemed as lost as she felt, and she wished she could comfort him as he did her.
Wesley was off snooping through dusty bones so she didn’t mind whispering right by Angel’s ear: “Come on, big guy. Please.”
Her heart fluttered in her throat, and the world dwindled away to Angel, his big body and sure hands, coming up to encircle her shoulders, holding her as gently as a trembling butterfly. “Hey,” he said, his voice a welcome gruff in her ear. “Hey.” It was murmured comfort, his big body absorbing her weakness, stolid under hers as she leant on him. “It’s okay,” he hushed, and she bit her lip against the sob building in her throat.
“Don’t do that,” she forced out, her voice as weak and quavery as she felt at that moment. He couldn’t leave her, because she needed him and he knewthat, and he was scaring her and –
“Shhh,” he whispered, smoothing a hand over her head, tucking strewn hair neatly behind her ear, cradling her like she was something precious – like she was cherished. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m sorry.”
Her chest heaved, but she forced herself to step away, forced her arms to let him go. It was hard. Too hard. “I need to know what’s happening, Angel,” she said, and her voice sounded calm even though her heart was still racing with fear and another emotion she couldn’t name because she wasn’t going to face it now. Maybe later, over a box of tissues and a gallon of Ben’n’Jerry. Or maybe never. “I deserve to know.”
He inclined his head, growing closer to her without moving a muscle. Hunched shoulders, pursed lips, creased brow and she could still tell she was the only thing he saw. Fingers lifted toward her, then he caught himself and they dropped impotently down to his side.
She let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
“It’s been such a blur,” he said, and he blinked the closeness away and suddenly she was just the seer again. Good ole Cordelia. “But I’m starting to remember it all. I’m starting to realize –”
She didn’t realize she was shivering until he reached out to rub her shoulders. “We’ll go back to the office. Get you warmed up.”
“And you’ll tell me everything?” Cordelia asked, but she was already turning to walk away so she missed his slight nod. Still, she could feel him watching her as she picked her way over to Wesley, and while a year ago it would have creeped her out, now his eagle eyes comforted her. He would be behind her. He wouldn’t let her fall again.
Part VIII
Cordelia was making him nervous.
Not that it was so unusual for Cordelia to throw him off his guard. She did it all the time, mainly by expecting him to do something she considered obvious but that he would never, ever, think to do. Like noticing and complimenting her new shoes. Or her new haircut. Or remembering her birthday.
Sometimes just walking in and seeing an expectant look in her eyes was enough to make him want to turn around and disappear back into the ‘bat cave’ for some quality alone time.
But this was entirely different. She wasn’t teasing him, or prodding him to lighten up, or even fussing over the beautiful silk blouse which now had several dark smears of an unidentifiable, rank liquid. Resting her chin on the palm of her hand, she simply stared out of the window despite the fact that the blinds were tightly shut to prevent any light from getting in.
Light didn’t seem to be a problem anymore. The office was darker than usual, despite the soft glow from her desk lamp. It felt heavy and morose and instead of bouncing up with some silly idea revolving around donuts, or frappacinos or dancing, Cordelia melded into the shadows, staring pensively at nothing.
That was his job. Not hers.
His voice came out tentative, and that was so unlike him that he stuttered around the words. “Cor-Cordelia? Are you—”
“Fine,” she said, without looking up. Without moving a muscle.
God, sometimes, she really drove him crazy. He knew she wasn’t fine. She knew he knew. But she would never say it. Maybe when she’d asked for him to tell her everything, she hadn’t really wanted to know. Maybe he should have been more tactful, eased into the news of his suddenly foggy memory and the Oracles’ prophecy of her death. But he’d spent too much time with her so he’d blurted it all out in true tactless Cordelia style, and now she was silent and he’d do anything to make it all better.
He lifted his legs, propping them up on the desk and watched her. She hardly moved. Just the slow rise and fall of her chest, and every few moments a slow drum of her fingers against her jaw line. He’d spent nearly a year alternately awed and annoyed by her ability to chatter, and now that she’d stopped he’d do nearly anything to make her start again.
He cast his eyes about the office. Cordelia started conversations about nothing all the time. How difficult could it be?
“Funny thing about this desk here,” he started in his best jovial voice. “Never can get it to level out. Every time I put my feet up they just lean the tiniest bit to the side.”
Nothing.
He braced his thick boot heels again the desk, rocked it experimentally. “Hmmm. I tried to fix it once. To brace it, I mean. With a pencil. And a stake. Hey, funny story—”
She angled her head up, hair cascading down to cover her face in a near impenetrable shiny veil. He could just barely see her looking at him, eyes glimmering in the dark. “I remember,” she said, and there was a tiny crack in her voice. She shifted again, looked away, effortlessly twisting and pinning her hair up. “We were worried about you.”
All the fake joviality drained immediately but he didn’t know how to feel anymore. Didn’t know how to comfort and heal and that was what she needed. Not him. Not –
“You came back from Sunnydale all “Depresso Vamp” and then Buffy dropped in and I was sure that would be the end of it all.” She snorted to herself and tossed her head back, eerily reminiscent of the brash, overconfident cheerleader he’d first met how many years ago? “You were going to go back to follow around your trusty slayer or she’d stay and Angelus would come out for another visit. Either way, it was over.”
Her hurt cut him in a million ways because he’d been so close to doing just that and he hadn’t thought of her. Not really. She’d been an after thought then because he’d been so focused on everything else. The thrills of his first heartbeat in hundreds of years, the terror of Buffy’s imminent death, the soul crunching passion of her body, writhing and passionate against his own. And all that time, Cordelia had been scared.
Regret curled throughout him and stretched his arm out toward her but she shook her head and he let it drop against his leg. “I didn’t know how it was really going to end,” she said, sadness thickening her voice into ragged honey. “I thought there’d be more.”
Loud screeching hurt his ears, the crash of the desk hitting the ground more so. She jumped, startled and he was right there, wrapping her up in a tight embrace whether she wanted it or not. Because she had to know: “Nothing is going to happen to you, Cordelia.” He vowed it, whispered it into her ear, spun promises into the silk of her hair and she shuddered against him and let him hold her. And for the first time in too long his arms felt full and his soul beamed a benevolent smile upon them. His dead heart cracked open and she seeped in, all warmth and spice and everything good and loving and he simply knew:
She wasn’t going anywhere.
“The oracles prophesized,” she protested.
Sharpness spiked through him, his arms tightening until she wriggled against the embrace. He flexed his hands, studying the careful stretch of tendons and flesh. They’d hurt so many people – innocent people. But now, they fought for the victims and they could save her. They would save her. “Cordelia, you know I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She sniffed loudly, but her cheeks were dry and the tiniest smile was beginning to curve those gorgeous lips. “You couldn’t have shared that before you told me I was prophesized to die?”
He looked away. Too few women had seen his soul in his eyes and now his soul was full of her. “You should know.”
Her eyes softened, and she curled closer to him. How had she grown so precious? “I do know,” she whispered and the crack in his heart grew a little bigger, just for her.
****
He was distracted. He knew it. It slowed him, dulled the thrust of his punches and affected the flow of the fight. Two beefy demons, spikes curved dangerously up their spines and down their arms wielded swords with ominous intent and this was exactly the wrong time to be worried about Cordelia.
Telling himself that didn’t help and it was only due to a hundred years of tai chi and practice that he could focus at all. And it was still just enough for him to dart underneath one outstretched arm and lash out with a foot to send the first demon staggering while he twirled his broadsword down, above the spiny back and into the sensitive, unprotected skin of its neck.
Its agonized scream hurt his ears, and dark blood splattered against his coat. And through it all, his cell phone chimed brightly, first with a familiar jaunty little tune, and then a repetitious beeping. He’d bet everything he owned it was Cordelia.
He’d killed one but only stunned the other, and before he could dispatch it, it clambered to its feet, grasping its head and groaning in pain. He had a minute, maybe less, before it regrouped. And she was probably just fine. She probably just wanted him to bring her ice cream or pick up one of her frothy little sweaters.
He fumbled through his pockets for the evil contraption, grateful at least that she wasn’t there to see how long it took him to open it. It kept chirping and flashing brightly, and when he finally flipped it open, her voice blared through before he could even say hello.
“Finally! I’ve been calling you forever. I left you a message but I figured you probably still haven’t figured out how to check your voicemail and it really was important –”
The demon shook its head fiercely, and fell back to its knees. He had a few more moments. “Cordelia,” he said but she was still chattering. He wasn’t sure if he trusted it. It didn’t have the happy inward focus of her usual tangents. Instead her voice had this sharp little edge to it that sounded like she was trying too hard. And of course she was. Only an hour ago, he’d told her the Oracles had prophesized her death. What did he expect? “Cordelia! What’s wrong?”
She sucked in a startled breath, and silence fell as she searched for the right words. He used to love silence, loved nothing more than to roll himself up in it and bury into the seduction of soft, velvety quiet. It honed him, focused him and he thrilled to the predatory power, a panther coiled up and ready to spring, ears quirked for the smallest hint of movement –
“Nothing,” she finally said, and he caught the soft clink of ice cubes against a glass. She had ice water pressed to her temple. The smallest thing to try and dull the pain. But when she spoke again moments later, she was bright and cheery, and if he hadn’t heard that one little sound he might never have known.
“I found out some information you need to know,” she was saying, but the demon was blinking alertly, a menacing growl building in its throat.
“Now’s not a good time,” he said and froze as the demon lunged, missing him by inches. “Gotta go.”
“Angel!” Her voice whined insistently and he held the phone to his ear as he rolled into a summersault, striking out at its knees as he flew by. “It’s really important.”
“I hear that, but –” He grunted as its punch landed, splitting his cheek effortlessly. Seconds later, a spiked arm swept him up and off his feet, flaying open skin and tossing him across the alley. He landed with a pained grunt and Cordelia’s voice sharpened in panic.
“Angel! Angel, oh God, are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said, irony settling heavily into his bones. He was not fine and she probably knew it, but he needed her to believe it.
He rolled to his feet, crouching low, senses sharp and vibrating. She started to speak and he shushed her automatically, pausing, holding, waiting for the demon to make one last fatal mistake.
It wasn’t long. It rushed in heedlessly, mouth bared in fury or hunger, he couldn’t quite tell. But it didn’t matter. He swooped up, lunged for its throat and hauled around to snap a spine off its back. Roaring in agony, the demon flailed underneath him, bucking like a mad horse to throw him, but Angel tightened his grasp, and spun the spike in his hand once before burying it into its throat.
“Angel!” Cordelia’s voice, high with panic, reedy through the phone. “Angel! Get back on the phone and tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” he said, but he voice cracked plaintively at the end. He didn’t do it on purpose. He was a vampire and could handle his injuries. He was not at all looking forward to being coddled and cared for upon his return.
“Good,” she said in this soft little voice and he was about to ask what was wrong but she didn’t give him a chance. “I’m coming out.”
“No!” He’d left her nearly two hours ago, huddled in a ball in his office chair, eyes twisted shut against the pain he could feel vibrating through her. The last vision had flung her out of his arms, windmilling toward the glass partition of his office. Diving across the office with all his vampire speed, he’d still barely caught her in time. She hadn’t noticed the close call, flailing and biting back agonized screams, eyes glazing over, rolling blankly. It took her so long – too long – to come back, and he’d shook her, panicked that maybe she was buried in there, under a pile of visions and demons and victims and she wouldn’t be strong enough to pull herself free.
But then she’d blinked, three times, and then smiled shakily. A conciliatory smile that did not accomplish its goal. He wanted to be there now, holding her, comforting her, and instead he’d been out on the street trying to read her illegible notes because he hadn’t paid attention to her muttered directions. He wanted her to say she was alright and mean it, and she hadn’t even tried.
“I can meet you there!” she exclaimed, frustration sharp in her voice. “I’m safer with you,” she argued automatically. He gritted his teeth and counted to ten.
“We went through this. Wes will be back in a few minutes and he’ll need your help finishing the research on this Desgial. And you’re safer in the office. I’ll be back soon.”
She sighed. He knew that sigh. It was the ‘Maybe you’re right but I’m not going to admit it.’ Or maybe it was the ‘Fine. Whatever.’ Whichever it was, at least he’d won. Too bad he couldn’t gloat.
“I was researching the song,” she said, all business now that she’d lost. “The one playing at all the victim’s homes when—”
“I remember,” he said. Leather upholstery creaked as he settled into his car, bracing his elbow against the low curve of the steering wheel. The sky above gleamed the eerie orange of the city, the stars another casualty of bright lights and too many people. Sometimes, when he thought back, he could remember breathing in sharp, clean air, looking up in the night sky and staggering under the weight of the stars, their magnificence.
Cordelia’s voice snapped him out of it. “It’s called Gloomy Sunday,” she said. Papers rustled in the background, and the door jingled merrily as someone opened it.
He sat up straight. “Who’s that?” he snapped. He was already jamming the key back into the ignition, jerking the gear into reverse –
“It’s Wesley.” Relief swamped him, swiping all of the words out of his mouth. He grunted, shoved the car back into park and pulled out the key, jingling it idly against his palm. Maybe she was right. Maybe she’d be better here, closer to him, where he could see her and protect her.
“Anyway, the song is cursed,” she went on lightly. “It’s a suicide song.”
“Whaaaat?” In the background Wesley voice careened up in true British shock, oxfords clumping heavily as he rushed to see Cordelia’s research for himself. Angel could imagine it like he was there, and he wished he was, instead of the sitting in the cold loneliness of an empty convertible.
“It’s cursed,” she said again, clearly impatient. He could almost see her, tapping an artfully manicured toe. They were pink tonight. She hadn’t realized that he’d noticed. “The original composer was Hungarian and he wrote it for his girlfriend, who apparently killed herself within days of hearing it. He killed himself also by … oh, eew!”
He shaped his hands over the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. “What is it, Cordelia?”
“I don’t even want to say it. Yuck!” She turned the page so emphatically that he heard a slight rip. “At least fifteen Hungarian suicides reference the song. And then it disappears. It shows up again in America around the mid 1920s. Businessmen, women, children, all listening or writing about the song when they died. And then it disappears again.”
“Until now,” Angel realized. “But how is it connected with the Desgial?”
“I don’t know,” Cordelia said. “But a new bookstore just opened on Figueroa, and the owner supposedly knows his demons. I thought I’d go –”
“No.”
Her huff of displeasure was loud in his ear, but he didn’t care. “I mean it, Cordelia. You’re not going anywhere.”
“And since when do I follow your orders?”
“Since I became your boss,” he said. “That’s your job, remember? To follow orders.”
Her bark of laughter was hard and not amused. “Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure that becoming your secretary did not make you the boss of me. I go where I want to go, Angel.”
His fingers clenched around the phone, he bit his lip to keep the words in. Jamming the key into the ignition, he struggled against fraying controls and demanding emotions. This was Cordelia, and she never backed down from a confrontation, but if she forced this one, she would lose. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he gritted out. “And you will be there, waiting for me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Angel,” she said.
His control slipped the tiniest bit and he pressed his eyes shut, forcing out the feel of her shoulders in his grasp, the give of her warm flesh under his fingers, the thirty ways he knew to tie her up, shut her up, keep her safe, whole, near. “Cordelia…” The struggle for patience lengthened her name and yet she fought on.
“Annnngelllll,” she mocked. “Come on! I can just go do this research and it’ll save us time.”
“Send Wesley,” he said patiently, “and that is not negotiable. Do I have to remind you what the Oracles –”
She sucked in this tiny little breath and he almost felt guilty for throwing the prophecy back in her face. Almost. “You said you weren’t going to let it happen.”
“And I meant it. But you have to help me. No running off alone, Cordelia. I mean it.”
It wouldn’t be Cordelia unless she kept fighting, but her voice sagged with disgruntled acceptance. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t care,” he bit out. “Paint your fingernails. Make some coffee. Hey, go crazy – try some filing! All I know is that when I get to the office, you’d better be sitting behind your desk- in one piece.”
“Fine,” she snapped and the dial tone rang loud in his ear.