Part 7
Spike eyed the front door of the Hyperion hotel with something akin to dread. The sun was about to rise, and his instincts were screaming at him to find shelter, despite his recent immunity to its rays. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Cordelia; on the contrary, he was looking forward to spending more time with the empathetic young woman. It was just that walking through those doors meant surrendering to his defeat. It meant that he’d truly given up on patching things up with Buffy, that he was moving on, and it was a bitter pill to swallow.
Finally coming to a decision, he marched up to the front door and knocked loudly. After several minutes, he waited, then when there was no response, he pounded again. He knew that even though this was a hotel, he wouldn’t gain entrance without an invitation. This was Cordelia’s home now, hotel or not.
His next several knocks went unanswered and he became worried about her safety. He opened the door, deciding to try the entrance anyway. He stuck his hand through the portal, and was surprised to find that no barrier stopped him. Smiling, he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
“I did tell you to come over any time you wanted, dork.” Cordelia’s sleepy voice came from somewhere above him, and he searched the dim lobby, finding her trailing down the stairs slowly.
Yawning widely, she came to stand in front of him, searching his face with bleary eyes.
“Didn’t work out like you’d planned, huh?” she asked, a wry smile on her face.
He laughed humorlessly. “Nope. Pure torture, through and through.”
“Well I could’ve told you that,” she said, rolling her eyes. She turned and walked across the lobby, motioning for him to follow her. She led him into the kitchen, where she turned on the coffee maker, took out a box of cereal, and to his surprise, a jug of blood from the refrigerator.
At his questioning look, she smiled. “Somehow, I knew you’d be here. Went shopping yesterday and it seemed to make sense to stock up.”
Putting a mug of blood in the microwave for him, she proceeded to fix her cereal. After the microwave dinged, she removed the mug, and balanced it and her bowl on her arm as she came back across the kitchen and sat in front of him.
“98.6, just like you fang boys like. I know pigs’ blood isn’t exactly gourmet, but I guess it will do, huh?”
Smiling his thanks, he took a small sip. “It’ll be fine, cheerleader. Thanks for looking out for me.”
She smiled back, a weary, defeated one, but a smile nonetheless. “Well, it looks like all we’ve got is each other, right?”
“Seems that way, pet. Guess we’ll have to make the best of it.”
Taking a big bite of her cereal, Cordelia chewed steadily and peered at him across the table. After swallowing, she asked, “Wanna talk about it?”
He grimaced. “Not really.”
Pausing, he took a sip of his breakfast. He frowned again when he remembered how he’d involved her in his lies to Buffy.
“I guess you should know that I kind of hinted to Buffy that I was shagging you,” he said, figuring that blunt honesty was best with this woman.
She only raised an eyebrow, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. “Trying to make her jealous?”
“Yeah, fat lot of good that did. She didn’t exactly fight to keep me, or anything.”
Cordelia seemed to think about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Let her think that. She’ll tell Angel, and it’ll probably make him mad. That’s fine by me.”
The coffee maker buzzed, signaling the end of its cycle. She got up and walked to it, pouring herself a cup of the steaming liquid. With her back turned, she continued her comments, taking her anger out on the hapless appliance.
“I don’t really care what either of them think, anyway. Both of us sacrificed everything for them, and they’ve given up on us, ground our sacrifice into the dirt. I’ll shave my head and walk naked down Hollywood Boulevard before I do anything for Angel again.”
Spike was comforted by her support of his duplicity. He was glad once again that someone else felt this pain as keenly as he did.
Desperate to lighten the somber mood, he set down his mug and perused her face. After a moment, he changed the subject.
“So, cheerleader. What’ve you got for me to do around here? I wouldn’t want to be accused of not earning my keep.”
She squinted at him and assessed his features. “How are you with a hammer and nails?”
He smirked at that. “Well, railroad spikes are generally my tool of choice, but I think I can handle something smaller.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Ha, ha. Funny, blondie. Finish up your piggy cocktail there, and we’ll get started. There’s a lot to do to make this place livable again.”
He watched with fascination as she attacked her cereal, slurping and chewing in a delicate way that was both feminine and efficient. This might not be his first choice of living conditions, but it was bound to be anything but boring. And maybe, just maybe, he and this equally heartbroken woman could help each other heal from the heartless words and actions of those they were trying desperately to leave behind.
***
For what seemed like the millionth time in the last two weeks, Cordelia dipped her tattered paint roller into the tray and coated it with white paint, then brought it up to drag onto the wall. She was speckled with the stuff from head to toe, her fingernails seemingly permanently white, as if she’d gotten bored with the White-Out and used it for fingernail polish instead.
Not wanting to add to the mess, she blew on a stray hair in steady puffs, trying to relocate it to a place where it wasn’t tickling her cheek. She wasn’t successful, but she kept painting, determined to be done. She was on the last room they’d set aside to fix, Fred’s old room, and she was bound and determined to finish today.
“What’s next, Cordy?” Spike’s voice came from behind her, and she paused in her painting long enough to glance back at him.
“You’re done fixing the railing already?”
“Yep. All done. Good as new. Polished and everything, princess,” he said, rather proud of himself for being so domestic.
“Well, grab a roller. This painting is about all we have left. I still want to clean up the basement, but I think that can wait for another day.”
He did as she asked, and they painted in companionable silence for a while. It had been like this for the last two weeks, the two of them working together to get the Hyperion back into livable condition, restoring some of the hominess it had lost in Cordelia’s absence.
Two weeks. Fourteen days, three hours, and twenty two minutes since she’d walked out of Angel’s office and seen Spike. Fourteen days of Angel free living. Every minute of it cruel torture.
This last weekend, she and Spike had rented a few sappy movies and shared a bottle of Jack Daniels, marinating in their misery together. After the liquor had made them a little freer with their feelings, she told him about her “Angel Free” countdown, and he’d nodded in supportive camaraderie. In a way, they were like dried out alcoholics. They were both completely, miserably addicted to these two people, knowing deep down that they’d never really get over them.
But one day at time, with the support of each other, they were surviving. It was hard. Damn hard. Sleepless nights and days full of memories were difficult to get through, but they hadn’t died yet. Every day, they got up and worked themselves to the bone, taking pride in their progress and looking forward to the day when they could be happy again. That day would come if they could only hang on long enough to see it.
Spike’s voice once again intruded into Cordelia’s morose thoughts. “So what do you say we go out tonight, cheerleader?”
She frowned, not wanting to go out and party. “Like to a club?” she asked, sounding anything but enthusiastic.
“Well, maybe not dancing, but we could go have dinner or a drink. Something new, eh?”
“I guess,” she said, not breaking the rhythm of her strokes. “There’s this new Mexican restaurant that I—ahh!”
Dropping her roller, Cordelia’s head whipped back and her eyes glazed over, then shut, as she began to float off the ground. Her hands went out, palms raised, as the vision flashed before her eyes. Spike stood open-mouthed as she levitated, shocked at the sight.
As quickly as it had begun, Cordelia’s vision ended and she floated to the ground, her eyes back to normal.
She smiled at him, a little wobbly, but knowing he needed reassurance. “Whoa, that was kinda freaky. I’d almost forgotten what that feels like. So totally better than the pre demony vision pain, but still major wiggage.”
“That was a vision?” he asked, skeptical.
“Yep,” she nodded. “Whole big techicolor, smelly, brain mushing message from the Powers. Guess they missed the memo where I QUIT!!” she shouted, looking at the ceiling as if she expected the Powers to be floating up there somewhere.
Spike just laughed at her and set his roller down in the pan. Painting seemed to be done for the day.
“I don’t think you can just quit something like that, Cordy,” he said.
“I know,” she said, obviously irritated. She snatched up her roller and put it in the pan, then turned and walked out of the room, stalking down the stairs into the lobby. Spike followed, pausing as she stopped in front of the reception desk.
Whipping around to face him, Cordelia’s expression was pure frustration. “They’re supposed to be all-knowing and crap. You’d think they’d look down here and realize, Hello! their Champion’s gone AWOL, all misguided and obsessed with the law firm from hell. Not exactly in the business of helping the helpless anymore. Who’s supposed to take care of this?”
She crossed her arms and began pacing in front of him. He just leaned against the desk and watched her, smiling inwardly at her angry passion.
“I mean, I can fight and everything, but a slime demon isn’t exactly something I can handle on my own. And they know that, too. And Gunn and Wesley are totally MIA, despite Wesley’s initial good intentions, so what am I supposed to do?”
Spike raised his scarred eyebrow and stared at her as if she were nuts. “I’m not just devilishly handsome, pet, I can fight, too. I can take care of these visions for you. I may not be the ‘chosen’ champion of the powers and all, but I can still help the helpless. I fight better than Angel, anyway,” he bragged.
She smiled beautifully at him. “That’s so sweet, Spike, but I don’t want to get you involved. This is my problem; you’re already doing so much. I don’t want to bother you with this.”
He was insulted. “I’m a master vampire, Cordelia Chase, not some weak fledgling. I can do this. Angel’s being completely irresponsible and its my duty to take care of you.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, trying not to get too excited.
“Of course,” he scoffed. “Piece o’ cake, luv.”
Coming up to him, she caressed his face with her hand. “Thanks, Spike. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You’ve been a life saver, Cordelia, it’s the least I can do.”
They shared a moment of miserable silence, not yet able to forget the losses they had in common.
Spike was the first to shake it off. “Now about that vision. . .”
***
The interior of Angel’s office was the darkened tomb it usually was, but the main difference this time was that it was actually night outside, not artificial darkness. His standard glass of whiskey was at his elbow, poured but untouched, and he stared off into the starry night as he pondered the mess that was his life.
He hadn’t seen Cordelia in two weeks, but she consumed his thoughts, a fact that caused him no small amount of irritation. He was constantly forcing his mind back to his girlfriend, back to Buffy, but his traitorous thoughts kept straying to the brown-haired beauty that he couldn’t seem to forget.
He’d begun dreaming about her, the images including his blonde-headed childe. Last night’s had been the most disturbing, an intensely erotic scene of the two of them intertwined in his bed at the hotel, Spike loving Cordelia slowly and tenderly, the way Angel had once dreamed of doing. He’d woken up in vamp face, enraged and desperate to kill Spike slowly and painfully.
Giving in to his frustration, Angel picked up the glass of whisky and downed it in one big gulp, taking comfort in the false warmth it gave him. Cordelia was taking over his life, even if she was no longer in it, and it was getting in the way of his happiness with Buffy.
Maybe if he could just see her, convince her to stay away from Spike, he could move past this and get on with his life. That was it. He would go to the hotel, a friend concerned for her well being, and that should be enough to stop this endless worrying. It had to work. Because if it didn’t, he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.
***
“Oh, stop whining, you big baby. If you would’ve let me help, you wouldn’t even be hurt.”
Spike winced, his hand holding his side, as Cordelia dragged him out of the car and back into the hotel. It was dark in the lobby, and with her dragging him, she with the inferior night vision, he could only hang on as she tripped down the stairs, jolting him with her. She pulled him to the couch, then went over to turn on the light.
“I told you, Cordelia, I didn’t want you getting hurt. You did your job with the visions. Mine is to fight, remember?” he said, trying not to focus on the pain.
She narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head and glaring. Stomping over behind the reception desk, she got out the newly restocked first aid kit and brought it back over to him.
“Take off your shirt,” she ordered, wrenching open the kit and bringing out some antiseptic and bandages. “God, you’re so infuriating. It must be a vampire thing. I’m not a helpless, eighteenth century woman here, Spike. Hello! part demon seer who knows how to use an axe. I can decapitate demons with the best of them, so don’t tell me I can’t help.”
He grasped her wrist firmly just before she attacked him with the antiseptic. “Watch it there, cheerleader. You’re supposed to make it better, not worse,” he joked.
“Ha, ha. Very funny, blondie bear,” she said snidely, smirking as she dabbed lightly at his wound.
He groaned, rolling his head back until it rested on the back of the couch, closing his eyes tightly. “God, why did I ever tell you about that? I should’ve known that you’d torture me with it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pfft. Please. Like I could pass that up? I still can’t believe you were desperate enough to be with Harmony, of all people. And people say I’m an airhead,” she scoffed.
He raised his head again and looked down as she fastened the bandage to his side. “What can I say? I was seriously damaged at the time. Dru had left me and I was obsessed with killing Buffy. Things like that can make a bloke crazy, you know?”
Smiling, she pressed down the last of the tape. “I know,” she said. “But you’re all okay now, right?”
“Yep. Bloody fantastic,” he said, admiring her handiwork. “Good job, pet. Looks like you’ve had some practice.”
At her sudden uncomfortable look, he said, “What, no kiss to make it feel better?”
She giggled at him, rolling her eyes. “Such a whiner,” she said, but leaned down to kiss the snow white bandage on his chiseled stomach. “There, all better!”
But Spike didn’t notice, his chest rumbling in a low growl as he sat up abruptly, pulling Cordelia to the side as he peered into the shadows.
After a moment, Spike sat back, the darkness in his features smoothing out into a self-satisfied smirk. He tightened his grip on Cordelia’s hand, pulling her down next to him on the couch and wrapping his arm around her.
Cordelia’s head whipped toward him in shock as he said, “What the hell do you want, Peaches?”
