Part 7
“You want to turn like this,” Giles instructed, “Twist your body underneath your attackers arm and then–Oomph.” He winced as Cordelia turned the wrong way again, her elbow jarring against his midsection.
Pausing to catch his breath, he watched as she turned away, frustrated.
He didn’t doubt that this would be a successful way to get rid of one’s attacker. Thrust hard enough and you’d wind any human… But therein lay the problem. Most of Cordelia’s attackers, he suspected, would be anything but human.
He’d mulled over this from the minute she’d stood in the library, describing in her own unique way how her life had changed. He’d instructed her, of course, not to mention anything to anybody.
‘Nobody should know that much about their lives, Cordelia.‘ he’d said, simply expecting her to take what he’d said and apply a little common sense but then, in the future, Cordelia had already seen what was coming, in some form or another.
A visionary, she’d said, a Seer of some description who’d helped Angel in the fight against evil by receiving visions from the Powers That Be. A lot of people, she’d said, had used this against Angel. Wolfram and Hart, mostly, a law firm Giles had already heard of, running the show in Los Angeles, which presented an even bigger problem.
This version of Cordelia knew so much about the present. There was no doubt they could use her, especially in the capacity Angel had used her in the future, but Giles’ reluctance was stronger than the pull of having an upper hand in this fight, so to speak.
He’d asked her once if they at least got through High School alive and Cordelia had smiled somewhat sadly. “Alive, a little charred and a big Mayor Snake to contend with, but yeah, we get through it.”
Bemused but not wishing to know more, Giles had left it at that.
“Shall we try it again?” He realised he hadn’t said anything in a couple of minutes and brought himself back to the task at hand with a bump, noticing Cordelia’s gaze drifting far beyond the walls of the library. He glanced, nervously, to where she looked and finding nothing, placed a hand on her arm, “Cordelia?”
“What? Sure, we can try it again…” She shrugged him off, “I’m good.”
To put it mildly, Cordelia looked scattered. She’d looked like that a lot this week, Giles had noticed, like she wasn’t completely there when you were talking to her, something her old self had perfected. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” She insisted, flashing him a smile that competed with the lights in the room, but didn’t quite reach her eyes, “Twist your body, right?”
He nodded, but by the sixth repeated attempt at pulling off the move, and the sixth expulsion of air from Cordelia, he was ready to give up. To his credit, he chose his words carefully. Since every attempt he’d used at getting Cordelia to talk to him had fallen short, he smiled gently,
“You’re not focussed, Cordelia, perhaps we should reschedule to a time when you’re more… Committed?”
It had been the wrong thing to say. Even as he said it Giles knew it was wrong and Cordelia’s eyes darkened considerably. “Not committed?”
“I didn’t–“
“Giles, it’s nearly 7.30 on a Friday evening,” she frowned, “I’m stuck here in a library practicing a move that I’m likely never going to get in my entire span of living, and you’re questioning my commitment?”
He flushed. He hadn’t meant to say that, not at all, but now he had there was no going back. “I was simply suggesting…”
“I know what you were suggesting, Giles, I’m trying.” She grabbed a towel from the table and raked it over her neck, wincing as Giles gave her one of his sympathetic head tilts. She was so over the sympathy.
“Look, I’m going to go shower, okay? Right now, I’m getting less fighty and more cranky and whereas that might be good for the vamps of this world – Angel aside – it doesn’t bode well for you,” she told him, gathering her things before he could protest, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
He watched Cordelia leave, her sneakers hitting the floor of the library silently. Somehow, without even realising he was doing it, he’d managed to send her stress levels through the roof. Normally, she would have bit off some sarcastic remark about her commitment, but the fact that it had struck so deep worried Giles.
True, he hadn’t meant to say it, and her reaction had been justified at the very least… But since when did Cordelia not come back with some barb designed to make the average (and not so average) British man wince?
Sighing, Giles made a mental note to talk to Buffy about the brunette, before bending down to pick up some of the training mats, wincing as his back gave out a creak of protest. I’m getting too old for this… He thought, sourly.
***
Not committed, Cordelia repeated to herself silently, pulling on her clothes as she stood in the girls locker room, not committed? I show up there every day to get my fighty on with ye olde person of the trainy community and he questions my commitment because I get a little glassy eyed once in a while? Hello!
She was entitled, she told herself, to be a little distracted this week. She was entitled; she continued to tell herself, to be a little distracted any day of the week, since her wish of helping Angel and making it better had tossed her back into the ubersuck of all dimensional jumps.
It mightn’t have been so bad, really, if she knew what she was doing in this life. Everybody else, she had a total handle on, give or take a few changes she’d made willingly. Xander would probably never advance as far as college; opt instead for the path of the guy who worked with wood.
Or Giles, the path of being fired when it came to testing his loyalty to Buffy. Or even Willow, who Cordelia – watching her with Oz every day – kept looking for that glimpse of her becoming a lesbian.
And Ms. Calendar, whose life Cordelia was certain she’d saved.
It was hers that was uncertain and what surprised Cordelia was that it had always been that way. There’d always been a turn that she didn’t know was coming, a demon thrown in their path that she, Angel and the gang vanquished, bruises and all.
But things were different now and Cordelia, whether she liked that or not, was slowly or surely having to come to terms with.
Pulling her hair back into a loose knot, Cordelia headed out into the hallway, uncertainty flooding her for just a moment as she glanced back towards the doors to the library. It wasn’t Giles’ fault that she was having a crappy day. And sure, she was scattered, but that didn’t mean she had to take it out on him, did it?
Feeling guilty but not having enough energy to apologise for it, Cordelia went to her locker, grabbing a couple of books and her car keys. She could apologise tomorrow when she felt more like human, maybe even take him a cup of that English tea crap that Wesley always liked as peace offering.
She smiled to herself, at least feeling a little better, and walked quickly down the hallway, checking her watch for the fiftieth time that hour. She’d told her parents that they needed to have a ‘talk’ that night, her father immediately handing over his credit card…
Cordelia had frowned at that. Before this, back when she was actually herself and not three years in front, she would have snapped his arm off; hit the shops so hard they wouldn’t have even known what had hit them.
Now? All she could do was worry. They were on the path to ruin that was for sure. Mr. IRS was probably calculating his totals as she pushed open the doors to the parking lot.
She was doing the right thing, she’d told herself, as she’d demanded their presence that morning. “This isnt som’ething money can fix, Dad,” she’d told him, “Not this time.”
Of course her mother, hyperactive and way under the influence of whatever meds she’d taken that morning, had shrieked that she was too young to be a Grandma, making Cordelia roll her eyes.
She’d even debated telling her that, no Mom, vampires can’t have babies and she was about a year too early to be impregnated by Wilson Christopher–until logic had kicked in. “I’m not pregnant!” She’d snapped, “Hello! Let’s talk about being WAY too young, first of all, then there’s the getting fat…”
And a whole list of other reasons that it’d been way too early to get into with her parents. “I just want to talk, that’s all. Y’know, hold conversation, like normal families do?”
Normal families, she realised as she reached her car, was sort of pushing it when it came to hers. Aside from the tax evasion (and that was a big aside) her parents? Were nowhere near normal. Her mother, for a start, was this side of hypochondriac when it came to her Epstein’s Barr.
Her father, just to add to the insanity that was Cordelia’s life, barked orders out to anyone who listened. A business man, by all accounts, tax dodger and a whole host of other names by others.
It was weird how a little perspective could change things. Three years of perspective… And Cordelia was starting to understand how things worked, especially now. The money didn’t matter… Which was the strangest thought Cordelia had ever had in her whole 21 years (if you counted the other three) of living.
Sure, she wasn’t used to living on the poverty line or anything, but you got used to having no money. Or at least, you got used to not having much money. That was fine with her. What wasn’t fine was the idea of her father going to prison for being such a dumbass he neglected to pay his taxes in the last…Ever.
Dumping her books on the back seat of her Corvette, Cordelia went to get in when an arm snaked around her waist, pulling her backwards. She tensed immediately, turned to execute the move she’d been trying to get right for an hour and stiffened even further when she heard the voice.
“Hello, cutie,” he drawled, before squeezing on a pressure point in the back of Cordelia’s neck that made everything go dark, “Thought it was about time we had a chat…”
***
“Well, duh!” Cordelia rolled her eyes, “Of course she knows too much! You took future me and shoved her into past Me’s body.”
Skip sighed. The theory that when one soul jumped dimensions, the other soul had to have another place to–Well, jump, was one he hadn’t really entertained.
Now? He was starting to wish he had.
Standing in front of him was a different girl to the Cordelia Chase he’d sent back, one that hadn’t been touched by visions or years of fighting alongside–
“Hello, are you going to do something about this?” She demanded, “I’m stuck on an astral plane with a demon who likes Star Trek more than Xander, for crap’s sake. I want to go home.”
That was the problem, thought Skip as he took in that arched eyebrow. The weight of the world rested on the other Cordelia’s shoulders, the one he’d guided since her demonisation. If she messed up, there wasn’t going to be a home for this Cordelia to go back to…
***
“Y’know, this process would go a whole lot faster if you’d let me put some of this stuff onto computer,” said Jenny, flicking a glance over at Giles who actually looked like he was in his element, sitting among his musty old books, “A lot of libraries have computerised catalogues these days, you should”
—
“Move with the times?” Giles finished, shooting her an ironic smile, “Yes, I remember the last time you told me that…”
“You can’t count Moloch again,” Jenny accused, laughing, the sound warm and inviting, “Besides, we’re not scanning the books into the computer, we’re just… Inputting numbers.”
“And in Sunnydale, that could be the end of the world as we know it,” Giles murmured, “Just ask the IRS. Would you like some more tea?”
Jenny declined, biting back another laugh as Giles headed through into the office. She could think of better ways to be spending her Saturday than sitting in a library with no air conditioning but–well, the stuffy library with no air conditioning? Also had something no other place in Sunnydale did at that moment.
Giles.
“Would you like some coffee?” he called, pottering around in the office as he made tea.
“No, thanks,” she called, folding a piece of paper over and wafting it in front of her face. It was hot – depressingly hot – a day when every other normal person would be out sunbathing or sitting on a beach somewhere.
It was funny what love made you do…
He came back in the room with a fresh cup of tea, trying to seem unaffected by the heat but looking suitably ruffled, and smiled at her, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
Jenny shrugged, “Where else would I go?”
They shared a brief smile before Jenny, realising she’d lost the battle on computer cataloguing completely, went back to the task at hand, marking little numbers on the collection of new books that had come into stock that week.
It seemed routine of theirs now. Jenny helped Giles out with things in the library, be it cataloguing or saving the world from unspeakable demons. And Giles–well, he tried to help out in the lab, but most of the time his even looking at the computers gave them a tendency to ‘wig’ as Buffy would put it.
“You said Cordelia didn’t turn up for practice this morning?”
Giles looked up at her question, eyes darkening with worry. “She didn’t seem herself last night. We exchanged words and our parting was… Less than stellar.”
“You think she’s upset?”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, taking a sip of his tea, “I just assumed a good night’s sleep would fix the problem but… Apparently not.”
“Did you call her?” asked Jenny, head tilted to one side.
“Blasted answer machine,” he nodded, his distaste for them showing, “It was like rocket science trying to leave one message, all ‘press this button and that’. I thought she’d have called me back by now.” His gaze flicked towards the clock.
“She’ll be okay,” Jenny tried to reassure him, but Giles’ brow knitted. She knew that look. She’d watched him master that look over Buffy. She risked a furtive glance over to the phone and watched as Giles took the hint, moving across the library to get to the phone.
“I’ll give her another try.”
She watched as he stood, his gaze growing darker by the second. He twisted the phone cord beneath his fingers twice and then replaced the receiver again, his sigh heavy.
“She’s not answering,” he said quietly, something in his eyes telling Jenny that it was no longer a case of reassuring him that Cordelia was okay.
“Why don’t you call Buffy?”
***
When Giles called Buffy that afternoon, she was already having the suckier kind of day. She’d promised her mother earlier that week that she’d help out with cleaning the back yard, already forgoing an afternoon of shopping and teenage normalcy with Willow.
But her suckiness had transcended from yesterday afternoon, having a pop quiz shoved on them by Ms. Matthews in history. Usually, Buffy did okay in history. But since she’d been pretty absent for the last week and a half, right when they’d learned everything on the pop quiz apparently, Buffy had not faired okay.
“You’re a good student, Buffy,” Ms. Matthews had told her after Buffy had done the exact opposite of acing the quiz, “But you’re rarely here for lessons and when you do turn up you’re distracted.”
Buffy sighed. Distracted? Sure. Since she’d been pounded into the floor by a green spiny headed demon thing on Thursday night – the word ‘headache’ hadn’t even covered it.
“I’ll give you another chance,” Ms. Matthews continued, “A chance to retake the pop quiz. Ace it and you can stay in my class. Flunk it? And you’re with Principal Snyder for study hall three times a week.”
It was enough to put the wiggins into anyone, Buffy thought, marking pages out in her history book and trying to come up with some reason to give her mother over not being able to help in the yard.
The phone rang a minute later.
“Giles… What? Slow down…” She frowned, dropping her pencil, “She didn’t turn up? What? But–you want me to go over there?”
Buffy looked at her books. Ace a history test… Or go save Cordelia from unspeakable evil that mightn’t even be–Evil. How is this my life?
“I’ll go, Giles…” she sighed, “Just… Give me a while to not get grounded for life, okay?”
***
It turned out that getting grounded was the least of Buffy’s worries that night. She’d carry her mother’s disapproving look to the grave with her, but in the grand scheme of things it barely registered as a blip on the radar.
She’d arrived at Cordelia’s house twenty minutes after Giles’ phone call, frustrated by her apparent inability to remember a few little dates for some history test.
First, she’d been accosted by the maid, a short, snappish woman who looked like she’d seen a few better lifetimes, never mind days. She’d told Buffy – as if it were some great imposition that she was there and actually worried about Cordelia – that ‘that girl’ was no concern of hers and that even if she were, she hadn’t been home last night for her to be concerned about.
The second time Buffy had been stopped? It was by the police. Fortunately for her, she had the blonde bimbo routine down to a T. Fortunately for the police, they were dumb enough to believe her.
“I lent Cordelia my book, see?” She asked, leaning over into the Corvette and retrieving Cordelia’s history book from where it lay, “And I totally forgot I needed it until today…”
“So you broke into the car?” The balding policeman asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I didn’t break into the car; it was already open,” she protested, “Hello, open top! Besides, its life or death!” This time she wasn’t exaggerating,
“I have this pop quiz on Monday and if I don’t ace it, my history teacher is totally going to make me do study hall three times a week with Principal Snyder and oh my God, that’s like a fate worse than death or something–“
She wasn’t sure what it was that got the policeman to declare that he believed her, her over-exaggerated blonde routine or the fact that they just weren’t paid enough to put up with this crap in Sunnydale.
Either way, she was on her way within 15 minutes of getting to Cordelia’s house, heading back to the library with the brunette’s book in hand and the set of keys to the Corvette she’d found not six feet away from the car.
Something was very wrong…
***
Wiping the blood off his hands, Spike walked through the curtained partition and back to Drusilla, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile as she rose to meet him. “You ok, pet?”
She came towards him immediately, arms outstretched, head tilted to one side, “She tests your patience.”
She’s got that right, thought Spike, scowling. He patted his pockets, searching for his cigarettes and remembered he’d sent one of the minions out to steal him a pack, his scowl deepening. “She won’t say a word. Nothin’ about Angel, the Slayer… I’m starting to wonder if she’s got balls we don’t know about.”
Drusilla tutted, shaking her finger, “Now, now, Spike. No need to be vulgar.”
Actually, he thought, there’s every sodding need. She was supposed to have folded by now, given up… He’d visited every torture on her he could think of, bored as he waited for her to get all loose lipped, only to find that Cordelia was a tougher nut to crack than he’d originally thought.
He’d got nothing.
“She just won’t give it up.” He muttered.
“Is it my turn yet, Spike?” Drusilla asked, sketching arcane symbols on his shoulder with her fingernails, “Could make pretty eyes sing like a little birdie. You know how I like to play.”
Spike arched an eyebrow, “You really wanna open that can of worms, pet? What if…”
Drusilla’s head tilted to one side, “You think we shouldn’t know too much.”
He sighed. She could read him like a bloody book. He was all for making the slayer hurt, had thought that if he just tortured Cordelia a little, she’d crack. But what Dru was talking about, he knew from experience, would open up something a hell of a lot more than his torturing would.
She’d spill everything, and Spike wasn’t sure how much he wanted to know.
“Dru…”
“What is it, my Spike?” She asked, her voice soft and lilting. She placed a hand under his chin and drew his face delicately forward so their foreheads touched. Her lips drew upwards into a cruel and unusual smile. “This little birdie sings a different song. Don’t you want to know what that is?”
“Fine,” Spike said. “Just be careful. I don’t want the slayer on my back ’cause we know too sodding much about her precious future.”
He watched as she turned and left the room, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He’d brought her here to knock her around a bit for stealing Dru’s present, not to find out exactly what was in his future – he had enough of that with Dru.
Now? It seemed like he had no option. Dru wanted ammunition, he guessed, something they could torture the slayer with, make her hurt a bit… And what Dru wanted? Dru usually got.
He just hoped it wasn’t going to backfire…