Title: The Price She's to Pay
Author: AbbyCadabra
Posted: 09-30-2002
Rating: R for graphic images of violence and swearing. And who knows, if you're lucky, and little nookie.
Email: YankeesNAbercrombieChick@hotmail.com
Content: AU C/A
Summary: The ending of Birthday goes a little differently.
Spoilers: Nothing major. General season three stuff and maybe some of season five BTVS.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: To anybody who asks.
Notes: Okay, I know you're probably thinking why the hell is Abby starting yet another fic while she's still got three unfinished ones. Well, because this idea has been floating around my head for about six or seven months (since Birthday originally aired) and I haven't been able to get rid of it. Just figured I'd go with it and see what happens.
Feedback: Makes me try harder.
Thanks: to Elisha for listening when I babbled on about this fic and for not telling me that the idea sucked.
Dedication (Part 5): To Canadia.Part 4: The Promise
“Me?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“M—“
“Yes! You! Cordelia Chase,” he clips out, a flush rising along his neck.
She knows she should open her mouth to reply, and thinks something sharp yet witty will put Wesley back in his place—which is beneath her—but nothing comes to mind. She realizes then that she’s utterly stunned. This revelation is not so sudden, but suddenly very enlightening, and she inwardly admits that she’s speechless for what must be the first time in her life, and has no idea why.
Dismissing her current state of bafflement, she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. She wills herself to shut out Wesley’s Mr. Miyagi-if-you-wax-on-and-off-you-will-learn-that-I-know-everything-and-you-know-nothing attitude. She knows that some people—ahem, Wesley—might interpret her actions as pouting, but she also knows that she doesn’t care about what other people might be thinking.
An awkward hush falls over the empty hallway of Wesley’s apartment building, and she ignores it with practiced apathy. Wesley, on the other hand, one that is not decorated with Tiffany-bought diamond and ruby rings, but calluses and scars, finds the stillness unnerving. He shuffles his feet and repositions himself over and over again, alternating between standing and leaning against the doorframe.
The uncomfortable silence proves too much for Wesley, and he pushes himself away from the door saying, “Really, Cordelia, there is no need to—“
“I am not pouting!” she snaps, ruthlessly dropping her arms to her sides in a manner that reminds Wesley of a little girl who is on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum.
He closes his mouth and looks away from her infuriated stare, scratching a nonexistent itch behind his right ear. He meets her gaze and says in a tone that betrays the laughter he feels escalating in his throat, “I was simply going to say that you shouldn’t be frightened.”
She averts his smug stare, her disinterested façade crumbling away into a more humble one. Re-crossing her arms, she says defensively, “I’m not scared. Why should I be scared?”
She sees that he’s a little taken aback by her response, a little distressed, a little confused, and a lot annoyed. “Why should you…” he repeats her words more to himself than her, trying to find some semblance of rationality in them. He takes one long, calming breath before beginning, “Angel had a vision of you, Cordelia. Now, I’m not telling you to flee in fear for your life, just to—“
“Oh, well thanks for clearing that up and all, because I was about to do just that,” she cuts in sarcastically.
“Will you please refrain from interrupting me,” he bites out through gritted teeth. He waits for her nod before continuing. “Angel had a vision of you, Cordelia. A rather gruesome one at that.” He holds up his hand sharply at her oncoming reply, halting her open lips. “But before you become alarmed. Or irritated,” he adds at her eye roll, “Just listen to me.
“Angel’s visions are never wrong, Cordelia. They come to pass without fail. However, the reason for Angel having these visions is so that they can be stopped. That’s where Gunn and I come in.” The arch in his spine flattens, and he stands a little taller as he says, “So I assure you, Cordelia, that no harm will come to you as long as I am on watch.”
She waits mock-patiently for Wesley’s momentarily inflated ego to deflate, her posture rigid and her tolerance waning. She finds her new found and gloriously unbelievable damsel in distress status hard to believe and can’t quite get a handle on how she’s feeling—other than muddled, that is. The fitting emotion under these circumstances eludes her like that goddamned Emmy she’s been nominated for consecutively since the premiere of Cordy three long years ago.
She knows what she wants: to shrug off Wesley’s worries with a biting retort, to list for him the reasons why all this vision mayhem is bullshit, to renew her contract with Warner Bros plus a fifty percent raise…
To walk away and never come back.
She also knows that her final wish is in her complete control and for that reason obtainable. Yet it’s on the list of things she wants because she can’t actually bring herself to do it. And she isn’t sure why that is.
At the same moment she opens her mouth to say something—she doesn't know what, it’s a spur of the moment type dialogue—the door to the apartment flies open, almost taking Wesley with it, and reveals a very flustered looking Charles Gunn.
He looks at Wesley as if a second head has sprouted out of what used to be his left arm, and says, “Wes, man, what’s the hold up? I’m ready for a trip to the ‘Hills’ to rescue some fine celebrity ass. Hey, ya think if we catch her on a good night, she’ll give us a 'tip'?” He winks and jabs Wesley in the side with his elbow.
Wesley gathers himself, straightening away from the wall where he landed after his support system was haphazardly swung open. He pointedly glances from Gunn to Cordelia, and then again when Gunn doesn’t catch the hint. Finally, Gunn follows Wesley’s traveling stare, his eyes widening when he realizes that the ‘fine celebrity ass’ is standing directly beside him, staring him down with venom in her hazel eyes more suitable for those of a snake.
Cordelia’s cheerful mood has suddenly returned in light of Gunn’s blunder. She waits expectantly for his next move, one hand resting listlessly on her hip and the other dangling loosely at her side, the tips of her Charles David boots tapping casually on the hallway’s wooden floorboards, and the corners of her mouth upturned haughtily.
Gunn opens and closes his mouth, suitable words escaping him. He smiles at her uneasily, and she smiles back. He finds the fact that she has yet to gauge his eyeballs out with her eyelash curler or castrate him with her lip liner comforting, and uses it to advance his confidence.
Taking a deep breath in an effort to seize all the courage he can in one moment’s worth, he decides on the witty, act-like-nothing-has-happened approach and says, “But I see we don’t have to waste any money on gas.”
Before another awkward silence can permeate the cerulean walls of his apartment building, Wesley clears his throat and explains to Gunn, “I was just informing Cordelia of our… er… predicament—“
“Our predicament?” Cordelia interrupts,—yet again—her eyebrows arching impossibly high. “Excuse me, Mr. Assuming, but I don’t think I ever mentioned a ‘we’ or an ‘our’ or an ‘us’ or anything else that connects me to you. Ever. So why don’t you just take your self-conjoining assumptions and stick ‘em—“
“Say!” Gunn barks abruptly, purposing cutting Cordelia off. He ignores her seething glare and says, “Why don’t we all go inside and discuss this like mature adults over tea and crumpets. Or whatever it is that you English people talk over.”
“What does my being English have to do with anything?” Wesley mutters as he follows his friend and Cordelia through the door.
As she cautiously draws further into the poorly lit apartment, urging her vision to adjust to the darkness with each step, Cordelia slams her kneecap into something unreasonably hard and cries out in pain. She assures and then reassures Wesley and Gunn that yes, she is all right, and that no, she isn’t going to sue them for negligence. As she rubs the pain from her bones, Cordelia reasons that Wesley should look into buying more lamps.
Her eyes roam the interior of the apartment curiously for the second time in as many days, taking in the scattered weapons, the systematically stacked papers and texts before drifting back to that door, the one that only locks from the outside.
She traces the frame of the door with her eyes, studying the light that peaks though the cracks between wood and guessing what might be taking place behind that metal bolt. And then she wonders why she cares; she does, after all, still have that nasty bruise from the last time her curiosity regarding what lay beyond that door was sparked.
She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want to see him again. Just shouldn’t so many things that already are.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Cordelia?” Wesley asks, always the perfect gentleman. He motions towards a lumpy chair that faces away from the door to Angel’s chamber. Cordelia considers this on a subconscious level before declining his offer, opting instead to remain standing.
“Let’s just cut right to the chase. What was Angel’s vision about?” she asks, glancing from Gunn to Wesley.
“Well,” begins the former watcher, “Angel was much more shaken after this vision than usual, and therefore we couldn’t get much information out of him. He wasn’t able to…” he pauses, thinking his words over carefully, “communicate a great deal of the vital information such as the time and place.”
Her eyes flicker to the door before she asks, “But you got the whole this-is-how-she-dies thing out of him, right?”
“Erm… Somewhat.”
“What do you mean ‘somewhat’? Either you do or you don’t, Wesley.”
“Then I guess that we,” he glances at Gunn with doubt creasing a line over his brow, “don’t.”
Wesley had prepared himself ahead of time for some kind of attack—more preferably verbal, but he could never be too sure. At the very least he had expected a full blown derailing of his demon hunter standing. Thus, when Cordelia’s only reaction is to calmly sigh and thread a steady hand through her hair, Wesley is monumentally relieved.
Cordelia taps her chin with her fingertip, thinking. “Have you tried talking to him more than once? To see if he could remember anything new?”
“Yeah. Twice,” Gunn puts in. “The first time for details, and then again before we were heading out. He just said that you were in trouble, so we wanted to get there as fast as we could.”
She nods, taking all of this in. “Why don’t you let me talk to him?”
She knows it’s not a good idea, and judging from the looks that Wesley and Gunn are giving her, she isn’t the only one.
But for some reason, she isn’t afraid of Angel. She knows she should be, and sports the bruise and slight concussion to prove it, but just isn’t. She doesn’t understand it—and actually, she doesn’t understand a lot right now, which is really starting to grate her already shredded nerves.
It seems that her whole being is telling her to just go with these irrational impulses that don’t make any sense, not even to her. She’s taking blind leaps and bounds, with faith as her only parachute.
Something she is not confident in.
“Let me talk to him,” she repeats sternly, permitting no room for argument.
***
So much cold.
Cold metal. Cold blood. Cold skin.
Colder manacles. Colder hunger. Colder soul.
There is always pain.
“Save her. Save hersavehersaveher.”
But then there’s suddenly heat—he thinks. Can’t be sure, but believes.
Some splendid radiance of warmth engulfs him, and sparks of brilliant hazel assail his closed eyelids.
He struggles with the small piece of hope he has left at the bottom of his heart’s shattered remains to not believe, for to be let down would be irrevocably crushing. Yet one thought floods his mind and infiltrates and duplicates and replicates until there is room for no other:
Cordelia, Cordelia, Cordelia.
“D-don’t let her die. Save her.”
He feels her hot skin on his and like a heaven-sent miracle the cold vanishes, replaced with a searing heat that instantly ignites throughout his corpse. He burns with her touch from the inside and, Oh God, it burns and it’s magnificent and the hazel he sees turns to red, flashing and flashing—Blood—and suddenly he’s afraid because at any moment he might burst into flames from the heat that burns him, burns so greatly.
“Shh… It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
“Savehersaveher. No dying.”
He hears her words, plays them over in his head again, and then again, and finally comprehends. His morale soars as he realizes that this isn’t a dream, or a vision, or a hallucination, and that warmth this overpowering has come from her hand on his forearm, just above the icy shackles that bind him from harm.
He’s infected with a dangerously sharp compulsion to take her into his arms and let her very essence seep into his being through his pores so that she’ll be with him forever. He wants to melt her down like a scrap piece of gold and pour her remains into his soul. He wants her, and wants to be smothered. All he wants.
“Angel? Can you hear me, Angel?”
He nods. Gives her a response because he knows that’s what she wants.
“Angel,” her hands are on him again, and again his skin catches fire and his heart feels as if it will explode, “I want you to tell me what you saw in your vision. Please, tell me. It’s very important.”
He opens his eyes, the blinking fire behind them replaced with her soft eyes and the real hazel he’s dreamed about. Something flickers in her irises, but he notices it not, too entranced.
“Cordelia Chase. Hollywood Hills. D-dead,” he rambles, doing his best to remember the details without having to pull up the horrifying images of the vision.
“How?” she asks, taking a step closer and the heat radiating from her onto him intensifies.
“S-so sorry. Sososo sorry. Couldn’t help. Didn’t want you to die. So sorry.”
There is always pain. The picture of her dead body, laid out gloriously in a pool of her own blood, causes the heat to flush out of his veins and renders Angel chilled to his very core. Pain clenches his lungs and triggers the gasps that heave his chest violently up and down. He sees nothing but blank, unblinking hazel eyes, a single drop of blood between them.
There is pain.
“Sorry. Sososorry. I was helpless. I tried. T-tried. Nothing.”
Blood.
“Shh, I’ve got you… Please, don’t cry. I’m here. I’m right here. Nothing has happened.”
All he wants.
“God, I c-couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t. So sorry.”
There is always pain.
“Angel, I’m here. Don’t cry for me, please. I’m fine… Please, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere… Angel, I’m right here. With you.”
And then there is darkness.
Part 5: Building a Mystery
Something tells her that this is not right. Shouts at her really. This something—which is, she suspects, correct on every imaginable level—claims that the vampire who lie weeping in her arms ought not be there. She wonders, then, why is it that his form fits so perfectly within the length of her arms? If he really shouldn’t be there, then why does his head rest so easily on her shoulder, or his body mold so painlessly to hers?
She wishes she knew the answers. Or, better yet, what she should call the feeling that is simmering in her chest, the one that makes her want to reach out and soothe the knot that runs throughout Angel’s entire body and mind. The need to help someone—to ease his pain—is new territory for Cordelia, the Queen of Mean, and she doesn’t know how to go about it.
She thinks back over her experience as an actress, and does her best to pull up the scenes in which she was comforted or offered comfort. Various scenes come to mind, but all are rejected. Angel doesn’t need advice on a failed relationship or stunted sex life, the two things which, she suddenly realizes, are all that her television show has ever dealt with.
Thinking back even farther, past the oh-if-only-it-could-be-repressed years of Sunnydale High School, to her childhood, she inexplicably stumbles across the perfect solution.
“Angel,” she whispers, cajoling him from his tears with her silk-like plea.
“I said I was sorry!” he snaps, startling her. She recovers without fail though, and tightens her arms around his shoulders, clasping his quaking body closer to hers until not a breath of air is left between them.
“Shh…” she soothes, her warm breath blowing through his hair. “Angel, that doesn’t matter, okay? I’m here. I’m safe.” To prove her point, she runs her hand along his back, and pretends not to feel his muscles tense at the contact. “Listen to me, Angel. I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else. And do you know why?” She asks this question in all honestly, waiting for the shake of his head before she continues, “Because I trust you, Angel. And I truly believe that if my life were ever in danger, you would be there to save me, no matter the circumstances. And I want you to believe that, too…
“Once, when I was just a girl, seven or eight years old, I think, I was sitting on the floor in my mother’s dressing room, watching her get ready for one of my father’s big celebrations, which were held for no reason other than to give him an opportunity to pat himself on the back for his bogus fortune. I always hated those things.
“But anyways, I remember my mother was sitting at this table, the very glamorous ones with big light bulbs across the top and a big, long mirror. She was putting on her makeup. She looked beautiful. I mean, absolutely stunning in the ivory colored gown she’d bought earlier that week. I remember it dipped very low in the back, and my father had complained about it. She’d ended up getting her way, though, like she always did. Her dark hair was swept up in this unimaginably difficult design, with springing curls that fell over the back of her neck. She had on these enormous diamond earrings that were… so amazing… they sparkled as if they were on fire. And she had the matching necklace to go with it, and the bracelets and rings—she’d had it all. And her skin was just… glowing—I think it might have been the light. Her complexion was smooth, flawless, except… Except for the bruise above her left cheekbone that spread all the way across her eye until it reached just beneath her eyebrow and barely touched the bridge of her nose.”
She lowers her head and closes her eyes, the image of her mother vivid on the back of her eyelids. Her brow creases in a show of pain that she thought was long forgotten, resurfacing after all these years to sting her just as if it had happened yesterday. Keeping her eyes shut, she continues, “Bruises like that weren’t necessarily commonplace in our home, but I was never surprised when one popped up the next morning after my mother had taken ‘a nasty spill down the stairs,’ or had ‘tripped into a door knob.’ I remember she went through the process of covering up such ‘stupid clumsiness’ in detail, advising me to never be such a ‘stupid, clumsy girl.’
“First, she moisturized cautiously, careful not to be too rough in places that were too sensitive. Then she shook up her hundred-dollar bottle of foundation and poured a little into a crystal candlestick holder, converted from its original trade to suit her needs. Then she dabbed two brushes, one small and one extra small, into the colored liquid and began to paint away her clumsiness and hide her stupidity.
“And when she was done, and perfect again, she finally spoke to me. As she stood and examined herself in the mirror —the designer gown and professional hairdo and diamond jewelry and secreted bruises—she said, ‘Cordelia, when true love finds you, you won’t want to let it go. No matter how much it hurts.’”
She sighs heavily, grateful that the burden of her memory has been somewhat lessened. She notices, with some surprise, that Angel’s tears have finally stopped. Then she notices, with what can only be described as a shitload of surprise, that neither is he still in her arms. Now, she is in his.
She thinks back, trying to recall how their roles could have possibly been reversed, and comes up with nothing. A faint warning bell resounds in her mind, but is gradually drowned out by an overwhelming feeling of rightness at the situation that has bubbled over from her heart.
His arms—they’re strong like steel, and it amazes her that she had never noticed it before—are curled loosely around her waist, holding her atop his lap. His cheek rests gently on the crown of her head, which is nestled between his chin and chest.
Lost in his presence, she forgets his identity. The fact that he is a vampire, and more importantly an insane one at that, slips her mind. As does the reason that she is there. A feeling that comes from a nameless place deep inside of her wants to never leave the comfort of Angel’s arms, while the rational part of her knows that to remain there for another second means danger.
“He had dark hair,” Angel speaks finally, and without knowing it, decides for her. She peels away from his strong arms and cool body, sighing. She threads a hand through her hair as she moves back, locking eyes with his, which are as clear as the night sky just beyond the glass of his solitary window.
“What?” she asks.
He gulps nervously. “In my vision. The guy who… He had dark hair: black or brown. Medium height. It happened in front of the ‘Hollywood’ sign in the Hills.”
“How did it…?” she trails off.
Angel doesn’t blink, doesn’t hesitate. “There was a struggle before he strangled you. It wasn’t quick.”
She nods, looking away.
“Cordelia,” he softly says her name for the first time, drawing her attention back to his unwavering gaze. “I feel like I know you.”
She sighs painfully, finally reminded that not all is right with the man who held her in his arms not one minute ago, no matter how much a part of her had wanted to think he was. “We do know each other, Angel. I’m C o r d e l i a,” she sounds her name out slowly, as if he possesses some hearing deficit. “Sunnydale, Angel. Don’t you remember?”
He shakes his head, looking down briefly. “No, I don’t mean… that. I feel like I know you well.” Her eyebrow cocks questioningly, prompting him to continue, “I mean, like… we’re connected somehow… I feel you here,” he reveals, gently taking her hand and placing it over his heart. “I feel like I know you here,” he repeats, still indicating to his heart.
She breathes out slowly, shocked to hear her very own thoughts echoed by Angel. She is at a loss for words, even though she wants desperately to say something. She gazes at Angel, who is waiting for the reply she can’t think of. Thankfully, Wesley, who knocks quietly on the door at that instant, rescues her. She grunts half in pain and half in shock when her rear end suddenly connects with the hard floor, her comfortable Angel-cushion having scurried away to a darkened corner.
“Everything going well?” Wesley calls though the wooden slab, his voice tinged with concern.
“Yes,” Cordelia replies, getting up and rubbing her soar behind as she does so.
“Mind if I come in?” he asks, but she knows it isn’t more a question than it is a warning that says: I’m coming in.
She looks to Angel, huddled in the farthest corner, and desperately wants to tell Wesley to go the hell away. But instead she says, “Sure.”
As Wesley walks in and stands beside her, she muses that it is for the best she and Angel are separated, for Wesley would surely be alarmed to walk in and find her huddled within his embrace. She reasons that it is the only option, but still feels hurt by his departure.
“Did you find out anything of interest?” Wesley asks. She finds his voice too loud after all the time spent whispering, and flinches back, her brow furrowing.
She doesn’t notice the way Angel’s form twitches to go to her, thinking that perhaps Wesley had hurt her. She doesn’t notice a lot.
“Actually, yes. Some more details about the killer and where it happens.”
“Well then, why don’t you come tell Charles and I all about it,” he says, placing a hand at the small of her back and leading her to the door.
She knows that it is time to leave this room, this prison, and allows herself to be led away. But not without sneaking one last glance at the vampire hidden in the dark shadows, always watching.
Part 6: An Unraveling
((Two weeks later))
His fingertip gently traces the soft slope of her bare shoulder, sliding the thin, wispy barrier of silk from her skin. His gaze roams over her form from eyes to toes, and back again, devouring her beauty with his eyes. Always hungry for more.
He claims her lips fiercely, attacking them with passion. She welcomes him eagerly, and parts her lips slightly, inviting him into her. He steals the air right from the tip of her tongue, smothering her lips with his. She wraps her arms around the back of his neck, begging him to remain there.
A bold hand slithers down her side, caressing through the fabric of her top, and stops just as the tips of his fingers dip below the waistband of her jeans.
She gasps suddenly and pulls back, breathlessly exclaiming, “Wait.”
“What?” he asks, short on air as well. He surveys her disbelievingly.
“We…” she trails off. She breaks away from his steely gaze, pleading and angry with her at the same time. Closing her eyes, she continues, “We can’t.”
“Cordy,” he sighs, removing his hands from her waist and cupping her face with them. He refuses to look away or to be ignored, concentrating his chocolate stare on her closed eyes.
Feeling his thumbs lovingly stroke the corners of her mouth, pulling her lips into a literally forced smile, she opens her eyes, a real smile emerging. “What?” she whines, immediately embarrassed to have done so.
He chuckles under his breath, and then looks at her seriously, intensity written across his irises. She finds the honesty in his stare unnerving in its steadiness and looks away when she feels her cheeks begin to burn.
“I love you, Cordy.”
She rolls her eyes and returns her gaze to his, incredulous. “Oh, please. This isn’t high school. Telling me you love me isn’t going to get my pants off any quicker than if you were to get down on one knee right now, slip a ring on my finger, and ask me to marry you. It just doesn’t work like that.” She pauses, thinking. “Actually, if the ring was big enough, I might be inclined to—“
He puts his finger up to her lips, silencing her. She narrows her eyes at his actions, but he doesn’t remove his finger.
“I’m in love with you, Cordy. I’ve totally, completely, and honestly fallen in lo—”
BRIIIIIIIIING…
Her eyes widen in surprise, a fear creeping up her spine, and thinks to herself, not now.
“Cut! Fucking cut!” the director shouts from behind the lens of the camera, utilizing his trademark phrase, ‘fuck.’ He removes the oversized headphones from his ears and flings them unseen at his assistant. A wave of anger visually washes over him. “What the fuck is that?” The rogue cell phone sounds off again, its loud, standard ring echoing off the high, acoustic-oriented ceilings of studio A12. “I could have sworn that I said I’d fucking fire anybody who brought a fucking cell phone to my fucking studio!”
Cordelia flinches as her cell phone rings again, the only sound penetrating the tense air.
“Everybody shut up,” the director bellows, waving his hands to draw attention to himself. “Just shut the fuck up!”
The expanse of studio A12 falls silent almost instantly, Cordelia notices. Her costar, the audience, the camera and sound and set crews: all quiet. No one makes a sound—the skill of breathing having been discarded—as they await another ring from the blasphemous mobile in hopes of pinpointing its origin.
The next ring finally signals, and all heads turn towards Cordelia, each showing surprise. Including, she’s relieved to see, the director.
Out of the corner of her eye she watches her costar, Kyle McCormic, a rising star with a rising alcohol problem, shift uncomfortably in his seat before standing and going off to his dressing room, muttering something about a headache and the need for a drink. The movement seems to prompt the director into action, because he suddenly flashes her a forced smile that fails to completely hide his irritation. No one, the director is well aware, would dare cross the star of Cordy, currently the hottest sitcom playing over the television airwaves.
The director takes a step towards her and says in a sugarcoated tone, “Cordy, your phone is ringing. Better pick it up before you miss your fucking call, dahling,” extra Mommie Dearest emphasis on the ‘dahling.’
She nods dumbly, getting up and following the tracks of her costar backstage. She stops in the shadows and slips the small mobile from her back pocket. Her breath catches when she reads the caller ID, and there’s moment when she isn’t sure if she wants to answer the call. She does answer, though, flipping the phone open with fingers she refuses to let tremble.
She asks in a small voice, “Is everything alright?”
“No,” comes the cheerless tone of Wesley’s voice through the earpiece. “It’s Angel.”
She glances once at the set of her television show, the cameras, the audience, the fame. Her life as it is and as she’s always wanted it to be.
“Give me half an hour,” she replies shortly before snapping her mobile closed.
She turns her back on the bright lights and walks through the dark backstage passage towards the exit, her departure hidden behind a thick, theatre-like curtain.
***
“Shh… It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
Terror.
Seeping into him, deeper and deeper. It’s buried inside of his lungs, spreading all over his body with every unneeded breath he takes. His veins enclose around it. His bones shake with it. His soul cowers from it.
The pain.
Diving into his flesh until all of it has been affected and not even his fingernails are left without an ache. Nothing can save him from it, nothingnothingnothing. No. One.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Where are you?” he cries out, the pain and terror filtering into his voice.
“I’m here. I’m right here.”
He flings his arms about wildly, searching for her.
“Can you hear me, Angel?”
The need.
He suffocates with it until there is no air left for his human mask to breathe and the demon overtakes him. His heart beats with it, matches the rhythm of his fists against the center of his chest, pounding.
The need will kill him.
“Wes! Where’s she at?”
“On her way!”
“Then call her again and tell her to hurry the hell up! He can’t keep this up much longer—he’ll kill himself!”
“Oh my…”
“Go, Wes!”
“Charles…”
“Go!”
The pain blurs his senses. Can’t tell which way is up or down, right or wrong. It comes from all over, over all…
“Angel! Angel, stop!”
…Deeper and deeper…
“Angel, I’m right here. With you.”
…Nothing left for it to devour.
“Oh my God…”
TBC