just fic


Title: The Fine Line
Author: onlyann (Anne)
Posted: 01-19-2004
Email:
Rating: NC-17
Category:
Content: C/A
Summary: This is in response to a challenge posted by Psychofilly back in Sept. 2003 on the ‘Hiatus Challenge thread’.
Spoilers: BTVS Season 3
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made. Ryan Chamberlain and Kevin Collins- characters belonging to General Hospital – Jill F. Phelps, Executive Procedure; Port Charles Julie Carrruthers, Executive Procedure.
Distribution:
Notes:
Feedback:
Thanks/Dedication: Becky and Kel. Those lovely talented women have given me nothing but encouragement, help, and support on this story.


Part 47

Cordelia willed herself off the bed and went to her purse on the dresser. She pulled two envelopes from the leather bag and fingered the first - the bold “Food” written in marker had already been crossed out and replaced with “Angel.” She looked inside it and pulled out a second envelope that had the label “Motel” scratched out and replaced with “Angel.”

Then she picked up a third envelope on the dresser - “MSC” was scrawled on its white surface. She counted the bills inside and shook her head, then shoved them back and grabbed her pen, crossing out “MSC” and writing “Tires.” She looked at it for a minute and then marked out “Tires” and replaced it with “Angel.”

Cordelia stepped back and looked at the marked-up envelopes.

Then she slumped back on the bed.

She owed Angel so much. But she couldn’t feel grateful, not after what just happened. Just because she owed him, didn’t mean she would let him kiss her. She hugged her knees tight to her chest. So, he was hot and really nice when he wasn’t acting weird.

And maybe she wouldn’t have minded kissing him if things were different, but they weren’t and she just felt like her life was slipping more out of her control. She couldn’t help but think of Sandy and what she had been forced to become in order to survive.

Shaking her head, Cordelia clutched her knees tighter. She didn’t believe that Angel was a Bruno or any other dreg of the male cesspool that Sandy had been forced to entertain, but Angel was still a man.

Cordelia was confident in her instincts that signaled when a guy was attracted to her but she wasn’t so confident about the why of it all--not anymore. And then there was the very real possibility that her own attraction to Angel blinded her to reality or common sense.

Xander was the best example of her inability to distinguish between instinct, feeling, and truth. On a good day, she might admit that Xander had cared for her--that the hurt that he caused was truly unintentional.

However, Cordelia couldn’t help but remember that hurt or how his feelings for her, no matter how real, had been strangled by his obsession with Buffy and Willow. She should’ve known. She shouldn’t have let herself get sucked into falling in love with Xander and accepting third place in his attentions.

So, now she was stuck doubting Angel and his actions. Did he suddenly find her attractive? Did he suddenly realize that he liked non-petite brunettes with zilch super strength – rather than a tiny blonde powerhouse with the ability to knock down buildings and kill bad guys?

That would be nice, yet, after Xander, Cordelia thought she should listen to her common sense. There was no way that the Buffy-obsessed Angel that she knew would switch obsessions in a couple of days.

So why did he try to kiss her?

Cordelia’s hair swiped against her neck and back as she jerked her shoulders up in a shrug. She couldn’t figure it out and honestly it didn’t matter. She would only kiss someone when she wanted to. It would be her choice and it would be free of any feelings of fear or obligation. She’d leave, even if that meant leaving her car, before she’d let that happen.

Cordelia closed the bedroom door behind her. She would just explain the reality to Angel. And leave no room for misunderstandings.


Part 48

Angel stared at the bedroom door. It didn’t block what he knew was behind it. He could imagine Cordelia’s beauty, smell her intoxicating scent, and hear her rapid heartbeat. That scent--it only validated his decision to go slowly. He would overcome her nervousness. But he would do it soon, because slowly didn’t mean forever.

He tried to look nonchalant as he heard Cordelia walk toward the door.

She swung it open and her sudden gasp drew his eyes to her lips.

“Why do you keep sneaking up on me?”

Angel narrowed his eyes, still focused on her mobile mouth. “I can’t come into my bedroom and now I can’t stand in my hall. Where can I be?” He tried to make it a joke, but when he raised his eyes he could see he’d frightened her. Like her mouth, it was more than a little bit arousing.

“That’s not what - Errgh.” Cordelia took a deep breath, her disgust at her embarrassment apparent. “You startled me that’s all. I thought you were downstairs making lunch. That’s what you said you were going to do.” She recovered enough to shoot him a daring look.

“ I can hardly imagine you want to eat cold grilled cheese.”

Cordelia turned her bottom lip into a chew toy. You’re going to make a grilled cheese sandwich ---- for me?”

Angel shrugged. “I thought you might want something other than French toast or omelets.”

Cordelia’s smile bloomed like the ever-resilient daffodils in his garden. “I love grilled cheese.” Angel nodded, turning to follow her.

The Cordelia Chase that he was getting to know was still an enigma, but one thing he was sure of: Promise her food and she would come.

***

Cordelia plopped down on the stool in front of the kitchen island and stared at Angel’s back. She chewed on her lip harder, her earlier resolve to bring up the “almost” kiss waning. What if she really had imagined it? Angel wasn’t acting like an almost just-kissed guy that was for sure.

All he seemed to be interested in was food. She bit back a groan. When she had thought he wanted to kiss her she’d gotten nervous. But now that he was showing no signs of being attracted to her she wanted him to kiss her.

Cordelia took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. She was being an idiot. Angel was being nice in his weird way, that’s all

“What do you think?” Angel asked, placing a perfectly golden grilled cheese sandwich in front of her.

She glanced up, and from his expectant look, realized she’d missed what Angel had been saying. “About what?”

“Do you think spaghetti would be all right for Miss Twittle?” He sat on the stool across from her.

Cordelia nodded. “Sure. We’ve already got all the stuff, so we don’t even have to go shopping.” Cordelia frowned when Angel shook his head. “But you got spaghetti sauce and noodles at the drug store.”

“That was canned sauce.”

“So?”

“I think Miss Twittle would rather have sauce with some consistency and taste--and meatballs.”

“And you know how to do that?” Cordelia raised a disbelieving brow at Angel. Her eyes widened at his nod. “Now you want me to believe you can cook spaghetti sauce.”

“I told you—“

“That you’re old and know stuff--yeah, but seriously how come?”

Angel stared at her for so long that Cordelia self-consciously dragged a paper towel across her mouth, just in case she had cheese on her face. “Well?” she asked.

Finally he answered. “There was a time in the sixties that I worked at a diner. They had a weekly spaghetti and meatball dinner special.”

“You worked at a diner?” Cordelia pushed her plate aside so she could rest her elbows on the bar and stared wide-eyed at him over her entwined fingers. “I thought you were Mr. Reclusive in the sixties.” Cordelia frowned. “Actually, you’re still pretty recluse but I thought before you were way reclusive --as in hanging-out-in-the-sewer-type reclusive. I could’ve sworn that’s what Buffy said.”

Angel stood, picked up her plate, and went to the sink.

Cordelia wanted to kick herself for bringing up Buffy.

Still not answering, Angel placed the plate on the counter and took the frying pan off the stove. He slowly submerged the pan into the sink’s soapy water and started washing it.

Cordelia waited, body tense, to see what he’d say.

He dried the pan and set it back on the stove, then turned and leaned against the counter. “I didn’t hide from people when I first got my soul, I just didn’t go out of my way to actively mingle.”

“Buffy said--” Cordelia stopped. Damit, she’d said her name again.

“ Buffy simply repeated what I told her. I just didn’t tell her about every year, every decade, every century that I lived prior to coming to Sunnydale. It wasn’t relevant to why I came. And when I did come I had been living in the sewers hiding.”

Cordelia tilted her head at him. “Tell me, was it really because it wasn’t relevant or because mentioning your stint as a short-order cook would make you less ‘tragic and mysterious’?” She quoted the last phrase, and then shot him a grin.

Instead of laughing, his stare hardened. Her grin faded; maybe she had gone to far.

But then Angel laughed, a surprised sound. “Maybe both. Come on,” he said, stepping away from the counter. “I’ll tell you about my short-order cook days while we shop.” Angel held out his hand.

Cordelia’s gaze wavered from his hand to his face. “What about you? Have you had your lunch?”

“While you were upstairs.” Angel said.

Cordelia took his hand. “You know, you can eat--or drink. Whatever. You can do it in front of me,” she reassured him. “Even if it is kind of gross.”

“ I’ll remember that.”

She smiled as he pulled her to her feet, and then said, “Wait, I need to run upstairs for a minute.”


Part 49

Angel went into the living room to get his coat. He was tempted to follow Cordelia but there was nothing in her fleeing that made him believe that she was running to hide from him. So he stayed downstairs, wondering what caused Cordelia to dash upstairs, but willing to wait until she returned.

Angel gave a slight smile when, in less than a minute, Cordelia came bounding back down the stairs.

“Ready,” she said, still smiling.

“Let’s go.” He put his hands on her shoulders and steered her out the side door.

“ Okay, so where are we going?”

Angel stalled in the middle of the atrium, turning her towards him. “I don’t know. Wherever there are fresh tomatoes.”

Cordy laughed. “At this time of year? No way. Even I know that.” She switched their positions and took the lead, pulling him to the Plymouth. “But I think I can get you a reasonable facsimile.”

***

Angel was frozen still, not even bothering to hide his irritation. Cordelia refused to listen to him; worse yet, she physically pushed him away from the register so she could pay for the cartload of food.

“Cordy.” He put his hand on her wrist, trying again to make her put her money away.

“Pfft,” Cordelia smiled. “I’m paying. Don’t argue.” She pushed the bills towards the store clerk.

The pimply-faced fifteen-year-old cleared his throat.

“Well?” Cordelia raised her brows as the teenager blushed.

The boy glanced from her to Angel. “Um, maybe I should get a manager?”

Cordy, determined to get her way, pulled out the oldest ploy in the book. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Um—“

“You go to Sunnydale High. A freshman, right? Cecil, right?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Um, yes, I mean no, I'm a sophomore--and my name is Eugene,” the clerk squeaked.

“Ooh, sorry. Well, I’m Cor--“

“--Delia Chase. I know.” His Adam apple bobbed as he stuttered out her name.

“Of course you do.” She shot him a winning smile. “I know you from…third lunch period?”

“Gosh, no. I’m in the band,” he said, as if that explained it.

“ Hmm.” Cordelia let her smile widen. “Well, band does have second lunch. Anyway, here.” She shoved her money into his hand. “You’re awesome on the drums.”

“Trumpet,” he timidly corrected.

“Like I said. Awesome.” She kept smiling as the boy stared down at the bills. “My receipt?”

“Um sure, okay.” He fumbled for change.

“Thanks, Cecil.”

“Eugene,” the boy stuttered.

Cordelia tilted her head. "Oh well, you should know. See you around…Gene.” Cordelia shortened his name intimately, and then waved at him as she pocketed the change and picked up one of the bags. “Angel?” Cordelia pointed to the two other bags on the counter.

Angel put his money back in his pocket and scowled at the clerk as he picked them up. “I was paying.” He glared at the boy.

Eugene swallowed so hard his shirt moved over his Adam’s apple. “B-but that was Cordelia Chase,” he said in a dazed voiced. “She knew me."

“No she didn’t,” Angel scowl deepened. “Cecil.”

***

As they exited the store, Angel glanced over at Cordelia. "You shouldn't have paid."

"It's only fair. You wouldn't have to cook for Miss Twittle if it wasn't for me," Cordelia reasoned.

"I asked her to dinner, remember? I believe you said it was my idea, my fault, my problem.” He cocked his head at her.

Cordelia's brow wrinkled as she processed his words. “Shoot. It *was* your fault. You should have paid.”

“ I tried.” Angel shrugged.

Finally her face cleared. "Well, since I paid, then I don't owe you for the food you bought at the drug store. That would be fair."

"Except it cost more," Angel countered, keeping his irritation at her display with the pimply clerk at bay. He had no intention of taking money from Cordelia for any reason—but it was so easy to tease her.

“But I didn’t ask you to buy all that stuff and everybody knows that you don’t grocery shop at a drug store,” Cordelia retorted. “Your idea, your fault.” Cordelia shot him a crooked smile.

Angel raised a brow towards her. “And how exactly would that work?”

Cordelia tapped her forefinger on her chin as she studied him. “Well, I didn’t ask you to buy all that stuff at the drug store, which you have acknowledged. Therefore it was a gift, and I can’t pay you back for a gift--that would be rude. And I was fine with the canned sauce that you had already given me as a gift, but you insisted on getting something better for Miss Twittle. Obviously this incident should classify as your own culinary issue, which is strange, especially considering your diet. But whatever. The bottom line is, you owe me.”

Cordelia nodded like an efficient bank teller, a nod that was as teasing as it was sharp. Angel wanted to laugh or tell her that her make-believe tally sheet was unnecessary until he realized what she was really saying.

Cordelia, rich bitch of Sunnydale and arguably the most spoiled, didn’t expect anything handed to her.

Where was the teenage girl that thought she was entitled to everything? Was this a change of personality because of her parents’ abandonment--or was he seeing the real Cordelia?

Either way it didn’t matter. There was no way he was taking money from her, for food or for anything. He’d only let her pay before because it would’ve counter-productive to his plan for him to forcibly bundle her and the groceries up and pay.

As they walked from the garden to the side door, Angel breathed in the air around him, taking in the lingering smell of the flowers and Cordy’s own, distinct scent.

A wave of want shuddered through him. She was *his*. And nothing--not even Cordelia’s independence--would change that.

Making her want him would be so easy.

But he fought the instinct to overpower her. He’d have to make their coupling look like her idea, lest he be left with a woman who was nothing more than a spiritless, if beautiful shell.


Part 50

Angel frowned as he listened to Cordelia’s footsteps along the hallway. Once again, she had darted upstairs without an explanation, just a smile and a quick ‘be back’. Angel pushed the grocery bags in his hands onto the counter. Like before, he didn’t believe that she was running away from him, but he was beginning to believe that she was hiding something from him. A deep grumble began to vibrate in his chest as he mechanically unloaded the foodstuff from the bags. Cordelia having secrets from him was unacceptable. She belonged to him and that meant nothing about her could be hidden.

Pulpy liquid seeping through his fist brought his attention back to the groceries. He grabbed at a paper towel, using it to wipe away the remains of the tomato that had been his hand.

He studied the row of whole bright red tomatoes on the counter. Cordelia had been wrong – there were fresh tomatoes this time of year – hothouse organically grown ones- but still, in his mind, better than the cans she had pulled him towards.

As he stared at the line of tomatoes on the counter, a long-ago memory intensified and engulfed him. The marble of the counter became the cheap orange formica of a diner. The smell of coffee, grease, nicotine, and spices swirled around him. The low static blur of the customer’s excitement of the recent return of the Yankees to their greatness, rose above the vibrant music of Buddy Holly playing on the jukebox. The loudest and most strident voice belonged to a rail thin woman with brassy blonde hair piled on the top of her head, the bouffant adding almost foot to her height.

She reigned over the room from behind the cheap counter, eyeing her court once then twice and then going back into the kitchen. Her cigarette remained dangling from her painted lips with long learned expertise as she cough out her words, ^ This was the only good thing that I got from being married to that ‘fat bastard wop and his even fatter mother’^ She waved her hand towards the row of meatballs on the counter and the bubbling tomato sauce in the large pan on the stove. “^The family recipe ^, this puts the ^special^ in the ^Meatballs and Spaghetti Night^, youngster”.” Angel saw himself listening to her from shadow of the kitchen’s doorway.

The memory shifted to focus on the ingredients on the counter and the actions of the woman.

Angel leaned up, the vivid memory gone, as hot water splashed on his hand. The last tomato was bobbing in boiling water, along with the others that had been on the marble counter.

He rubbed the dishtowel in between his hand as he looked at the newly bought ingredients that he had lined up on the counter while under the influence of the memory. Angel gave a sharp nod, his ability to recall had ensured that he had replicated Madge’s ^family recipe^. His ability to recall all memories was usually a bane in his life as the majority of his memories consisted of blood, fear, and death, causing his ‘now’ soul’s conscience to quake with regret and guilt, but in this instant he could push aside the those never-ending feelings and concentrate on a moment that not only didn’t give him pain but was useful.

Angel looked up as Cordelia came back into the kitchen. Her presence brought his focus back to the where and now.

“Are you really supposed to boil the tomatoes whole?” She asked, as she came up beside him to peer into the large pot.

“No, you dice them, but you have to peel them first.” Angel turned off the stove and nudged Cordelia back with his hip as he picked up the pot.

“And this is going to do that?” She asked as Angel drained out the boiling water in the sink and covered the tomatoes with a stream of water from the faucet.

Angel shrugged. “This is how Madge did it.”

Cordelia moved to the stool, sitting and resting her elbows on the kitchen island. “Madge?”

Leaving the cooling tomatoes in the sink, Angel went to the counter and started to quickly chop the onions and peppers, placing the diced vegetables on their own paper plate. “This was Madge’s secret ‘family recipe’. She was waitress, cook, and owner of the diner,” he said over his shoulder.

“Oh. Wait,” Cordelia sat up. “If she was the cook, what were you?”

Angel heisted a moment before answering, “dishwasher.” Angel frowned at the choking noise coming from Cordelia. It sounded as if she couldn’t decide between a gasp of disbelief or a hysterical laugh.

“Sorry,” she coughed. “It’s just that it was hard enough to imagine YOU working in a diner –but stuck in the back washing dishes…. It’s just…. Well – bizarre. What did you do with your leather coat? Oh, nevermind,” she waved away her question. “No wonder you didn’t tell Buffy. Talk about image ‘kill’.”

“It was honest work,” Angel retorted.

“Sure.” Cordelia nodded, still smiling, “Guess you weren’t diamond ‘shopping’ at the opera anymore.”

Angel narrowed his eyes at her.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, stop with the glare. You know I’m just teasing.”

Angel gave a small smile in response.

“Still, “ Cordelia continued once he had acknowledge her statement, “You did have the diamonds, so why did you work? “

“Angel?”

Angel still remained silent as he concentrated on kneading the ground pork and beef, flour, Parmesan cheese, eggs, Italian breadcrumbs, minced onions and garlic into a large blended clump.

“Angel?”

Angel’s head rose at the repeated inquiry. He focused on taking portions of the meaty clump and rolling them into small balls, while he thought about his answer. “The diamonds were Angelus’.”

“Which is you and you still have them, so?”

Angel dropped the last meatball onto a sheet of wax paper and turned around focusing his narrowed gaze at her. “Why are you so interested?”

Angel couldn’t help but be impressed; Cordelia met his glare head on and answered him without hesitation or any sign of nervousness.

“Because it’s interesting, you’re interesting. Think about it, Angel, to me you were either Buffy’s lapdog or evil, not much interesting there, but here- now --- while being at times severely weird, you’ve also been really nice and great towards me, have a horde of diamonds that you don’t spend, a cool car that you don’t drive, can cook but don’t eat, worked as a dishwasher when you could’ve used vampire stuff to be rich, and have recently smiled more than twice – you’re a lot more interesting than you let on. Now my question is whether you make yourself darkly dull on purpose or are you just really dull with moments of coolness,” Cordelia asked.

Angel pondered her words, wondering whether to be offended or flattered, when Cordelia jumped up from her stool and screeched, “It’s erupting.” She pointed to the stove.

Angel jerked towards the stove. The peeled diced tomatoes and other ingredients that he had put together as he and Cordelia had been talking, had turned into a bubbling, spurting sauce which was at that moment was trying to escape the confines of the large deep pot.

“It’s okay,” Angel fumbled for the heat dial, lowering the gas flame under the pot as he used a wooden spoon to stir the thickening volatile sauce into something tamer.

“Angel.” Cordelia shouted again pointing to the stove. “The meatballs are making strange noises --- they aren’t going to blow up, are they?” She squeaked, stepping back to the kitchen doorway.

Angel gripped at the frying pan taking it away from the flame; he winced at the sizzling and smoking meatballs. “It’s okay.” He said again, as he moved the pan around so that meatballs would turn.

“You keep saying that.” Cordelia took a step back into the kitchen, placing her hands on her hips. “Are you cooking anything else? I mean – is the oven going to explode or something?”

“Cordelia.” Angel scowled.

“What?” She raised her brows at him.

“It’s okay, we just need to watch it.” He gave last look to the simmering pot and pan before sitting on the stool, beckoning her to sit across from him.

Angel chuckled as Cordelia warily eyed the gas range stove, “Okie dokie,” she finally said as she sat. “I think you owe me some stories.” She straightened and nodded affirmatively at Angel.

“I do?”

“Hey, stories are a small price to pay for subjecting me to the dangers of exploding spaghetti sauce”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Any decade in particular you had in mind?”

“Well,” Cordelia furrowed her brow,” to start with – how about why this diner you worked at had a ‘gourmet’ spaghetti night,” she jerked her head towards the remaining ingredients on the counter. “You’ve just poured half a bottle of red wine into the sauce, along with oodles of fresh stuff. Things, that I can’t see a diner wasting their time with.”

“I told you,” Angel crossed his arms across his chest, “Madge took her ‘special sauce’ very seriously, the rest of the menu, well,” he shrugged.

“Oh.” Cordelia raised her brows. “Really?”

Angel nodded. “Yeah, it worked too. On ‘Spaghetti Night’ the diner was filled with the rich and the poor.”

“Okay, so what happened?”

“Happened?”

“Well, you aren’t still working there, so something must’ve happened.” Cordelia scrunched up her brow in a show of disapproval, “you didn’t boink a blond and kill everybody did you?”

“No.” Angel snapped, jerking up from his stool.

“Geez, don’t get your boxers or whatever in a bunch, just asking.”

“Cordelia,” Angel sighed, checking the stove once more before sitting back down.


Part 51

Angel couldn’t help it. There was no way to force his eyes anywhere other than directly on the delicate slopes of the angles of Cordy’s face. She was cuddled in the corner of the couch, her lids drooping heavily over her hazel eyes as she murmured soft sounds at the pauses in his speech. He had an instinctive need to shock her eyes wide open, to see them stare up at him.

The only thing that stopped him was his indecision on how to accomplish it. Should he interrupt his story with the exclamation that he wanted her under his control and body or should he just interject a bloody paragraph to the story he had been telling.

“You stopped.” Cordelia peered up at Angel. “You can’t stop there. Did Frank Santra and Sammy, Jr. really get into a fist fight?”

Angel chuckled, hiding his pleasure as Cordy’s hazel eyes opened up into his face. “Yeah, it was over a….”

“Oh, don’t tell me --- a blonde, that you stole away.” She leaned back on the couch, closing her eyes.

“Um,” Angel leaned in, fingering her chin causing her to move closer to him, staring into her widened gaze. “Actually, it was a red-haired show girl that finally figured out that she had screwed up royally by trying to play them against each other. After some posturing and more drinks, both Frank and Sammy realized that that there were much easier girls to get, the red-head in question, of course, ignored me because I wasn’t even in any stretch of the imagination a member of the “Brat Pack” merely a party casher. I'm pretty sure she left alone. Well, sorta pretty sure. I had been drinking - alot."

“So, who did you leave with - if not the red-head?”

“I didn't --- I don’t remember.” Angel scooted back as Cordelia pushed at his chest.

“You can’t do that. Oh my god, did you kill all of Las Vegas afterwards?”

“What?” Angel moved away further from her accusation.

“You had sex, Angelus, duh. Keep it in your pants, why don’t ya’”

Angel dropped his hand on her shoulders, keeping her still. “The curse doesn’t work that way.”

Angel wasn’t sure that he liked the way that Cordelia’s brows reached her wrinkled forehead. “Oh.” She said finally, her gaze focusing for a long moment on her hands that rested on his chest. “So, its only Buffy, then,” she said, pulling her hands away. “ Well that’s good to know, granted bummer for you but good to know,” she said drawing in her sigh as she stood. “I’m tired. ‘ Night.” She wavered for a second then kissed Angel on the cheek. “You've been really great. Thanks.” Cordelia shot a quick smile over her shoulder as she darted up the stair

***

Angel’s hand shot up to his cheek. Cordelia’s kiss left a burning sensation along his skin. The last two hours, his telling his stories of the decades before Sunnydale and Cordelia giggling in response, had been surreal. It was amazing in and of itself that he continued with stories and hadn’t retreated into himself. Yet, the most extraordinary feeling wasn't that, but the unprecentented feelings of contentment and satisfaction that he had felt when Cordelia smiled at an anedocte or giggled at a joke. He had never felt such ease with anybody before. Cordelia’s level of expectation of him was straightforward and honest. She wanted entertaining stories and excpected him to give them to her.

He frowned, staring up the stairs she ascended. He was now feeling loss and anger. He wanted her and the feelings she brought back.


Part 52

Cordelia sat on the bed brushing her hair. Her hands moved mechanically as her thoughts focused on the tingling in her belly.

Darn. She couldn’t deny her attraction to Angel, no matter what her common sense dictated.

She was so confused. She’d seen a new side of Angel and she liked it. A lot. Sure he hadn’t been Mr. Gabby-talk, but his stories had been entertaining and the unexpected smiles changed Angel from broodily sexy to gorgeously adorable in seconds.

Okay, so it had been naïve of her to limit him to Buffy’s lapdog; after all he had lived a long time. But Geez, she shouldn’t be blamed for not knowing.

Angel hadn’t given anybody a hint that he had hidden layers. Buffy never told anyone, not even Xander or Willow, that Angel had a sense of humor. So, unless Buffy was keeping it a secret, which was highly doubtful, then she didn’t know and if she didn’t know there was no way Cordelia could’ve been expected to.

She wished she had known. Maybe then the warm fuzzies wouldn’t be so much of a surprise.

She had barely resisted the urge to hug him.

But she had resisted. And she’d have patted herself on the back for admirable restraint – if she hadn’t blown the whole act by giving him a goodnight kiss.

Cordelia threw the brush on the bed

“You’re an idiot, Cor,” she grumbled as she fumbled with the quilt.

“Arggh.” She flipped the blanket over her head. It was just that before, Angel’s hotness had only been able to produce the occasional tantalizing dream, but those could be pushed aside just like her fantasizes of Keanu or Brad.

But, she was pretty damn sure that any new fantasies would be impossible to ignore in the morning.

“I know he’s a vampire with a girlfriend, whose ex-factor is debatable.” She groaned, facing her denial and voicing her truth. “But, God, I want to be the one to make Angel smile and laugh. I’m so screwed.” She pffted out loud. Unfortunately, the admission hadn’t helped her state of mind.

“Whatever and stop it.” Cordelia dragged the quilt down. “Cor, you’re a realist, not a clueless romantic, forget that Angel is all that and a chocolate sundae, and just remember he’s not yours. You can’t have him, and don’t want him. You’re Cordelia Chase. You can do it." She told herself as she tucked the pillow under her head.

***

Angel’s shoulders dipped as he released a small measure of the tension that had turned his muscles into stone. It hadn’t been until Cordelia’s breathing had slowed into the recognizable rhythm of sleep, that he had been able to give up even the slightest bit of his control.

He had come up the stairs, standing close to the bedroom door to wait for Cordelia to fall asleep. He hadn’t expected his sudden surge of need to break down the door and take her, but then he hadn’t expected to hear her mumbled arguments that he wasn’t hers and that she didn’t want him.

But he was able to overcome the pull of his instincts. While her ramblings were an admission, he also realized, that she wasn’t yet ready to accept the reality of the situation. Cordelia needed more time to understand that she belonged with him and to him.

Angel knew that it would test his restraint but he would give her time because now he knew that best way to hurry it along. She wanted to be the one to make him smile and laugh. He could do that. After all, in the short time that she had lived with him, she had already done it.

“Gottcha. Even if you are Cordelia Chase.” Angel slowly grinned. He would use her desire and her ability to his advantage. His hand reached for the doorknob, if he played tomorrow night exactly right, there would be no question in Cordelia’s mind who she belonged to.

Angel slipped into the bedroom and sat in the leather armchair placed near the closet, still too far from Cordelia but closer that he had been. He settled down as comfortably as his growing erection allowed. He ignored it and concentrated on Cordelia’s pattern of breathing. His chest started to mimic her slow breaths. The rhythm and the scent of wild flowers brought him peace and while it didn’t release the pressure of his groin, it allowed his thoughts and desires to drift into sleep.


Part 53

Angel jerked awake.

The scent that lapped around him stimulated every nerve.

It was more than just Cordelia. It was deeper and richer.

He stared at the body curled into the covers. She still slept, but her eyelids flickered as if in a dream.

He knew that scent. Arousal. His body began to feel alive as his borrowed blood and dead organs heated and vibrated.

He shut down the growl that was rising in his throat and he stood looking again at Cordelia. The quilt was gathered around her hips, his sweats pushed down to show the soft swell of her belly. His sweater had slipped off her shoulder leaving a glimpse of the white t-shirt underneath.

She was sleeping in his clothes again. He reveled in the look of her body enclosed in his larger clothes, covering her thoroughly and drenching each thread with her scent, as well as covering her with his.

Angel took a deep steadying breath. He wanted to touch and taste the golden flesh hidden underneath. He wanted her scent not to be just on his clothes but soaked into his skin.

He stared down at her, vibrating with tension. Then he whirled and left the room.

***

Cordelia jolted up in bed. Her eyes narrowed as she peered around the room. She could’ve sworn she heard something. Seeing nothing, she leaned back on the bed and closed her eyes, hoping that she could recapture her dream. Then she jerked back up as she remembered its details. It wasn’t Brad or Keanu who been doing viciously delicious things to her body. It was Angel.

Great just what she needed. She sighed as she swung her feet to the floor. Maybe a shower would help.

Cordelia’s bare feet padded softly across the room. She shivered, looking over her shoulder and into the shadows, half expecting to see Angel there.

But there was nothing. No one.

Cordelia shrugged and her frown reappeared. Was that the shower? Angel always let her go first.

Cordelia contemplated banging on the bathroom door, but decided against it, remembering how Angel had answered the door the last time she interrupted him in the shower.

She shifted on her feet as she chewed on her thumb. What was she supposed to do now? Her stomach growled. Breakfast it was.

***

Angel braced against the shower wall his gaze centered on the duck bobbing around the drain. He no longer burned with lust, but his shoulders were still tense.

The meaning of Cordelia’s scent was unmistakable. The question was, who had she been dreaming of.

Angel ripped open the shower curtain, driven by a deep, dark need to get his answer.


Part 54

Cordelia stood in front of the stove studying the neat row of ingredients on the counter – cinnamon, a small bottle of vanilla, eggs, milk, and bread. A bowl stood beside them, filled with batter. Next to it, a stack of bread rested on a plate.

The smell of smoke had her turning. “Crap!” She grabbed the pan off the burner and stared down at the scorched toast at the center.

Cordelia grabbed the spatula and tried desperately to separate the bread from the pan.

“Arggh.” She tossed the utensil on the counter. It was no use. The bread was permanently stuck to the pan.

She shoved the pan, bread, and all, under running water, waving away the billowing smoke. Then she tossed the pan into the trash.

She looked over her shoulder, checking to make sure that Angel wasn’t anywhere in sight. Then she shoved the eggs back in the refrigerator.

Fruit Loops sounded better than French toast, anyway.

Cordelia stalled in closing the refrigerator. She leaned down, hesitating a moment before taking out of one of Angel’s containers of blood.

She choked down her ick as the red liquid swished up against the see-through container. Throwing up would ruin her idea so she swallowed gamely as she took off the top.

She bit her lip as she stuck her finger in the blood, only to jerk it right back out. Oh shoot. Did she just contaminate it?

She looked around worriedly, but still no Angel. She knew how she would feel if she saw him jabbing his finger in her food. At least, her food wouldn’t be so congealed and cold.

She glanced over her shoulder at the microwave, then down at the container. What the heck, she thought. Couldn’t hurt.

She shoved it in, closed the door, and added 10 seconds to the timer. As it heated, she poured her Fruit Loops. When the appliance dinged she pulled out the container.

The blood was still too cold, so she put it in for another 10 seconds and took the opportunity to add milk to her cereal. She repeated the 10-second process several more times, frustration growing as her cereal grew progressively soggier, while the blood remained stubbornly chilled.

At least it had started to thin, along with any concerns that her finger would contaminate it. She heated it again, this time for 20 seconds. Then she ate a spoonful of cereal and watched the mug spin in the microwave.

When the timer hit zero, she popped the door open, dipped her finger into the mug, and dribbled a few drops on the underside of her wrist.

It was warmer, but it still didn’t seem right. But them again, she wasn’t exactly sure how the testing on the wrist thing was supposed to work.

She pushed the mug back into the microwave for another 10 seconds as she rubbed her wrist on her sweat pants.

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