Title: Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking
Author: Gabriella
Posted: 10-31-2008
Rating: R
Category: Dark, angst
Content: Cordy/Angel, Cordy/Angelus, Cordy/Wes/Gunn friendship
Summary: A promise is a promise. An 'Angelus returns' fic with a twist.
Spoilers: Not really. Set in S3. Doesn't really have a timeline, though it's pre-Connor and pre-Darla.
Prompt: In spoiler font in case you don’t want to know: (Ats years) Angelus returns, Cordelia stakes him (as she promised!), A costume from a Victorian wedding.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Dedication: To starlet2367, who thought up the challenge. I went outside my safety zone and tried Angelus - granted, this probably sucks but atleast she came up with a challenge that sparked enough inspiration and confidence for me to try it.
Note: I played around a bit with the concept of vampire lore. Anyone who watches Supernatural and remembers what happened to Gordon the vampire slayer will get what I mean. Hopefully I've written (in spoiler font) --> Cordy's transition <--- convincingly enough for those of you who don't watch Supernatural to get it too...
Happy Halloween Strangers!
Drip. Drip. Drip.
There is water running…somewhere. Falling from the roof and allowing gravity to propel it towards solid ground. It hits something hollow, echoing sound in the space that smells like sewage and sour sweat.
And blood.
Cordelia can smell it, her eyes closed, flinching. She does not want to proceed – there is darkness beyond the broken, splintered doors. It is strange, this heightened smell, sight – the room is black but she can see it clearly. It is foreign and frightening and she swallows, following behind Wesley as he enters cautiously.
The flashlight is shaking in his hand, scattering light over empty crates and barrels, over dead rats and live ones that scurry terrified across the floor. Gunn is to her right, sturdier, stoic and expressionless.
He cannot fool her. His heart is pounding in her ears, heavy as a toy drum.
He catches her eye and Cordelia flinches at the hatred. Cannot stand it from him, cannot bear the pain or the guilt or the fury. Gunn blinks, reaches a hand out to her shoulder and drops it impotently. He is sorry, but unable to change who he is.
She wouldn’t wish him to.
The air shifts and her stomach nearly revolts, iron laced and heavy. She licks her lips, unable to help it. She hates herself but she hates *him* more. Hates him for doing this to her. Hates that she does not, cannot, hate him at all.
“Oh, God.”
There is a tremor in Wesley voice, like the frightened, shocked realization of a child that discovers the monsters in his closet are no longer make-believe.
The dripping is louder, hurting her ears, the smell unbearable and intoxicating all at once. Cordelia looks up as a shudder vibrates through Gunn, his body convulsing, violent heaves shaking the ground at her feet.
Pain ripples like a blade slicing precisely through her heart, her hands reaching for something solid. She finds Wesley, holds on to him for support as he takes it from her, face wet with silent tears that come away in his palm. His hands are pressed over his lips, muffling the sound of anguish and she wonders why he will not release it, why he would hold it in at the sight before them.
Must be an English thing.
Twenty feet above them, the ceiling is crisscrossed with wooden beams, rope laced carelessly through triangular spaces and tied in knots. Fred hangs suspended from it, her eyes vacant as though possessed. The dress was once white, Cordelia suspects, draped around her like the bride from another era, an aristocratic Victorian, sleeves and throat coated in pearls and embroidered silk. It is drenched, stained in red now.
Cordelia can do nothing but force her eyes to shut, force a lid on the pain and try to summon forth the anger.
It will end eventually.
---
“I’ll take him home.” Gunn says in a voice void of emotion. He looks up at her, his eyes wet, hands still splintered from the wood he cut and set alight atop Fred’s lifeless body.
Cordelia’s shirt is stained with blood, spatter from when she brought down the axe and –
Her eyes shut briefly, burying the sound deep where she cannot find it. She nods at him, glances at Wes’ broken form in the front seat of the truck. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Lock the door, Cordelia.” Gunn warns, knowing it won’t do much good. Angelus has already claimed her and she is a slave to the devil until his death or her own.
Even after that.
She throws her clothes into the hamper, aware that she will simply throw them out once the Laundromat is unable to get out the stains. The shower water is warm against her rapidly cooling skin and she sighs, allows the dirt and grime to fade from her pores, watches mesmerized as Fred’s blood swirls in patterns and disappears down the drain.
She crawls into bed naked, wrapping the covers around her and breathing in deep. The smell of fabric softener and clean sheets is consoling – she has no strength to cry but her heart is fractured.
Her soul is leaving her.
They are so happy.
Fingers intertwine together as they laugh and fall back against the sheets, smile against the other’s open mouth and brush their lips together. Clothes come away, skin is pressed flush against skin and there is nothing to keep them apart from this, from their moment.
The pleasure is intense, all the more because she loves him, she loves him so much.
He is gentle in every way, treating her as though she is fragile. He should have known she was the strong one, that it was he who was fragile.
His pupils are white, his mouth gaping, body groaning in pain. There are flashes of light and she is nearly blinded, her eyes averted, covered. And when they are opened there is amber fury that bores into her, stopping her heart and clenching her gut with fear. She is unable to move or scream, terrified and frozen by the emptiness in her lover’s eyes.
The fangs pierce her throat and she can feel him drinking, feel his blood at her lips even as her mind fights to command her body to stop it. Her heart slows, frightened, fluttering, eyes sliding shut as his teeth come away red -
Cordelia’s eyes fly open, sound in her ears. The bedside clock tick tocks the time like an echo, boldly announced in green – 3am. She blinks sleepily, sees him standing by her window, silhouetted in the moonlight like an angel of darkness.
The analogy almost makes her smile.
Angelus moves closer with the predatory grace of a panther – bold, black and beautiful, his limbs are swift, his fangs deadly. She is unable to look away or move…unable to make a sound as he crawls on top of her, pushes the blanket aside and wraps his fingers around her neck.
Fingertips slide into the hollow of her throat, tap the surface of her third rib. He wets them, slides them into his mouth and around her breast, making it shine in the moonlight. Cordelia bites her lips, hates herself for it when her back arches. Her mouth is tense, fighting the call of the beast that rises within, craves its master. He slides his fingers into her, burns her with the cold.
“Something wrong, lover?” Angel purrs, cupping her face when she glares at him. His touch is gentle, so much so that she is reminded of Angel and her heart shatters all over again. “Didn’t like the gift I left you?”
“Shut up.” She bites out, writhing against his fingers as he pumps them into her, pushing deeper until she can no longer stand it. She is stupid and addicted and helpless. He kisses her gently, then quickens his pace, fangs slicing into her throat without warning and devouring her, feeding as though he is starving.
Cordelia bursts, breaking at the seams and coating his fingers, riding out the high until she can no longer stand it, until she loathes this love, this life and its approaching death.
Angelus stumbles when she shoves him, leaping off the bed and reaching under her pillow. The madness has gone and in its place, a hunger for vengeance. She searches blindly for the stake, finds it and spins around.
The room is empty, the window curtains blowing haphazardly in his absence.
---
“Please, Cordy.” Wesley begs her, leaning forward in his chair and attempting to reason. “We have the curse right here. If you’d only - ”
“No.” Cordelia answers abruptly, staring blankly at a point to the left of him.
“I know it didn’t work on Angelus.” Wesley says, his voice shaking slightly. He cannot recover so quickly from a death and they both know it – especially not one so close to the heart. “But we can at least try it on you - ”
“I don’t care if it works or not.” Cordelia replies evenly. “I said no.”
“Why not, dammit?” Wesley is up out of his seat and glaring down at her, his fingers pointing accusingly. “You’re not even willing to try?! How can you be like this, Cordelia? I don’t know what I’ll do without - ” He swallows, stops, takes a breath. “I’ve already lost Fred and Angel. Don’t make me lose you too.”
His voice hitches and Cordelia goes to him, wraps her arms around him and tries to placate.
“I’m sorry, Wesley. But I don’t want to live like this.” She squeezes him harder when she feels his body shudder. “I won’t.”
It takes a moment but he nods, understanding. The movement drops his shoulder and his throat is exposed to her, smooth and curved as a polished dagger. She can smell the blood beneath the surface, see the spot when it pumps through veins closest to the thin shield of skin – where the neck meets the shoulder and there is a pulse, a beat.
Her mouth waters, craving ruby red flow and her teeth itch with wanting. The transition is not complete yet, *she* is not complete yet…still, her eyes flash amber and the bite inside her throbs. Wesley swallows, his throat bulging.
Cordelia jerks away, leaving the room without a backwards glance.
---
Gunn turns left down the shortcut he usually takes on his way to the hotel. The roads are dark, lit eerily by the Halloween pumpkins and lanterns that adorn the houses along the street, painting the night orange.
A group of 8 year olds pass him dressed as characters from ‘The Wizard of Oz’. Dorothy shoots him a sly smile and he manages to smile back, just.
There is nothing left to smile for.
Fred is lost. Angel is lost. And soon, Cordelia will be too.
Anger burns under his skin and he sucks in a breath, welcoming the night air into his lungs. Too many lives lost in too small a space of time - too many in his lifetime to bloodsuckers that haunt the streets and destroy the innocent despite their best efforts.
They aren’t enough. Gunn wonders if they ever will be.
A cold hand covers his mouth and he cannot scream, cannot see his attacker. It is strong, too powerful, and his struggles are in vain. His back hits the wall, darkness blurring the edges of his sight and he feels his head bleed against the jagged cement.
He punches out, striking the attacker in the shoulder, but it is feeble and he knows it. His head is pulled to the side, throat exposed. Gunn cries out but there is no escaping, no hope. Fangs slice his throat and his heart stammers, stuttering slowly to a halt as the life drains from him.
He thinks of his sister, of his mother and of the old gang. Of Wes and Cordy. Of Fred and of Angel.
And then he cannot think anymore. There is only black.
---
Wesley rushes past the group of nurses discussing Dr Hayden’s most recent surgery, past the blonde woman in a wheelchair and the triplets playing cards in the isle. His heart is pounding, his stomach churning with worry as he nearly collides with a doctor, mumbling his apologies and continuing down the hall.
The room is in view now, Cordelia and the doctor outside it. Wesley screeches to a halt beside them, palm against his chest as he catches his breath.
“What happened? Is he alright? Cordelia - ”
“Mr Gunn is a very lucky man.” The doctor drops a hand onto Wesley’s shoulder, gestures him to a seat. “It’s a good thing Miss Chase found him in time. He would have bled out from the attack.”
Wesley’s heart plummets, “The attack?”
He can feel Cordelia’s eyes dart in his direction.
“Yes.” The doctor replies. “We believe he was attacked by a dog. It’s rare but strays can go rabid if bitten by another or infected with something. We’ve given him all the necessary shots as a precaution.”
Wesley stands then, glancing in the direction of the closed door. “So…he’s going to be fine?”
“Yes. He needs his rest and I would like to keep him in the hospital for observation over the next couple of days. He should be good to go home then.” The doctor smiles. “He’s resting now but he’ll be awake in a few hours if you’d like to see him.”
“Thank you doctor.” Cordelia shakes the doctor’s hand and turns back to Wesley. She is anxious, he can tell, her fingers twisting together as she bites her lip.
“You found him?”
“Outside the hotel.” Cordy nods, glancing at the clock hung on the pale green wall. It ticks time away quickly, carelessly.
Wesley leans against the wall exhausted, struggling with confusion and gratitude. “Why on earth would Angelus leave him alive? Do you think this was some sort of message?”
“Maybe.” Cordelia’s mind is elsewhere, her eyes glued to the clock. “We need to find him, Wes. We need to kill him before he hurts someone else.” She locks her eyes with his, her expression darkening. “Or before you have to kill me.”
---
Wesley jerks his head up, blinking sleepily. The pages of the book are rumpled beneath his resting arms and he stifles a yawn, flattening them with his palm. He is drained and driven all at once, the text blurring before his eyes and merging into patterns of ink.
He wonders what awoke him.
The back of his collar is grabbed and he is hauled out of his seat with unnatural force. He leaves the ground behind, feet flying off it and into space as he is propelled through the air, crashing into a wall. He falls to the floor in an undignified heap.
There is laughter in the dimly lit room, malicious and deadly.
“Sorry Wes, ol’ pal.” Angelus emerges from the shadows with a grin that rivals The Joker. “Just wanted to see if you had a better backbone than the last time we met.”
---
A crossbow clicks into place, halting him. Angelus shifts his feet, turning to face his lover. “Well, look who joined the party.” His eyes narrow. “Queen C. Or should I say, Queen Bitch? Maybe Queen of the Damned…”
“Get away from him.” Cordelia orders softly, stepping closer. Her aim is perfect, he knows, he taught her that. She is as fast as him now, as powerful. She attracts him like a moth to a flame, but then again, she always did that.
“What are you gonna do?” Angelus taunts, chuckling, “Kill me?”
“I was talking to Wesley.”
Wesley scrambles to his feet behind him. Angelus glances at him from the corner of his eye, itching to snap his neck and leave a pretty mess for his childe.
Cordelia’s voice is void of sentiment. “Go, Wesley.”
Wesley hesitates, “Cordelia - ”
“I said go.”
“Yeah,” Angelus’ teeth elongate, eyes devouring her - a hungry wolf before his sheep. “It’ll be more fun this way.”
“Trust me.” Cordelia murmurs, and it seems to work. Wesley steps backwards until he is no longer visible from the office, until the door slams shut indicating they are alone.
There is silence in the space between them and he is compelled to fill it. The crossbow pokes into his chest as he approaches, his eyes on her, always on her.
“Why?” Cordelia asks steadily, finger firm on the trigger. “Why did you do this to me?”
Angelus slides a finger along the surface of the crossbow, circles her wrist with his thumb. He is safe, as long as he answers. “You’re a worthy mate.”
Her grip on the weapon tightens. “Not good enough.”
The crossbow is easily plucked from her hands as he closes the space between them, slides his finger along the curve of her neck and his crimson mark. He cups her chin, smoothes his thumb across her lower lip. It juts out in a way that makes him want to bite it.
“I wanted you.” He whispers simply, a breath away from her lips and uncaring for another word to be spoken. “I always get what I want.” Cordelia is still, unresponsive. She is beautiful in light and dark, in life and in death. Hunger seizes his gut and guides his movement, fingers digging into her hips and lifting her.
Cordelia does not struggle and the shock of it is all the more arousing as they hit the desk in the office, stumbling, clutching - frantic. A box of pens falls to the ground, scattering in the darkness and rolling into corners across floorboards.
Angelus pulls Cordelia’s shirt from her body and licks her stomach, painting his name into her skin. He has done that before, staked his claim, and he will do it again. Her legs wrap around his waist and the agony of his lust is sweet, blissful. It is no longer a curse but a blessing, her fingernails bloody and erotic as they dig into his shoulders.
He does not care if it is to pull him closer or to push him away.
He dips his tongue between her lips, licks the roof of her mouth and groans at the taste of her. Cordelia bites the curve of his shoulder, jerking his hips into hers, evoking the demon and calling upon sensation long believed to be dormant. Pleasure licks at the base of his spine, tightening its grip and consuming him.
There is passion and dominance in his voice when he growls, husky, wanting. “I promised myself I would have you.”
Cordelia rolls, taking him by surprise with a strength that rivals his own, straddling him on the desk. Her hands slide under his shirt, taking it with her, pulling fabric from skin and pressing hands to his heart. Angelus blinks, lust a rosy haze in the corner of his eye, confusion flooding him.
The clock ticks twice, along with her heart, echoes the midnight hour until there is silence beneath the surface of glass and her own skin. She is still, immortal.
A tear falls from her eye, a crack in her visage of resolution, burning him where her hands lay across an unbeating chest. “I promised you something too.”
The stake appears as if out of nowhere and he has no time left to react before it is plunged into him, tearing past the skin and scorching the centre of his heart.
He swears he hears, “I love you” before the burden is too much to bear, the pain far too agonizing to endure. As a supernova does, he self-destructs, bursts from the inside and dissolves into the earth.
---
“If the day ever comes that I - ”
“Oh, I’ll kill you dead.”
“Thanks.”
“What are friends for?”
---
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Somewhere, a clock is ticking. It counts the seconds of the night, loud and clear, so different to the hollow space in her chest that no longer makes a sound.
Cordelia finds herself numb of feeling, void of triumph or sadness or fear.
All Hallow’s eve has ended, and she must be put to rest.
She refrains from telling the man before her that it was she who attacked Gunn, nearly crazed from raw need and hunger, she who left him alive and carried him to the hospital. She is ashamed and devastated, but she is a creature now born to darkness, a conflicted soul without choice, one who sacrificed in order to proceed for the greater good.
Even Angelus cannot take that from her.
Wesley grips the stake, so hard his knuckles are turning white and she lays a hand atop his, steadying him. His fingers are cold, even compared to hers and she is suddenly fearful of leaving him, of how he will survive this journey with only one of the four companions he began it with.
In the days when they were young and learning, in days full of hope and void of it, he had been a rock, a constant. A friend.
Tears fill his eyes and she finds herself having to tell him. “I love you, Wesley. You’re the best man I know.”
He nods, unable to speak for a moment. “I love you too, Cordelia. So did he.” His fingers tighten around hers before he releases a final time. “Please take that with you.”
He is quick, deft, with the skilled precision of a fighter and the tenderness of a loved one. The stake fills her heart and she gasps from the pain that is sudden and sharp.
Then there is silence.
END.