Title: The Living and the Dying
Author: MPH0506
Posted: 11-01-2007
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Genfic, with a C/A slant; Horror
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss
Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Feedback: Yes, please?
Notes: For the ST Halloween Ficathon. Thanks for all the lovely ladies who put this together and, more importantly, all those people who still love and write C/A. I wanted to write horror, for Halloween, and the three prompts I was given were: cat eyes, spiderweb, and fruit punch, by Pythia. Thanks for the lovely lead-in, and I hope this is satisfies your expectations. I do apologize for the delay; this caught me in the middle of midterms.
The city is quieter than usual. Typically he avoids walking along the over-crowded sidewalks to the newstand, but tonight, there is room enough and the air has just enough of a chill to be pleasant. Wolfram and Hart is even less bright than usual, the facade a pattern of lit and unlit office windows that make him think of a half-finished exercise in pointillism. He doesn't see it this way often, as any other citizen would, nothing more than a concrete and glass staple of the corporate lifestyle. If only it was so simple.
He pays the owner of the newstand: 14.59, for a handful of magazines filled with nothing more than celebrity gossip and fashion trends, because the ones on Cordelia's bedside table were a little out-dated. As he walks back, he thinks about taking them to her tonight; he hasn't been to visit in a few days, and he'll hardly have a free moment with Lorne breathing down his neck about the Halloween party and Gunn chasing him down the corridors with a handful of litigation papers. In the end, he decides to stop by tomorrow, out of equal parts exhaustion and having a legitimite reason for free time.
As he walks up the stairs to Wolfram and Hart, he notices it for the first time: a black cat, sitting next to the glass sliding doors, licking contentedly at one of its forepaws. At first, he mistakes it for one of the many decorations materializing in random places around the office, but as he approaches the cat lifts its head to blink in his direction. Angel stands poised between one step and the next, a little dumbfounded, until the cat rises to its feet and begins padding toward the sidewalk.
No one else seems to notice it as unusual; probably just a stray, taking a break from scavenging around one of the back alleys. Angel continues his climb to the landing, the magazines still tucked beneath one of his arms. At the top of the stairs, as the doors slide open like a hungry mouth, he turns to glance over his shoulder at the sidewalk. Down at the bottom of the stairs, the cat is following the edge of the curb, unnoticed by the people walking passed. Angel stands there for an instant, the doors wide open behind him, until the cat lopes around the corner and out of sight.
It's been a long year. Most days, he feels like he wakes up even wearier than when he went to bed, and none of it really matters because it doesn't require much energy to sign one's name over and over or to listen to an hour's worth of legal jargon in a language he doesn't speak. Connor is gone, which is hard to think about, although sometimes Angel allows himself the luxury of wondering what class Connor is in, the name of his girlfriend. If he's happy. Cordelia is gone, too, at least in all the ways that count; maybe she is technically alive, with machines and medicine, but Angel knows a parody of life when he sees it, being one himself.
Wolfram and Hart is almost comforting. Kind of like alcohol, the way it burns all the way down until, suddenly, everything is so dull and smooth it starts to blur into an endless haze. He can forget the sound of Fred's feet on the floor above his head; the shadow of the crib along his bedroom wall; waking up in the mid-afternoon to muffled laughter in the lobby downstairs. He misses the Hyperion. He misses what it was like to walk downstairs and know, with complete certainty, that you were home.
The others are completely overcome with this new life. He tries not to hold it against them, most of the time: he made this decision, sealed it with the blood of his son and his would-be lover, so what did he expect? And, sometimes, it isn't so bad. When work is slow, they even have lunch together. It isn't quite the same; usually, it only makes him miss Cordelia, and the greasy smell of Chinese food is nothing more than a reminder of what he's lost. The others seem satisfied with it, enthusiastically discussing laboratory discoveries (Fred) or conference calls with celebrities still in rehab (Lorne), but Angel has a hard time feigning any interest at all.
Besides, they never schedule it themselves anyway. Harmony adds it to his agenda, between a meeting with the CFO and a briefing on a Swahili prophecy, a printed thirty-minute block of his day.
He wakes up suddenly. The room is quiet; he can't figure out where he is. Then he rolls to his side, glancing at the glowing bedside clock which reads 2:42 AM, and as he blinks against the red numbers things begin to settle back into place. Whatever he was dreaming has left a slippery, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He feels feverish.
Sighing, he rolls back over and burrows down into the comforter, but the nausea throbs like an off-beat heart. He pushes himself onto his elbows, breathing deep and feeling with a strange certainty that he is not alone. The room is quiet. "Hello?" he asks. Then, dreadfully: "Spike?" Angel half-expects him to slip through the opposite wall. If anything, it would explain the nausea.
No answer. As he starts to settle down again, he notices for the first time a heavy scent and wonders how he didn't catch it before. He recognizes it immediately as perfume-- lavender and vanilla, although he can't remember the brand-- then tries to recall how he would know that. It seems familiar. As he pushes off the comforter, moving around to stand, his foot meets the carpet and he knows. It smells like Cordelia. Only now, the scent is cloying rather than pleasant, like flowers on a fresh grave: never quite enough to hide the stink of rotting flesh just beneath the surface.
Shaken, Angel sits on the edge of the mattress and wonders if he is dreaming, remembering how Fred once told him that dreams can be so vivid that even when you wake up you're still trapped inside. Except he can't remember the dream at all, and the more he thinks about it and the more he breathes it in, the sicker he feels.
In the back of his mind, he knows he's being ridiculous. Tomorrow, when the alarm goes off, he will wake up feeling like an idiot. With that thought in mind, he slides back beneath the comforter and closes his eyes. It helps: he sinks slowly but surely, with his face pressed tightly into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed, overwhelmed with the smell of laundry detergent and his own soap. He falls asleep thinking about the scent of Cordelia's skin and wondering when the dream will finally start.
The next morning is slow. Angel sits at his desk, studying a binder filled with budget projections for the next quarter, even though he doesn't really understand the figures or what each row means. Half of the time, he wonders why anyone even bothers printing these things for him. Someone has even taken the time to thoughtfully circle certain columns.
Harmony brings him a mug fresh from the kitchen, with a plate of biscotti on the side. When he stares at it, she grins and wiggles her eyebrows encouragingly. "It's, like, the newest trend. You should try it!"
He doesn't. Harmony slides a stack of folders on her desk, each one color-coded. "The first one is from Gunn. It's some contracts to sign, but don't worry, he hi-lighted the important stuff. After, um, what happened last time. Oh, and I printed your schedule. Wes wanted you to read over some dumb translation at 2, but I know how lame that stuff is, so I fudged it a little and told him you only have twenty minutes."
Harmony can be a real pain in the ass, but sometimes she surprises him. "Thanks," he says, with sincerity. On the right corner of his desk, he notices a bottle of what appears to be nail polish; the color inside lingers between bronze and gold, bright like the new moon. "Harmony, what's this?"
"Nail polish, boss," she says, already halfway out the door. "For Cordy."
The label reads: "Cat's Eye." Angel picks up the bottle, turning it over in his hand. "Why are you giving it to me?"
"Because you asked for it, duh."
"What?"
Harmony leans against the doorframe, obviously impatient to leave. "Did you, like, hit your head or something?" she asks. "Yesterday? As in the day before today? You asked me for nail polish, to give to Cordelia's manicurist. And that's the one you wanted."
Angel stares at the tiny, shimmering bottle. Strange-- he can't remember ever seeing this color, or knowing what it was called, or even telling Harmony. He sets it back down on the desk. "Sorry," he says, finally. "I must've forgotten. Had a long day. But thanks."
Harmony doesn't reply. When he looks up, the room is empty.
He agrees to travel with Lorne, down to the half-decorated banquet hall, even if it is only to get himself out from behind the desk. "Now, it's not finished yet," Lorne tells him, visibly excited. "But I can already tell this is going to be the shindig of the year." As he ushers Angel into the room, he grabs something from a nearby table. "Look! They're fake skulls of Rishow demons. For cups!"
Angel is baffled. "That's, um, really creative. I don't actually have to use one?"
"I don't see why you wouldn't want to," Lorne replies, breezing through a thin screen of sticky, stringy gossamer posing as spider webs. "What do you think of this stuff? Too cliche?"
Angel picks a strand of it from the shoulder of his suit. "I think all of Halloween is too cliche," he mutters. "You know, Halloween originated in Ireland. Now it's just a bunch of kids dressed up with plastic fangs trying to--"
"Easy there, my little candy corn. I don't want your brooding getting all over the decorations. And you better get it all out of your system by Tuesday, because I expect you to be at this party without a single wrinkle in that handsome brow of yours."
Angel sighs, idly handling a string of glow-in-the-dark jack-o-lanterns. He thinks suddenly of Connor, all the trick-or-treating and costume-buying he will never give him. He lays the string carefully back down on the table. "I'll try," he tells Lorne. "Even though I don't wrinkle. I'm a vampire."
"That you are," Lorne sing-songs, guiding him toward a primitive form of a bar, tucked away in the back corner. The countertop is covered in more spider webs, although this time, tiny, black spiders are buried in between the clumps. "I can think of another creature of the night who can appreciate those eternal good looks. Here, let's have a drink. We can talk about how you can bring her to the party."
Lorne requests a sea-breeze and bourbon on ice, while Angel stares at him skeptically. "What girl? Who are you talking about?"
"Nina, of course. The girl who spends three nights out of the month locked up naked in the-- well, pretty much your-- basement?"
"No," Angel says. "No. I'm not interested."
"It'll be good for you. And hey, I'm not proposing marriage, I'm just--"
"I said no, Lorne," he snaps. At the end, he slams his glass sharply onto the tabletop, surprising himself; he hadn't even realized he was holding it. "Look, I just-- I'm not ready. I don't want to get involved."
Lorne gives him the long, baleful look he seems to be getting a lot lately. Angel knows he should say something, but in the end, he stares down into the translucent amber circling inside his glass and gives nothing but silence. Lorne wouldn't understand. Angel doesn't know what to say, anyway.
The hallway is quiet and shining, the floors freshly-waxed, the walls humming with the bone-white light streaming from the fluorescents. The conversation with Lorne has left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, stale and dry like last night's cigarettes. He wanders down the pristine hallway, breathing in antiseptic and dried blood, and the fact that the latter almost smells good to him is nearly enough to make him turn around and head back to the office.
But-- everyone seems to have forgotten Cordelia, except himself. And if he is the only one left, then this is the important thing. He slips his hands in his pockets, passing by the nurse's station, and when he lifts his head he notices that there is someone standing outside of Cordelia's door. With the harsh distraction of the fluorescents, it takes him an instant to realize that the person is Wesley, his head bowed as he leans against the wall. His hands are in his pockets, too. It seems to be the universal gesture for hospitals; Angel finds it heart-breaking in its nonchalance. In the way that people pretend.
"Hey, Wes," he says quietly, pitched below the sound of respirators and bedside monitors. "Something wrong?"
Wesley doesn't bother meeting his eyes. "Nothing unusual, if that's what you mean."
"It's just a little weird. You know, standing outside instead of actual going in," Angel continues gently. He begins to say, I'm the only one who needs an invitation, but Wesley seems too exhausted to appreciate his wit. Angel feels the same way, really.
Wesley's feet shuffle awkwardly against the tiled floor. "It's silly, I know. But-- the nurses are in there. It seems inappropriate to intervene."
"Oh," Angel says. He understands: once, he opened Cordelia's door to find the nurses gathered around her. One was holding a clipboard. The other was carefully examining Cordelia for bedsores, lifting and turning her arms like a master with his marionette. Angel had tossed the freshly-cut flowers he was holding on the bedside table and left without a word. He was afraid that, if he opened his mouth, he would retch.
"I hadn't been to visit in quite a while," Wesley continues, after a moment. Angel is grateful for the distraction. "You know, the hotel was never all that busy. Now I hardly have a moment to myself."
Angel glances toward the closed door. "Had we but world enough, and time," he murmurs. If he listens, he can hear the hushed voices of the attendants, the wave-like wisp of changing linens. But what he can't hear is the wing-beat whisper of Cordelia's heart, or the soft, sighing sound of her breath.
Wesley is staring at the door as well. Angel scrubs at his face with his hands, tries to think of other things. "I guess we should come back tomorrow. I don't-- I don't think right now is a good time."
"I think that's best. We could stop by during lunch tomorrow? I'm not exactly sure what you're schedule is."
Angel, once again, thinks of how much he hates that he has to schedule time to spend with his friends. "It's fine. I'll call you. I think I'm just going to head home now."
"Alright. Well, then, I'll walk with you to the elevator." He pauses for an instant, and then: "I'm sorry. About Cordelia."
Angel nods and, rearranging the magazines, begins the long walk down the hallway with Wesley. As he passes the room next door, he swears he sees a black cat sitting in the doorway, licking serenely at one of its paws. It seems familiar, but when he blinks, there is nothing left except white walls and slick tile.
"There's nothing to be sorry for," he tells Wesley. The urge to glance over his shoulder slithers in the pit of his stomach. "She'll wake up. I know she will."
That night, he dreams of Cordelia. Standing in the center of the room amidst the cobwebs, her hands on either side of his face. Her skin is cold instead of warm, the kind of chill that reminds him of the dead. As he leans in to kiss her, he has to push the webs out of her eyes and away from her mouth. She smiles, but there is only stillness between them, no displaced air or sweet-smelling sigh. Just the cold seal of her mouth and the feeling of being drawn outward, away from himself, the emptiness crawling up his throat to climb inside her. The black cat sits at her feet, its face upturned as it watches dispassionately.
In the morning, he slips out of bed and heads straight for the shower. He puts his hands on the wall and stands beneath the stream; the warm water sluices down his back, a thousand tiny pin-pricks, each one a little less sharp than the last. He wishes he could stay forever, cocooned in plexiglass and steam, his loneliness hidden beneath the wet warmth. His thoughts grow heavy, after a while; he can think of nothing except Cordelia. The memory of each lost chance is another grain of sand in the bottom of an endless hourglass; the sand may never stop falling, but it still piles up. One failure on top of another.
Turning the shower off, he steps onto the damp mat, entwining a towel around his waist and using the other on his hair. The steam has fogged the mirror, hanging above the sink. He never looks in it, of course, but he has a hope that he-- or someone else, even-- will use it someday. With a sigh, he uses his elbow to wipe away the condensation.
As he flips open the cap on his gel, he notices the muffled sound of voices from deeper inside the apartment. It wouldn't be the first time Spike appeared just as Angel stepped out of the shower; he always did have a knack for popping in at the most embarrassing moments possible. But as Angel bumps open the door with his hip, the bedroom is empty and still, just as he left it.
The sounds drift in from the living room; he must have left the television on. But as he moves closer to the doorway, the jagged pieces of conversation begin to slowly coalesce. There is a strange, underlying familiarity to it all. And then, all at once, he recognizes it.
Doyle stands in the center of the screen, surrounded by furniture and windows and walls which feel like remnants of another lifetime. "Someone who'll go all the way," he says. "Who'll protect you, no matter what--"
Angel drops the towel on the floor at his feet.
"So don't lose hope--"
He feels suspended in the doorway. One step forward and he'll slip over the edge.
"--come on over to our offices, and you'll see that there's still heroes in this world."
Rivulets of water slip down his temples, the closest thing he's had to tears in what feels like a very long time.
"Is that it? Am I done?"
Angel turns off the television.
As he strides off the elevator onto the medical floor, his mind is so pre-occupied he hardly recognizes the bustle. The nurse's station is nearly empty, save for one woman speaking urgently on the phone, but further down the hall he can hear the pulsing drumbeat of footsteps and shouting. Even as the knowledge begins to seep in, he keeps walking steadily, his mind snapping closed against the idea that something could be wrong.
But as he rounds the corner, it becomes impossible to ignore. A nurse is approaching, bearing a stretcher with the same grim compassion as a pall-bearer. Angel recognizes the contours of a body, masked by a pristine white sheet; one pale, smooth hand slips from beneath the covering to dangle lifelessly over the edge. He thinks of grabbing it, of lifting the sheet away and finding nothing more than Cordelia's dark eyes locked in their final gaze.
Stunned, he grabs the arm of the nurse, forcing her to a stop. "What happened? What's going on?"
The nurse bows her head in a casual nod of sympathy. "Room 216. She died just a moment ago."
Cordelia is in 218, he thinks. Cordelia is safe. His mind begins to teeter and settle, overcome with relief, until suddenly he turns over his shoulder toward the doorway of room 216. The cat had been there, yesterday, if only for an instant. The black cat. The one he'd dreamt of, last night, until he'd woken up to Doyle's nervous voice flooding the walls of his apartment.
And now the patient in room 216 was dead.
The nurse must have recognized some falter in his expression, as she put her hand on his forearm and smiled. "She was doing so much better, too," she says wistfully. "But don't worry, Mr. Angel. It's no one that you know."
He couldn't decide if it made him feel better or worse. The nurse began wheeling the corpse away. "If you're here to visit Miss Chase, go ahead. The manicurists just finished. That was a beautiful color you picked out, sir."
Mumbling a distracted thank you, he moves away, down the hallway toward the elevator. The nurse stares after him, concerned. He hardly notices.
On the way to Fred's laboratory, he calls Harmony. "Clear my schedule for the afternoon. I'm not coming into the office."
"Well, gee, boss, thanks for the heads-up," she says. "Except it's already 11:45! Your afternoon is booked, and besides, the big Halloween party is tonight."
Shit, he thinks, having completely forgotten the party. The other meetings are of less importance; he doesn't exactly remember what they are, but as out-of-sorts as he feels, it's probably better that he doesn't attend anyway. "The party isn't until tonight. But this is an emergency, Harmony. Take care of it."
"Look, I'll see what I can do, but don't come complaining to me when Gunn bitches at you for missing that mediation. I'm just a secretary--" Having heard enough, he snaps the phone shut and slips it into his pocket, just as the automatic double-doors to the lab hiss open.
Walking through the doors, he feels as if he is being swallowed alive by a strange, unearthly creature: the equipment is sharp and shining, like rows of teeth, with bursts of cold air leaking down from the industrial vents lining the ceiling. Fred is absent, hidden down deeper in the bowels of the beast, so he stands awkwardly in the doorway and waits. "Is Fred here?" he asks, hoping a nearby technician will hear him.
No reply. Just as Angel is about to pull out his cell phone, Fred appears from behind one of the larger machines, holding a clipboard and speaking excitedly to a shaggy-haired young man. Knox, Angel remembers. Angel is about to call her name, but Fred notices him first, pressing her clipboard to her chest and smiling. "Angel! Wow, this is-- kind of weird. In a good way. What are you doing down in the lab?"
"Hey, Fred," he says. "Can I talk to you?"
"Sure. What's bothering you? Is this about the budget? I swear, next quarter I won't spend as much, it's just--"
Angel holds up his hand. "No, it's not that." Knox is watching him curiously. Angel can feel himself fidgeting, the anxiety seeping to the surface. "Look, can we talk? In private?"
Fred blinks in surprise, but after a moment, she gestures Knox away and guides him toward the back of the lab. "Of course. We can use my office," she says. "Is something wrong? You look like something's wrong."
He waits for the door to close. "Nothing like that," he says hesitantly. "But before I start, I just want you to know that I'm not crazy."
"Oh-kay, I'll keep that in mind." Her voice is slow and careful; he can see the wheels turning inside her mind already. "But just tell me what's wrong. You're kind of freaking me out."
"It's Cordelia."
Fred's hand moves to her mouth. "Oh, Angel, she didn't-- she's okay, right?"
"I don't know. I mean, as far as I can tell she's alright. But I've been seeing things. This-- this black cat. I saw it yesterday, when I went to visit Cordelia, and then today the patient next door died for no reason."
"It's probably just coincidence. I mean, it's Halloween. Black cats are everywhere. I think one of the decorations people was carrying around a stuffed one, for the party tonight--"
He shakes his head. "It was real, Fred. I saw it again another night, when I was buying magazines for Cordelia," he says. "But that's not it. There's been other things, too, and now I think that Cordy is trying to talk to me. That she needs help, wherever she is. Do you think that's possible?"
Fred bites her lip, glancing down at her hands, folded serenely across her lap. "I think anything is possible, here," she says.
"She was in a coma on her birthday, remember? Maybe this is like that. Maybe if we can figure out where she is, or what's hurting her, we can do something."
With her head bowed, Fred seems small and reluctant, as if whatever she says will only bring bad news. He watches her, thinking of what else he can say to persuade her, but after a moment she lifts her head and meets his gaze. "You're lucky. With Spike around, we've been doing a lot of work with the ghosts and other incorporeal creatures. I have this theory that ghosts are just people trapped in a dimension which, compared to ours, is such a small degree off from our own that the barrier becomes permeable under certain atmospheric conditions."
"That's good," Angel says encouragingly. "That's really good. Any ideas you have will help."
Fred moves smoothly to her feet. Her eyes, he notes, are carefully downcast. "I have other ideas, too. One of them is that you just miss her, like all of us do."
"I do miss her," he replies, matter-of-fact. "But this isn't like that. This is real. And if Cordy's trapped, or lost, or in trouble-- we have to help her."
Her smile is sad and slow. "I'll put everyone on the case. If she's in this building, we're gonna find her." She begins to leave.
Angel reaches for her wrist. "Fred? I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, if it's just-- if it's just me. So can you-- not tell anyone?"
She pauses in the doorway, her tiny hand splayed across the frame. The clipboard is still clutched against her chest. "I wasn't planning on it," she says simply.
At Fred's insistence, he leaves the lab, unable to do anything except bother with things and generally be a nuisance. He hates that Fred doesn't truly believe him, then wonders why he's surprised by it; it isn't like he has any physical proof of what he's seen. He hopes that Fred won't let her doubt in his sanity dissuade her from helping Cordelia, wherever she is.
The train of thought is exhausting. With his afternoon already cleared, the damage is done; he might as well take the evening off. The party is in a few hours, anyway, and if he lingers anywhere in the building other than his suite then he'll probably be roped in to help with last minute arrangements. With Cordelia weighing so heavily on his mind, he thinks that it would be worthless to try and concentrate on anything else anyway.
Upstairs, he stands in the center of his living room, listening for the sound of anything out of the ordinary. Wondering if the last few days have been nothing more than an endless dream. The apartment is quiet, so quiet he can hear the hum of the air conditioner and the grab-bag of city sounds streaming in from the streets outside. He thinks that maybe Fred was right, and that all of this is nothing more than his own grief sliding to the surface.
He puts his hand on the television stand, where the video had been playing this morning. "Cordelia?" he says quietly. He closes his eyes and waits.
Nothing. He rubs his hands over his face, then tries again, a little louder. "Cordy? I don't know if you're here, but if you are, then-- please. Show me."
The air conditioner stutters in its hum then, finally, clicks into silence. Angel strips off his shirt, steps out of his shoes, and retreats into the bedroom. He collapses, face-first, into the soft down of his comforter. He has never felt so tired as this. As he closes his eyes again, thinking of Cordelia and the distant memory of her voice, he feels that this is the best sleep he ever gets: when the darkness is a living thing, rushing up to meet him. When it feels like dying.
He sleeps straight through until thirty minutes to the party. He has multiple missed calls on his cell phone; he doesn't bother checking them. He slept deeply and dreamlessly, a strange sensation after the last few restless nights, but at least he feels better equipped to pretend to be sociable. Just as he begins to dress, the phone rings again, vibrating loudly against the wooden surface of his bedside table.
"Hey, Lorne," Angel says, balancing it carefully between his shoulder and ear. "Don't worry. I'm getting dressed."
Lorne sounds nearly as frazzled as he does. "I've been calling you for the last hour and a half! You better get down here soon, pumpkin, because the guests are starting to arrive and what kind of company are we without our CEO on showcase?"
Thirty minutes later, he is pushing his way through the jungle of orange streamers and sticky cobwebs. The banquet hall is nearly empty, although he immediately recognizes the circle of his friends, standing around the heavily-decorated bar and sharing a strangely-colored punch. Harmony is, predictably, dancing alone beneath the spotlight.
Gunn notices him first. "Hey, man. Where were you all afternoon?" He notices Angel's attire-- an orange button-down beneath a black suit-- and grins. "Look at you. All festive."
"Lorne made me," he replies. "And, uh, this afternoon-- I was busy. With things."
Fred, engaged in a conversation with Wesley, lifts her head to glance in his direction. It seems to be a rather meaningless look, so he doesn't press her for information. Wesley steps in, holding a pair of beers, one for himself and one, apparently, for Angel. "I'd have your drinks now, when the bar is relatively empty," he says. "I have a feeling a large amount of alcohol will be necessary to survive tonight."
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Lorne sing-songs, appearing behind Angel's shoulder. "Now, children, I expect to see a little Halloween cheer out of all of you. Look, Angel's even wearing an orange shirt!"
"We know you made him," Gunn replies.
Fred moves away, briefly, to fetch another drink. Angel follows after her. "Fred, wait. Did you--?"
She pours herself another glass of punch. Over her shoulder, she says, "Angel, let's not talk about this now. It's a party."
"It's Cordelia," he argues.
"I don't want to tell you now. It won't solve anything."
"So you found something?" he asks. Fred receives her drink and, shaking her head, begins to walk around him. He grabs her wrist. "Fred, stop. Is something wrong? With Cordy?"
Fred doesn't reply, and now she's attracting attention. Wesley is the first to sense the unusual conversation. With a look of concern, he begins to approach, depositing his empty beer on the counter. "Did you say something about Cordelia?" he asks.
Naturally, Gunn and Lorne begin to notice, and Angel can already feel the situation unraveling. "It's nothing. Look, let me just talk to Fred for a second."
"If it's about Cordelia, I feel all of us should be involved," Wesley says.
When Fred meets his gaze, her eyes are wide and wet. He realizes that she is nearly in tears, her mouth tremulous with despair. "Angel thought that Cordy was trying to communicate with him, on another plane. Or that something was hurting her, wherever she is," she says quietly. "I spent all afternoon looking. I tried every machine and technique. The whole lab was working on it."
Gunn trades shocked, angry glances between the two of them. "And you didn't tell us? What the hell?"
"I thought it was for the best," Angel says gently. "If it was nothing, if it was just me, then it would be better not to get anyone's hopes up."
Over Gunn's shoulder, Angel can see more guests beginning to pour in. Lorne sees it as well, because he begins to nervously usher them apart, ordering a fresh round for everyone. "Guys, I love the princess, too, but you're starting to make a scene--"
"Then maybe Angel would like to explain what exactly is going on," Wesley says sharply.
Fred wipes discreetly at her eyes. "I can tell you. I didn't find anything. I tried everything, but she isn't here. I checked every niche of every nearby dimension. I scanned for any sign of astral projection. There's no sign of her."
"We can try magic, Fred. If only you and Angel had told us, if only--"
Angel doesn't listen anymore. He swallows down the rest of his drink, sets it down, and walks away.
He tosses his coat over the recliner, his sigh echoing the swish of the elevator doors sliding to a close. His eyes are already tired again, like he hasn't slept in days. He slips into the kitchen, rips one of the blood-bags open with his teeth, and swallows it down cold. He leaves it, half-empty, on top of the counter.
In his bedroom, he moves to the expansive bay window over-looking the city, standing in the faded latticework of light pouring in from the building next door. Thinking that Cordelia is in a coma downstairs, as she has been for the last six months, and that he has never wanted her more than in this moment. That even a glimpse of her, walking away, would be better than the half-dead woman sleeping downstairs. For the first time ever, he lets himself wonder if she will ever wake up. If he should begin considering letting her go.
He turns away from the window. Cordelia is standing in the center of the room, her long dark hair pouring down her back and covering the buttons of her pink-spotted hospital gown. Her feet are bare.
Angel forgets everything he has ever known. "Cordelia," he whispers, and it is the only sound in the room. He feels as if the dreadful thing resting inside him all these days has suddenly ruptured, but instead of horror, it pours a warm, golden feeling all through him. "Oh, God, Cordelia. I knew. I knew you were here," he says, and this time he moves forward, arms outstretched.
Slowly, she turns toward him, her arms linked loosely over her chest. "Angel?" she murmurs.
He stops. The black cat is curled in her arms, purring, but as he watches it leaps from her arms and begins loping toward him. He looks up at Cordelia.
She smiles.