Title: Catharsis
Author: Natauni
Posted: 02-01-01
Rating: R
Email:
Content:
Summary: What you see is rarely all there is
Spoilers:
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution:
Notes:
Feedback:Part 1: Flood ~
In which Cordelia sets the stage, and then tells it like it is.He'd feel better if I would get angry with him.
He expects me to get angry. Heck I think a part of him even -wants- me to get angry. It certainly wouldn't be an unfamiliar trend if I did. Hell, 'Angry at Angel' is pretty much the standard around here lately. Gunn refuses to even speak to him without tossing a spike back and forth between his hands, Dennis all out refused to let him into my apartment up until I lambasted him last Saturday night and Wesley...
Well Wesley didn't want to come back -at all.- He only did so because I did. And boy did that decision earn me a lecture: from both of my boys. I think Wesley and Gunn only finally relented and came back with me because they knew I wasn't going to budge on the subject. That doesn't keep Wes from wandering back and forth between his bookshelves and my desk all day long, though, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like 'Have you seen my axe?' under his breath.
So yeah, "We're all pissed at Angel" could pretty much be mounted on the hotel's front door at this moment. And to be truthful, in a different world I'd be the one trying to find the thumbtacks. It's like I said: the whole office practically -screams- repressed anger, accusation and betrayal.
They don't understand why I'm not leading the pack on this emotional front, you know. After all, I wrote the book on holding grudges.
But I'm not angry. Okay that's a lie. And a bad lie at that. I -am- angry. I'm so goddamned angry I can't see straight sometimes. But then again that may just be the visions. Which -have- gotten worse lately, thank you for noticing. Not that anybody's feeling chatty enough to bring it up. We're too busy lately to do anything but work or sleep. Maybe it's because of Dru and Darla's antics. Or maybe it's just because somebody up there decided we needed more of a challenge, but regardless, word got out that Angel was acting all wiggy and the city's under-underbelly took it as an indication that the streets were about to become a freakin' buffet table or something. End result is the same: the big bad just got bigger, badder and a whole lot more frequent.
I think the PTBs are trying to re-bond the group after everything that happened. I need to find out where those things live and pay a visit. With a large, heavy machete.
So I'm angry. So what? What do they expect me to do? Throw a tantrum? Tell me what good that would do when my days already consist of getting up, screaming in pain from visions at the office all day and then going home and going to bed only to scream myself awake with nightmares too. I don't have the -time- to tantrum, much less the energy to do so. Besides, even if I did flip out like they seem to expect, what is it going to accomplish? The only thing that would make me feel even remotely better at this point would be stomping on his head. Repeatedly. And I -can't- do that. He's my warrior.
Like it or not, I cannot do his job.
And that's the freakin' worst part of all of this. I should be angry. I should have the right to scream and curse and fall back on all of those old comfortable patterns I knew so well when I was younger, but I -can't-. I have to be the angel in the office for once. I have to grow up and let this go. Because I know that if I don't, innocent people - hurting people - are going to be the ones who suffer for it.
I'm a seer. Not a warrior. The last few weeks have made that abundantly clear all by themselves, thank you very much. Is there any other humiliation you want to heap on me while you're at it? Six visions. Funny how I don't measure the time we were away from Angel in hours or days or even in weeks, but in visions. Two attacks. One attempted bombing. One rape. Two murders.
We managed to stop all but the rape. Oh well, it's not like you can bat a thousand can you?
I'm just so sick of this constant urge to throw up.
"Me Warrior, you Seer." Okay, nobody ever tried to impress the point on me in quite that matter, but that didn't mean the message wasn't underlined anyway. I just got really good at ignoring it - at feeling big and tough and empowered and macho. I never understood how much I didn't want to have to be the one making the tough decisions until I was the one sitting for hours in the waiting room.
David nearly died. And nothing I could have done would have changed that.
They keep telling me it's not my fault. They say that David knew what he was doing and that his desire was to protect me. They claim that that's why he followed me to the site of my latest vision when he realized Wesley and Gunn and his gang would never get to me in time. 'He's an adult,' they tell me... 'He's your friend' and 'You'd have done more then the same from him' and all the million-and-one other things they try and tell you that don't mean a damn when you're wondering if you're going to lose someone you're not even sure you -noticed- before now.
He's gonna be on dialysis for months until they find him a new kidney, did you know that? If they can find one at all.
So yeah, I'm back at Angel Investigations for the foreseeable future. Yee Haw. We're all back. And we're not going anywhere. Tell me something that isn't blindingly obvious. I may not like Angel all that much at this point, but I -need- him, and whether he likes it or not, he needs me too. I'm not going to watch anyone else suffer because I'm too arrogant to accept his apology. Yeah I got screwed. -All- of us got screwed.
But then Angel knows that just as well as I do. He doesn't need it rubbed in his face - he's doing that well enough on his own.
"It's no fun picking on someone too stupid to realize it." That was something I actually heard my father say once. I don't know whom he said it to - he was on the phone in his study at the time, but it's always stuck in my mind. He's right, you know. Let me add another similar truth to that vein. There is no use holding a grudge against someone who already wraps himself in agony. And there is no point in hating someone for something when they already hate themselves for their own actions more than you ever could if you spent you whole life trying to match it. Angel doesn't need a punishment. He's just fine at creating his own personal hells.
He wants me to be angry with him. I won't. Whether he likes it or not, I'm going to forgive him. It will just take a lot of love. And a lot more time.
And the love I've got. As terrifying as it is for me to admit this, if there is anything I've gotten out of this entire situation other than the fact that life is grossly unfair at certain moments, it's that I've fallen for my ex-boss. And I'm not talking about a little girl crush either. This is the real thing. The sacrificial thing. The kind of love I don't get the privilege of getting out of...
I fell for Angel. And I fell hard enough that the 'splat' at the bottom wasn't just 'not pretty', it was disastrous.
I missed him while he was gone. I -still- miss him now that he's back. I miss the easy way he used to just stop by at my apartment at night: always claiming it pertained to one case or another, when in truth he just needed to reassure himself that I was okay. My Angel loves me too, in a way - did I mention that? Oh I doubt he realizes it himself, but he does, and it exhibits itself in a hundred small ways; not the least of which is his habit of checking on me whenever he gets it into his head. Those who have teasingly accused him of stalking in the past have no idea just how right they are. I don't know yet if the steady decline in the quality of his excuses for it is because he's genuinely running out of ideas, or because he's simply realized I don't buy it regardless, but before all this mess we'd finally gotten to the point where he was just a constant part of me and my life. And I -liked- it that way.
He's the first guy I've ever had such a good time ignoring. The first one I didn't feel the need to react to, but simply felt content to -be- with. Those regular nights at my apartment after the bombing were wondrous: I'd put on whatever I wanted to watch or listen to and I'd just do my thing...and he just 'was.' Do you realize how strange it is to have that kind of person in your life when you've never had it before?
It's like finding yourself. And realizing your really -are- what you'd hoped for.
Not that it was always good, of course. We did end up fighting sometimes: we'd start rubbing each other wrong and I'd try and kick him out. My success at it varied according to his mood and Dennis' choice of whom to side with. Angel managed on six separate occasions to tell me I had a horrid reading library, and we're not even going to -talk- about the day he tried to convince me to 'reassess' the modesty level of some of my newer dresses. Most people are afraid of his temper. I find it a little refreshing. Oh I know he'd probably be scared to hear me say that: he's so afraid of becoming Angelus, but the fact of the matter is Liam, or Angel or whatever he wants to call himself now, is capable of strong, genuine emotion, and I'll take that passion in any form. You have to take the good with the bad, damnit. Just the good gets boring anyway.
Besides, there's comfort in the familiar, and Angel being broody is Angel in his natural state. Those times we butted skulls were just the shaping times in our relationship. It was how we felt each other and our relationship out. He'd yell and I'd yell and then I'd storm out and get coffee and he'd storm out and run patrol and then we'd both feel bad and we'd both wind up at my apartment and I'd apologize, and he'd try to, and then we'd make omelets and reboot the evening as if the fight had never happened.
He was - he -is- the best friend I have ever had in my life. These days though he can barely bring himself to look at me, though. And I have no way to fix it.
So where does that leave us, anyway? Repentant? Healing? Wanting to go back to where we were before but knowing we can't, because 'where we were before' never existed to begin with? Maybe I'm just fooling myself - assuming we used to be happy together. Perhaps I've always been in this kind of pain in regards to him, but it just took this to make us both realize what we'd taken for granted. I mean love hurts right? Why should this be any different?
Why should I expect love could ever come without the obligatory hurt? My past alone ought to have taught me that much.
I forgive him. I have no other choice. I love him. Sometimes I wish I didn't. I was never supposed to love him, you know. I was smarter than that, I thought. After all, considering all the crap I've seen love bring into my life - and his, I was never supposed to let anything be anything other than ankle deep and superficial.
So much for the floozy who never forms emotional attachments, huh? So this is a flood we're caught in, then...?
Funny, I don't even have my rubber duckie.
Part 2: Fight ~
In which Angel waxes philosophical and Wesley proves a little less well adjusted then he's admitting.It's a little unnerving how -proficient- Wes has gotten with that axe of his.
I know, I know: that sounds slightly ridiculous, doesn't it? I mean I wouldn't want him to be bad with it, would I? It could get him or Cordelia killed or me staked or decapitated, or whatever, if he was unable to hold his own in struggle. Not to mention it would do Angel Investigation's reputation no good if word got out that anyone under my hire was unable to at least try and protect themselves. Hell, with the threat of Angelus always looming over all of our heads, I should be glad to know our favorite Brit has a healthy testosterone supply - it should be reassuring. Anyway, you get my point. I should want to know my researcher/partner can hold his own in a fight. I should be glad he's so good.
I'm not so sure of that at the moment.
He is good. I knew that in the back of my mind long before I stopped to watch him. I guess I shouldn't be surprised: we've certainly had enough action here in LA over the past year and a half for him to brush up on his combat skills. Wesley has always been almost ruthless in his self-confrontations, and if he set out to make himself a better fighter, he did so because he believed it was necessary for his good and for ours as well.
Still, as I pivot away from the demon currently attacking me to watch him tear into another vampire across the alley, and I realize I'm not just disturbed. I'm worried.
He's -enjoying- this. I wonder why I didn't notice that before. I mean I know the rage-lust better than anyone. I may be able to quell a lot of my vampire urges: the never-ending sexual pull I've come to realize is as much procreative as sensual and of course the constant want for blood...but there is one part of my darker side I can't stop, and that's the need to extract vengeance. To protect my territory.
To Hunt.
I like to tell myself that that's the one part of Angelus I've turned to good use. That I use that natural stint toward violence to keep those I care about safe rather than to prey on the weak. I assure myself over and over again that the rage I foster toward the darkness allows me to endure in the moments a normal mortal couldn't: that there's nothing wrong with a solid dose of hate for evil. That it's all normal to enjoy the crack of bone and the slit of skin when the person deserves the whipping....
The truth is I lie to myself very well when it's necessary. The past few months have shown me that with no room for debate.
Hatred only begets hatred. And solitude only begets more room for pain and misery to creep into you life. That, more than anything, is what I took away from the nightmare of what's happened with Dru and Darla. I didn't fail with Darla because she was turned; I can't be held responsible for anything but reacting to my own emotions up till that day I left her and Dru at Wolfram and Hart. Where I did fail, where I -am- at fault, is in my blind belief that I could take on that kind of situation alone. That I could possibly handle the memories and the questions and the challenges as if I was the only one who'd live with the consequences of what I did.
The travesty is not just that I acted alone, but that I believed no one else would be affected.
I am not an island. I am part of something...of a whole group of -some ones- and if I want to curse myself for anything, it's thinking that I could cast them off like a coat I didn't want to wear it anymore. I thought I could take on my past alone. I was, as Cordelia might say, 'A complete moron.' All I managed to do was irreparably damage my present and put all of our futures at stake. Dru and Darla may not be a threat at present, they may just be two more in the long list of enemies we've banished from this town, but they left more than bodies behind them. They left scars.
Some are more well hidden then others though. Tonight I think I'm finally seeing one I hadn't before now.
Just look at him. I've never seen Wesley charge around with so much gusto before. He's already managed to slay the bad-ass he was dealing with a minute ago and now he's going after the third in the party. I wish I could say he's doing so poorly, that he's overcompensating, but he's not... his movements are swift and economical. He knows what he wants and he knows how to get it.
The problem is in another moment he's going to be out of bad guys. And at this point, I'm not sure he's not in reality actually coming after -me.-
* * *
It's amazing how relieving it is to beat the bloody hell out of something.
The fop in front of me doesn't even know what he's doing anymore. He's getting tired...desperate. His avoidances are slow and his offenses are almost pitiable. Look at that: the silly fool can't even protect himself from a simple right cross. Oh yes, this is definitely what I needed. Another night. Another demon.
Another chance to beat the snot out of a creature that may not be responsible for the chaos my life is in, but who'll make an acceptable substitute.
I can hear Angel moving toward us, sword drawn. Another twenty seconds and he'll finish this one off before I can; can't have that can we? A simple spike straight to the chest results in the inevitable pile of dust and I'm exhaling in a large, frantic bursts of air before I turn to face him, shaking the stuff from my hair and clothes as I slide my weapon back into my belt with all the ease of thoughtlessness. And glancing around to make sure the fight is over. "Well is that it, then? That went well enough."
He nods then. Silently. Dark eyes are studying me intently and I find myself fighting the urge to squirm slightly under their gaze. "What? What are you bloody staring at?" What's the matter with this wanker?
"You." His voice is deep and he's still staring at me. Damn the Rat Bastard. What is with this sudden 'under-the microscope' bearing?
I reach into my back pocket for the cell phone. "Cordelia. It's Wesley. Yeah we're okay. Went off without a hitch. How are you? No I am not hovering. I just wanted to make sure there haven't been any more visions and that your headache's under control. You want me to bring you something from Maggie's for supper?" I get the usual scolding reassurance, followed by the even more common refusal for food. Bugger it all girl, you didn't have that much extra weight to spare to begin with, and I don't care how many times you say you're okay with the increased visions, you look like Hades on a particularly unattractive day.
I worry about you okay? -Somebody- around here damn well better.
"Are you going to bed then?" Another caustic remark from the other end, and this one not so quietly given. "All right, all right, I'll leave you alone. Just...sleep in tomorrow. And don't worry about breakfast, I'll bring donuts to the office."
She hangs up on me. Ah well, I guess I should be glad she's still got at least some of her old surliness. As it is, she's showing far more restraint than I'd like to see her display at this point. All the rest of us have taken the opportunity to royally tear into Angel at least once since we re-formed Angel Investigations. All but her anyway - and she deserves the privilege far more than me, Dennis or Gunn put together.
"I'm fine." She keeps saying. I am so bloody sick of hearing her say that to me. She's acting as if nothing ever happened, though, and every day I have to watch it makes me want to rip out our 'fearless leaders' undead spleen.
"Wesley." Angel's voice breaks into my inner tantrum. He's still just standing there -looking at me.- Bloody idiot. I jam the phone back into a front coat pocket. "I checked in with Cordelia. She went home for the night. If you'll excuse me, I'm about to do the same."
He moves to block me then. The bastard actually physically sets himself in front of me, arms crossed. "I don't think so quite yet, Wes. I think the two of us need to talk first."
Oh just tempt me Angel. Just -tempt- me. "On the contrary, I think if I stay in front of you another moment at this point, I will try and kill you." And Cordelia would not be pleased with that. "I'm tired. I'm hot. I smell like a whole assortment of unpleasant things and I still harbor a distinct desire to beat on something. So kindly get out of my..."
"Then why don't you hit me?"
Part 3: Fallout ~
In which friendship and reality come to blows."So why don't you hit me?"
It's amazing how quickly and effortlessly the words come out of my mouth. The offer is genuine. And yet, amazingly, there's no blood lust involved. I'm calm. Cool. Rationale. I think he honestly needs to lay one on me at this point, and if it's going to move us even a fraction of an inch closer to a solution to all of this...
The thought is interrupted by a solid right jab to the face, followed by a knee in the groin.
"Mother of God, Angel...!" The actual attack was unexpected. I'm not exactly crumpled on the ground but I'm not exactly standing all the way upright either. Wesley, meanwhile, is staring at me with shaking hands and a look of abject horror on his face. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"Yes. Yes. You. Did." The words are nearly a growl and I'm pushing him away from me brusquely even as he tries to help me up, stuttering and fumbling and gaping all the way. "I -earned- it Wesley. Don't Apologize. Hell I wish you had done it sooner. It would have done us all a lot of good."
He's as red as a beet. And still in shock. "I should not have hit you Angel. Regardless of the circumstances you are still my friend. Friends do not strike each other. And Cordelia has made it all too clear that she feels..."
I growl again. "This is not about Cordelia!" Or maybe it was. How in the world was I supposed to put into words what had always been left unspoken between us? He loved her. I knew that. We -all- loved her. It was a bitter, ironic kind of reality we had come to accept in our world. "Or maybe it is. It should be. I broke the rules." The meaning was undeniable: if he'd done what I did to Cordelia, and I'd had to watch, he'd most likely have been -dead- by this point.
'There's nothing to destroy the friendship between two men like a woman.' The saying is old and untrue. Wesley and I had -become- friends because we both loved Cordelia. It was mutual concern for her safety that had dragged him into my life when she was abducted that first time, and mutual horror over the Wilson incident that had been the final cementing in our adoration of her. Cordelia likes to say that we men of Angel Investigations run rough-shot over her. Nothing could be further from the truth. She could never, in all her wildest imaginings, have any idea of the kind of agony we endure in our fear for her, in our desperate struggle to deny to ourselves how lost we would be without her. She likes to play our den mother, our critic, and sometimes even our 'butt-kicker', but the truth is she is something far more.
She is the diamond in the rough everybody keeps talking about: not quite shiny, but making up for it a million times over in both sharpness and strength.
"How could you?" The words are whispered, but I can still hear the near-growl repressed behind them. Oh Wesley if you only knew how much I respect the fact you can feel this righteously indignant about what I put you all through. "After everything we've been through. What we've done for you. What -she's- done for you. To just throw her aside like a..." He clenches his fists. "I just really, really want to hate you, right now."
"I'm sorry." The words have been said a million times since I got back and all the regret and penance and purgatory they carry couldn't come close to demonstrating the kind of sentiment behind them, but they're all I can come up with. "I blew it. Big time."
His nostrils flare. "Blowing it would have been firing us Angel. Blowing it would have been staying away for a few days. You were gone almost four weeks. FOUR WEEKS I had to watch it fall apart." He's getting angry again. Good. Angry is what he needs to be - not because I want more flagellation but because he needs to let it go. I wasn't thinking when I dragged us into this pit of mutual self-destruction but I can damn sure take a few licks if it's going to drag us back out.
"I'm sorry." The words again. They mean absolutely nothing after you've said them for the ten millionth time.
"Do you know what buggers me the most about all this?" You can tell Wesley's level of agitation by the direct proportion of native expletives he uses. "She ought to beat the bloody crap out of you, but you somehow managed to turn her into a friggin' BUHHDA DOLL!"
And there's the catch twenty-two off all of this. Wesley isn't just bearing his own rage in this situation. He's carrying Delia's as well. Our gentle, emotional, overly sensitive ex-watcher has had to stand by quietly as Cordelia Chase morphs into a person we all still respect, but none of us can quite abide by. She -should- be leading the hate wagon on this. She should be enraged. I should be hunting down rats for food because she drained my finances with the new raise she should guilted out of me, and she certainly shouldn't be taking on increasing visions without bitching.
She should be the one ignoring me and ignoring the office supply re-order forms and consuming bribery-chocolates by the dozens while still refusing to remain in the same room with me for more than a few minutes....
Instead she's the one who's smiled when we come into the office every day. Who's brought us coffee from the little espresso stand down the street and popped pain pills like some kind of junkie with a fix.
She acts as if she can wipe the slate clean through sheer force of will. And we all hate to watch it.
"What right did you have to do that to her Angel?" Wesley's ranting continued throughout this whole realization. "I mean isn't it bad enough she's got to deal with it already? The pain, the knowledge, the constant blood and guts and loss of innocence...Isn't it bad enough that she...that ANY OF US, have to know what's out there? Did you have to make her accept it? To make her take it lying down?
Did I have to be yet another person in the world to show Cordelia Chase how apparently little she matter in the big picture?
Did I have to make her -helpless?-
"I'm sorry." Damn it all, if I have to say this one more time I'm going to stake myself. Oh except I can't do that: I've always managed to demonstrate more than clearly that if I take down myself, she goes down with me. We are linked. Warrior and Seer.
It's not fair to her. "It won't happen again." I promise you Wes. -It won't happen again.-
Funny, a two-pronged vampire attack didn't manage to get me to the floor but this nearly has. I haven't hurt this much since I left Sunnydale two years ago. The pavement underneath me is cracked beneath my palms. I feel heavy. Worn beyond all apparent use.
I'm so very sorry. Isn't that supposed to change something?
"She forgave you Angel. And I will too." A sudden warm hand on my shoulder makes me look up at Wesley, and to my surprise he's now crouched down beside me. His own eyes look just as tired as mine - infinitely old, yet they're also full of a compassion I don't understand. Can't understand.
"How?" How was it redemption with her is so simple when everywhere else in my life it has so be so damned hard?
He shakes his head. Stands. "Don't you get it? She's your seer. She's your friend. Like me. And she -LOVES- you."
Part 4: Summons ~
In which Dennis takes a turn at being ticked offThe worst part of being a ghost isn't that you're dead, it's the inability to ever truly -hold- anything.
I miss touch. Not just the ability to move things from one space to another, or to feel different textures and temperatures and weights and shapes, but to connect. What I miss is the ability to grab on - really truly -grab on- to someone. I miss the power of the embrace: to wrap a friend in a hug of relief. To run a finger down the side of a crying person's cheek in. To take a trembling hand between both of your own and clasp it tightly until the shaking finally stops and the fear has been banished back to reasonable levels.
I miss the power of skin on skin. Without it you are undeniably, unreachably alone.
And I hate being alone. I hate it more than I've ever hated anything. More than I hated my mother even: and considering that she sealed me up inside a wall to die, I suppose that has to tell you something. Some people in this world are actually good at being alone. Or at least they convince themselves they are. The truth of the matter, however, is that no one, -no one- who says they like being alone is truly alone. Only the person who has actually lived in total isolation truly understands what it is to live outside of the tactile envelope, and let me tell you as someone who is there that there is nothing in the world I like less.
I would give up just about anything to have my body back again. Just so I can hold her on nights like tonight.
We take for granted how important it is to meet flesh to flesh. Oh yes, some idiots out there say it's all purely reproductive or at least vaguely sexual: that touch starts as the spark of life and continues as a method of protection and nourishment of any life that is already present. The truth of that matter, though, is touch has almost nothing to do with sex. It has to do with defining our boundaries and determining our existence. I'm a ghost cause I have the ability to move matter, yes, but never to shape it or bond to it. When we have our skins we are more than just a mobile force without a voice. We are a sentient power with the actual ability to try and change things.
She's crying in her sleep. Again. Two and a half weeks now - two and a half weeks since Angel came back, since Angel Investigations was supposedly 'restored' and practically every night is the same. She keeps saying that it's okay - that he's okay, that she's okay, that everything is okay. It isn't. It is as far from okay as life is from death and nothing she can say or do will convince me otherwise. She is no more okay then I am. No more healed then a patient bleeding out on the operating table. No more at peace then my mother was before she got herself exorcised.
Cordelia Chase is a walking volcano of love and naiveté and dead innocence and betrayal. She cries in her sleep, and damn this form, I can't do anything.
I can't even hold her.
There is nothing worse in the world then the sight of a person you love in agony when you're helpless to stop it. I remember when I was a boy, before I really how truly ill my mother was, that I used to cry when she cried. I did so because the very idea of her being in pain: being lost, being frightened, being worried or scared or confused, was more than I could take. The sight of a woman crying was long ago genetically imprinted in the male genome as a 'sign of catastrophe' and ever since that moment, we men or former men of this planet have spent most of our time trying to assure such a thing will never happen. If you want to truly off-balance a man, then put him in the presence of a female he cares for and give her good reason to start the wet-works. Then gag him, tie him to a chair and tell him he can do nothing to stop it.
And they wonder why so many ghosts go mad. How long could you take it?
It's all his fault, you know. His fault for finding her, and his fault for bringing her into my life. His fault for noticing her in this city of millions of lost souls and knowing her well enough to feel obligated to take her in. It's his fault for bringing her here - for introducing her to this apartment. For giving me a roommate who actually talks to me at the end of the work day and who stocks Dr Pepper for a ghost who can't actually drink the stuff, but at least remembers what it used to taste like.
It's his fault for making me love her. And it's even more his fault because I know he loves her too.
Yes of course he loves her. It doesn't take a mortal - or even an intelligent non-mortal, to see that much. How can he -not- love her, after every thing they've been through these past few years. Cordelia is Angel's humanity until he gets his own: she forces him to come to her house for random Skip-o tournaments and lame Jackie Chan Flicks. She can't cook worth a damn and she bandages his wounds with more precision and gentleness than anybody else he's known in 244 years. She sings in the shower - fairly well. And she does logic puzzles that leave him alternately amazed and anxsty that she's chasing demons instead of going to college when she's got such a sharp brain.
She is his curse and his friend and the mosquito buzzing around his head.
I know he loves her. And I hate him for the way that he left her.
Yeah, he left her. Worse then that her FIRED her. Can you believe the GALL? Apparently Mr. Personality never bothered to read the fine print of his Warrior/Seer contract. You know, the part that reads in fluorescent, blinking letters: "Visions do not stop just because Warrior decides to consider a radical moral shift and takes a holiday." After all the time they've been together, after all the promises I know have been made on both sides, he just simply up and dumped her back out onto the street - at least metaphorically.
This is the same man who after her release from the hospital couldn't go more than an hour and a half at a time without checking on her while she slept. Does anyone else see a discrepancy here?
I don't know what happened. I don't want to. I don't care about corrupt lawyers or angry ex-watchers or prophecies or scrolls or any of that garbage. I just know she came home one night and proceeded to tear this place to shreds. And then she cried. Not whimpered or sniffled or even wept, but sobbed, like her heart was beyond broken and somewhere nearer 'smashed to little pieces.'
She cried and I had to simply be there and do nothing. Until she fell asleep on the couch, and I covered her with a blanket and took off her shoes.
He hurt her. More than I think he imagined possible. More than I think she imagined possible. It was sort of like watching one child give another child a stick of dynamite and then randomly ask them if they'd also mind lighting a match. You know, I know the Vampire is supposed to be like two hundred plus years old but that didn't prevent him from doing the dumbest thing on the face of this earth. Humans and the undead can be such morons.
And yet she says we are going to forgive and forget. And it isn't a suggestion.
So we go on. Or we try to. She gets up in the morning. Drags herself through the motions of getting ready for the day and then goes to the office. After she gets home, she usually collapses on the couch and sleep about an hour, and then she gets up and makes herself something to eat before finding a book for the two hours before she goes to bed. She never argues with me about what to watch on television though, and she hasn't threatened me with anything by Madonna since this whole messed started. Some nights are halfway happy: Wesley comes over - they talk in low tones over ancient tomes and of he's really lucky he might get to try and trounce her in a game of scrabble. But she doesn't laugh easily and she doesn't sleep more than a few hours without waking up either from a nightmare or a vision.
And she cries every night in her sleep. .
I really, REALLY hate him.
But I've had enough. Tonight it's over. Tonight I'm gonna call him.
I choose the phone in the kitchen - I don't want to risk waking her too early - and then dial the necessary numbers. It's an old system we worked out almost a year ago. It was actually to be Cordelia and Angel's way of making sure that I could contact the office if there were ever something wrong. Oh I know when they first came up with it, they figured I'd be calling to tell them the building's burning down or a slime demon is leaving stains all over the newly reupholstered couch or something the likes of that...
We've never actually used this signal for real. I hope he recognizes it for what it is.
Call once. Thank goodness for touchtone phone pads - one pencil is all it takes and I get that wonderful wringer. I let it ring exactly two times and then hang up. Call again, let it ring again. Only once, though. Call three, if he remembers then in a second, he'll answer and say my name. If it's me calling, I knock the receiver against the wall. Once means 'come - and bring soda.' Twice means 'come soon - emergency.' Three times means 'come yesterday...the building's burning down.'
I take pleasure in repeatedly whacking the phone against the wall.
Part 5: Setup ~
In Which Angel realizes he's in more trouble than he thought.I don't know what's scaring me more right now: that she won't stop crying, or that nothing I've tried seems to be waking her up.
Agony. Hopelessness. Terror. I could outright -smell- the distress she's in the moment that I entered her apartment. That was, by the way, about and hour and a half ago. Or at least I assume so, judging by the clock and my best guess about when I arrived. To be honest, I don't really remember much about what happened between the time I got the call and the moment that I passed though the main doors of Cordelia's living room at a near run.
Some nights sort of seem like dreams, you know. You just don't have the mental or emotional energy to make them any more real.
And boy has it been a strange, fragile evening. I'm not sure if I could adequately describe it even if I were to try. I do know that I went home alone after Wesley and I finished our little 'talk' behind the warehouse around midnight. We were both dangling on thin strings of exhaustion by the end of that conversation, and yet the sheer relief of having finally done what was necessary to restore our understanding was so palatable we were practically giddy with the feeling. For the first time since I'd fired them, we were really looking each other in the eye again.
Yeah, there was still hurt, but it no longer blocked out everything else in the vicinity.
So we could barely bring ourselves to separate and end the feeling. Funny, how much you realize you -hate- relational division when you finally put an end to it. It's like receiving a gift you don't want to put down because you're afraid if you do that someone will accidentally break it. Wes went as far as to offer to stay in one of the spare rooms at the hotel overnight if I wanted the company. Like me, he was reveling in the chance to be friends again. To start rebuilding what was broken. That man never fails to amaze me: he gave me a remarkably hard right cross and then still managed to comfort me only minutes later when my own guilt was becoming more than I could bear while standing upright. I know he often thinks of himself as weak, but the truth is he has a capacity for restoration and forgiveness I envy more than anything. It's something I could never match, not if I tried for another few centuries.
I know sometimes he wishes he could be more brutal or more cunning or more of a warrior. The truth is I'd never want him to be. That's not what Angel Investigations needs him for.
So I nearly took him up on his offer. It would have been easy for both of us to find a movie and a beer and just veg out on the couch until morning. After some careful consideration, though, I tried to do the unselfish thing and told him to go home. Our confrontation had been necessary but it had also been exhausting. We both needed to sleep and I knew he'd do so much easier in comfortable surroundings. Besides, things had begun on their path toward being straightened out, but only with him. As a whole, I still needed to do a great deal of thinking about what had happened and what kind of reparations I was going to make - to everyone - before we were back to the way we used to be.
So I told him I needed some think space, which he seemed to understand. Then we made plans to keep the office closed and do a full staff lunch the next day. Well, assuming of course that Cordelia didn't get run over by any more visions.
It took me about fifteen minutes after he left to convince myself I was ready to make the walk home. No, I'm not saying I enjoyed sitting on hard pavement serenaded by the sounds of spitting tomcats or squealing rodents, but it was still difficult to leave the alley and the astounding, raw promise of reconciliation it had offered us both. I'm not clueless, you know: I knew something important had happened tonight - that I'd been offered both retribution and mercy in the same rare instant. It was more than I could quite process all at once. Could you have done any better?
I didn't think so.
When I did finally start out, I walked slower than usual - actually glad for the exertion of the several mile walk and the eerie beauty of the abandoned streets that time of the night. The violence and edginess I usually associated with patrol was actually muted - my own mind seemed a hundred miles from everywhere as I unlocked the door to the Hyperion, and went to find my shower.
I'd been just about to change into clean clothes and find a sketchbook to settle in with for a little while when Dennis called me. He's never, -never- used our pre-arranged 911 code before.
So much for a night without the need for stress. Forget fighting or brooding, let's have a nice dose of panic.
Bad things. Very, very bad things. That was the only possible reason I could come up with for why Dennis would sound the alarm at two o'clock in the morning. He hasn't exactly been leading my fan club lately. Hell, if anything, I'd say he's taken the whole abandonment thing harder than anyone else, and considering he's not even an official member of Angel Investigations, I'd say that's pretty remarkable. Never underestimate the abilities of a ghost, though - particularly one with a grudge. He may be affectionate with his friends - even brotherly, but that doesn't mean he can't rumble with the best of them. Don't forget what he did to his own mother in a moment of sheer rage. We're a lot alike really, that's why we have always respected each other.
Still, it scared me absolutely spitless to think what kind of horror was on the move if he was calling voluntarily.
Invitations to Cordelia's place are rare to come by these days - and not just because our troubled seer is so withdrawn. Her big brother of a ghost is giving my obsessive protectiveness a run for its money. Hell, he nearly -killed- me the first time I tried to re-enter the apartment. If I hadn't been carrying a wounded Cordelia at the time, I think he would have. As it is, the bruises I got from being thrown up against the wall after I put her down on the couch are -still- with me.
Never let it be said that Dennis is an unvengeful ghost. He does quiet well at getting his licks in. He speaks his mind - by any means necessary.
Oh yeah, he knows his game. Although I do admit he's had to play it a little more subtly after Cordelia reamed him out last weekend. Do you have any idea how many good silk shirts he's managed to ruin while 'accidentally' spilling stuff all over me?
He doesn't like me at present. So naturally I expected to find vampires when I got there...or flood. Heck, I halfway expected to see hellfire, trolls, vultures and a sign that read 'welcome to the Apocalypse hanging from the doorknob...
What I got when I burst my way into Cordelia's apartment was worse though. How did he manage to wait as long as he did to call? I've never seen anybody in such heartrending agony.
She was burning up and tossing all over the bed when I found her. Drenched head to toe in sweat and fear and despair so potent it was practically all I could do just to remain in the same room with her. Dennis's message to me was all to clear as he blew open the bedroom door and all but shoved me inside.
'You caused this. Now FIX IT.' Is rather hard to miss. Especially when an extremely irate ghost has written it in blood on the wall.
Continue on...