Rating:   PG-13
Fandom::   Angel
Pairings:   Angel/Cordelia
Timeline:   First Season
Spoilers:   Through the end of Season 1
Feedback:   Please... Please... Please... Please...

Summary:   In the wake of tragedy, Angel and Cordelia have no one but each other to turn to.

Disclaimer:   I obviously don't own these characters.  If I did I'd be rich.  As it is I've only got schoolbooks and student loads.  Don't sue me, all you'll get is out dated history textbooks and I need those for research.  The title comes from Sting's ‘Desert Rose' and the poem is by W.B. Yeats, the songs are by Loreena McKennitt and Sting.

Author's Note:   Originally this was going to be a much longer story and while I still have a lot of that plotted out, and some of it has even been written.  However, time constraint and a general loss of muses for this fandom means that the rest of this will likely never see daylight.  I'm not calling it a 'Work in Progress' though because where I ended it does work as a reasonable ending point.  So, you, dear reader, can go ahead and read it as a finished story.  And who knows, maybe some day the muse will get its ass in gear and let me get this damn thing finished properly.

Chapter 1         Chapter 2         Chapter 3         Chapter 4

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Chapter 1

There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting though:
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat...
       –   ‘The Two Trees',  by W.B. Yeats

He watched the sun set in their dark hair.  The last rays caught fire in her carefully placed, chestnut curls and blazed in the neglected disarray of his shorter waves as they moved carelessly through the last slanting rays of light.

From the safety of the shadowed inner office he watched them end their day.  Closing up shop, their easy conversation punctuated by bursts of arguments and comfortable silences.  They soothed his nerves without even trying.

He had nearly forgotten the brilliance of the setting sun, until a miracle had let him see it one last time.  Now, he could only have its radiance vicariously through them; as he could only know so many other aspects of life through them.  Their life surrounded him and sometimes, just sometimes, he could remember what it was to be alive; filling him with momentary joy and peace.  Other times it almost overwhelmed him, their heat nearly as scorching as the sun's deadly rays.

For now though, they seemed to flow around him, keeping memories and ghosts at bay.  Nothing long dead could contend with their vitality.  Their scents filled the air and he breathed them in thankfully.

He always smelled clean, a mixture of cheap shampoo and soap.  Sometimes he wore a light, spicy after-shave, when he could afford it and it always seemed to linger about him even when he hadn't applied it, like today.  And underneath it all there was the unmistakable warm and dusty scent of books and something else... something sweet and dark, like an old forest.  A scent that spoke of a kind of strength one would not have expected when looking at him.  It was a scent that was only now becoming familiar and welcome.

He was more accustomed to her scent.  She smelled of skin cream, hair spray, and that herbal shampoo she used.  Over that she wore a delicate perfume that reminded him of flowers, though no flower had ever given off the complexity of this fragrance.  No designer impostor this, but a cherished hold over from her days of wealth, carefully preserved and sparingly used.  He knew it sat in a beautifully wrought crystal bottle on her vanity, costing more than she earned in any two months.  A luxury she could ill afford these days and one she couldn't replace.  The bottle was nearing empty and with it her days of privilege would truly be gone.  Underneath all of the perfume and cosmetics, however, her own pure scent still came through.  A scent that reminded him of summer rain and city streets washed clean of grime.  Sometimes he imagined that if he could breathe that scent in deep enough she could somehow wash him clean as well.

It was becoming familiar; their voices in counterpoint, their scents mingling in the air  –  as the world once again settled into routine as though tragedy had never struck.  But he didn't want to think about that.  It was still too raw, too painful to contemplate.  So he concentrated on them, on the here and now, not the nagging suspicion that if he let this became too familiar, if he began to depend on it as he had once before, it too would be snatched away.

The reminders came every day; determined ghosts that no amount of routine or comfort could banish.  In his dreams, in the voice not heard, the scent now gone from their tiny office, in the shadowed look that would sometimes cross her pretty face and darkened her hazel eyes.  It was there...  He was there.

As another day ended he could feel the ghosts gathering in the twilight shadows.

He said farewell with a smile more friendly than his ever-so-proper wording would have suggested.  She took her leave with a teasing comment and, when their companion had left, a soft kiss on his forehead.  Her eyes shadowed as she softly asked him to try and get some sleep  –  displays of gentle affection most would never have thought her capable of.

He nearly asked her to stay.

He knew she would if he asked.  He had kept her nightmares at bay many times and she was more than willing to do the same for him.  He almost reached out to stop her from leaving tonight.  She would nod and give him a sad smile that would have been foreign to her face less than a year before. 

She would insist on the first shower, of course.  And pick what late night movie to watch, demanding popcorn and maybe a shoulder rub.  Later, he would find rest in her arms.  Not the rest found with a lover; that was something he could never have again.  But this was somehow purer than that.  Her very presence and the security of her friendship would deny the furies access to him for one peaceful night.  Her warmth would seep into him and he would find himself matching her breath for breath until a blessedly dreamless sleep would claim him.

He nearly asked.

He wanted that escape, even if it was only temporary...  But he didn't.

He watched her walk away in the gathering twilight.  With one last bright smile and an ‘I'll see you tomorrow' she was gone.

Their scents were so warm and vital that they alone sustained him for a little while longer, until night truly fell and the ghosts swept in to take the place of the living, plunging him into painful memories.  No sleep would come, or if it did, it would be haunted by dreams of a past he couldn't bear.

The furies once again claimed their due in his guilt-ridden suffering, but then it seemed only right to him that they should.

"That's very nice work.  I'm sure Nabbit will be greatly relieved to get these back."

Angel nodded absently to Wesley in answer.  He was sitting on the edge of his desk, paying far more attention to Cordelia as she efficiently tended to his wounds.

God, he really hurt.  That stake had been a bit close too close for comfort.  The prospect of true death didn't frighten him, but it was sobering nonetheless.  Cordelia, however, was scared.  He could tell, although to all outward appearances she was as calm as ever.  He felt he should say something but was at a loss as to what.  He wanted to reassure her but he didn't want to embarrass her.  It was always a fine line to walk and not one to be attempted when Wesley was present.  It wasn't that Cordelia didn't trust Wesley, she did in her own odd way.  But she was sensitive about her emotions.  So was Wesley if it came to that.  They both preferred the other only see their strengths, unwilling to allow their weaknesses to the surface when the other was present.

Angel couldn't tell if how close he had come to dust that night bothered the young ex-watcher.  He was simply too hard to read at times.  He'd obviously been concerned when Angel had stumbled in, bleeding and barely able to stand upright.  Angel hadn't really paid attention too much attention though.  For one moment he had thought that Cordelia was going to faint, she had turned so white.  But, of course, she didn't.  Cordelia Chase did not faint.  After barely a second to compose herself, she'd swept foreword, grabbing the first aid box they needed to keep on hand for just such an occasion as this.  Occasions that were far too common unfortunately, but that was the cost of the job.

Getting back to the office had been difficult.  He'd been bruised and sore after the fight with the demon and had then he had been attacked by those kids without time to  –  metaphorically speaking  –  catch his breath.

Angel still found it hard to believe.  Children packing stakes and crossbows, setting up traps... out to catch and kill any vampires that came their way.  They had some experience, but not enough to be seasoned fighters.  Not yet, anyway.  They weren't going to give up any time soon.  They were at war for their very survival and knew it.

Angel winced as Cordelia tightened the bandages she was wrapping around his chest.  The hole in his shoulder throbbed, as did the smaller hole in his hand, and his ribs felt like they were on fire.

Wesley settled on the desk next to him and took the pictures they had been hired to retrieve from out of the manila envelope.  "Oh... my."

Angel glanced over, wanting to think about something other than kids fighting to survive, or the tightly controlled anger growing in Cordelia's eyes.

"It's upside down," he observed.

Wesley turned the picture around as Cordelia carefully applied the last piece of tape to the last bandage.  "Certainly not something one would want framed," Wesley commented dryly.

"How does it feel," Cordelia asked, ignoring their conversation entirely.

"I can't possibly imagine it's pleasant," Wesley answered, staring in horrified fascination at the picture in front of him.  Angel too stared at it, torn between disgust and curiosity.

"Ew," was all he could think to say.

"I'm talking to Angel."  Cordelia's voice held its patented annoyance.  Both men turned to look at her.

"Oh, right.  Sorry."  Wesley looked flustered and moved to hide the picture's contents from the girl, a gentleman hiding something unseemly from a lady. He needn't have bothered.  Cordelia wasn't interested and if she had been they all knew that there would have been little Wesley could do to stop her from looking her fill.

Angel glanced down, realizing that she was finished bandaging him up and he looked like a mummy as a result.

"It feels..." he started, then stopped as he began to draw on his shirt, wincing.  "It feels better," he lied.

A flicker of anger in her eyes, followed by something less definable were enough to tell him he'd lied badly, as if he hadn't already known.  Still, something was bothering her, something more than wounds and bad lies.  He wanted to ask, to find out what was that she was trying to keep from him.  He didn't like the idea of Cordelia hiding things from him, not now... not after all they'd been through.

Funny how life worked sometimes.  He had known Cordelia for nearly three years in Sunnydale, but he hadn't known her at all.  She was a minor distraction when his entire world had been focused around Buffy.  She had just been Xander's annoying girlfriend, the least interesting of the Sunnydale's "Slayerettes".  Cordelia had been there, but Angel had never really seen her.  He'd never bothered looking past the fashionable clothes and cheerleader mannerisms.

In the one short year that he had known her here in Los Angeles though, his entire view of her had changed.  She had become his best friend, his anchor, the one who knew him better than anyone.  It was frightening sometimes to think that Cordelia possibly knew him better than anyone in his nearly two hundred and fifty years on this earth had ever even tried to.  For once though, he just wanted to accept something good in his life without question.  She knew him and yet she still trusted him with her life, her fears, and her secrets.  The understanding they shared was as intense as it was private.

In the few months since Wesley had joined them he'd become a trusted friend.  But he hadn't been with them from the beginning and he'd been unable to understand their closeness.  It had thrown Wesley from the start.  Angel had been annoyed at first, then amused, by Wesley's awkward questions as he attempted to ascertain just what kind of relationship they had, if there was any reason to worry about the curse.

Angel had never told Cordelia of Wesley's initial suspicions as to the nature of their relationship.  She might have found it amusing; but then again she might have been offended, or worse yet, made distinctly uncomfortable.  There was no point in risking upsetting her.  Her responses could sometimes be so wildly erratic that even he had trouble predicting them.  Like today.

However, whatever was upsetting her was either tightly contained or gone now, because all he could see was concern as he pulled his shirt on over the bandages she's carefully applied and buttoned it.

"You should rest.  You look like..."

"Like I've been beaten and stabbed?"

"Want to see the check again?"  Her grin was a little too bright and the humour was slightly off, Cordelia's version of a hug and an assurance that everything was going to be fine.

"I want to find those kids.  I don't think any of them have homes.  They're probably living together somewhere."

"How many are there?" Wesley asked.

"I'm not sure," Angel answered honestly.  "Six... Seven... maybe more.  A couple of them couldn't have been more than sixteen."

"God, twenty minutes ride from billionaires and crab puffs... kids going to war."  Cordelia sounded more contemplative then was her want and Angel wondered if she too was remembering the old Sunnydale gang pulling together their resources and heading out to do battle with the forces of darkness.  As mature as they had seemed at those times, it had been easy to forget that they hadn't been much more than sixteen themselves, that Cordelia herself still wasn't much older now.

"This isn't something they just started doing," he continued.  "I mean, they were ready.  They've been pushed to this."

Wesley frowned.  "In which case I can certainly understand their stake first and ask questions later state of mind.  It's how they survive."

"And the idea of a vampire in a white hat probably seems a little... give me a breaky," added Cordelia.

"They're in over their heads.  They're going to get themselves killed."  Angel paused for a moment.  "If they're hunting vampires, there has to be a nest in the area.  Wesley, I want you to find out where those kids live."

Wesley nodded.  "Consider it done."

Angel moved toward the elevator and reached for his coat.  "I'm gonna find that nest, before they do.  It'll have to be close, probably in a ten block area."  He winced as he drew on his coat.  "And it'll have to be a building with sewer access."  Every movement was agony and he knew his pain was clearly visible to his colleagues.  The concern was growing in Cordelia's eyes and even Wesley looked a little worried.

"Can I just see that check again?"  Tossing Cordelia's joke back at her made her laugh and Wesley smiled  –  a snap shot of Angel's family to carry with him as he headed back out again.

---

Chapter 2

A painting hangs on an ivy wall
Nestled in the emerald moss
The eyes declare a truce of trust
And then it draws me far away
Where deep in the desert twilight
Sand melts in pools of the sky
When darkness lays her crimson cloak
Your lamps will call me home
       –   ‘The Mystic's Dream',  by Loreena McKennitt

One night changed their lives.  The night he had died. 

Cordelia had collapsed into Angel's arms crying as he stood, too stunned to move, staring at the spot where his best friend had been.

There wasn't even a body for them to bury.  Allen Francis Doyle was simply gone, as though he had never been.

Somehow Angel had roused himself from his paralysis and, moving in some sort of daze, he'd managed to make sure that the ship left safely as he guided Cordelia off of it.  He'd keep an arm around her waist to support her, but once they were off the ship he simply picked her up and carried her to the rented truck.  She hadn't complained.

Angel never even thought of taking her to her apartment.  He'd just ended up back at the office as if on automatic pilot.  She was calm by then and, taking some of the clothes she always kept at the office just in case, she escaped into the bathroom.

Angel had sat at his desk, unable to move or think.  The last few moments of Doyle's life replaying over and over in his mind... the unexpected blow that sent Angel off the catwalk and down to the deck below... looking up to see Doyle kiss Cordelia, his still heart freezing in his chest as he realized what Doyle was going to do... the mad scramble back up the latter calling Doyle's name, knowing that he'd be too late... and at last, watching in paralysed horror as Doyle died.  It didn't seem real.

Cordelia emerged from the bathroom a little while later, her face washed, and her hair pulled back in a ponytail.  She should have looked like a child, but somehow she looked far older than her 18 years.

She sat for a long time on the couch in the main room, holding an unmarked videotape in her hands.  Finally, she'd pulled out the television on its cart and set about putting the tape in and rewinding it.

"Angel, come here," she called softly.  It surprised him, as it was the first that either of them had spoken since they had left the ship.  She curled herself into a corner of the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms rapt around her legs.  Angel perched on the arm of the couch, wordlessly obedient to her summons.

He remembered her talking about making a commercial for Angel Investigations earlier that morning.  Though it seemed years ago now.  What he hadn't known was that she and Doyle had actually attempted to make one.  He was deeply shaken as he watched the tape.  Doyle  –  looking nervous and heartbreakingly alive  –  spoke of heroes and hope.  The irony of it all broke Angel's heart.

After the short commercial was over the television showed them snow and they sat in silence staring at it for a long time, the horrors of the last day combining with their exhaustion to make the world somehow hazy and indistinct.  Finally, Angel looked down at Cordelia.  She was trembling and tears ran silently down her checks.

He wanted to say something to comfort her, but what could he say?  That everything was going to be all right?  Hardly.  Doyle was dead, that wasn't going to change, and anything else comforting he tried to say would be rendered utterly meaningless by his own disbelief in it.

Finally, he reached down and picked up the remote, turning off the television and plunging the room into darkness.  Reaching down then he picked her up, as he had on the docks earlier that night.  She didn't protest now either.  She only curled herself into him, raping her arms tightly around his neck as her sobs broke free once again.  He carried her down to his apartment and settled her onto his bed.

He had meant to simply tuck her in and go into the living room to sleep on the couch, but she wouldn't let go of him.  She clung to him desperately as she cried.  So he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her onto his lap, rocking her and petting her hair as if she were a child.  She began to try and talk through her tears, but he shushed her.  He wasn't ready to talk, he wasn't sure if he ever would be.  And she was in no shape to even try.  After a while Angel laid down, pulling Cordelia down with him and settling her in his arms.

Her sobs lessened in to whimpers, her whimpers to sniffles, and finally exhaustion claimed her and she slipped into a deep sleep.  Angel lay awake.  He thought about moving to the couch now that she was asleep but he didn't want to wake her.  And if he was honest he didn't particularly want to be alone at that point.  So he had stayed, listening to her heartbeat and her steady breathing.  He felt numb, frozen.  Nothing seemed to make much sense.

Angel had always had the tendency of retreating into the human  –  and for him unnecessary habit  –  of breathing when he was upset.  That night, he found himself concentrating on Cordelia's breathing until he was able to match it, taking slow, deep breaths, until darkness claimed him.

There hadn't been any dreams that night, only the emptiness of shock.

Angel woke first and carefully slipped from the bed.  He tucked the blankets around Cordelia and escaped into the sewers.

His visit with the Oracles was short and useless. They had turned back time once; they could do it again.  But they didn't see it that way, tossing him out and telling him not to come again for such a "self serving" reason.  As thought begging for the life of another was so horribly selfish.  Yes, part of the reason he'd done it had been his own pain, his own inability to face Doyle's loss.  It wasn't just his pain, though, it was Cordelia's as well.  Angel couldn't bear to see her suffer.

But beyond the personal pain of those who'd known and loved him was the suffering that Angel would be unable to prevent.  Doyle had been the Power's messenger.  Angel was their chosen warrior but he could hardly fight their battles if he didn't know what they were.  Who would guide Angel to those who needed him without Doyle's visions?  And what about Doyle himself?  He hadn't wanted to die.  He'd made his sacrifice to save them, but that didn't mean that he hadn't wanted to live.  He'd had so much to live for.  He'd finally been rebuilding his life, reclaiming himself and his future.  There'd been so much...

Angel returned to a closed bathroom door and the sound of the shower.  He sat down on the side of his bed and looked at the clock.  It was nearly two in the afternoon, normally they would have opened the office hours ago.  And strangely enough it was that thought that suddenly made it all real and his world came crashing down around his ears.

It was then that he finally began to feel the pain.  He hadn't cried.  He'd wanted to, more than anything.  He'd wanted to find some comfort and release in the act as he had when he left Buffy, but the tears simply wouldn't come.

He sat there staring at his hands and didn't even notice when the shower stopped or when a little while later Cordelia came to sit next to him.

"What do we do now?"  He looked up into Cordelia's eyes and found a grief in them to match his own.

He shook his head.  "I don't know."

She looked away, glancing around the room and finally looking down at her hands, twisting in her lap.  "I know there's no... there's nothing..."  She took a deep breath.  "We can't bury him but shouldn't we, you know, have a... a funeral or something anyway?"  Her voice was broke on the words and when she looked up he could see fresh tears forming, ready to fall.

"We can't afford it," he answered softly.  He knew it was an excuse, despite the fact that it was true.  Angel just wasn't sure if he could face an actual funeral.  Doyle deserved it, but at the same time people standing around in formal black just wouldn't be like him.  Doyle had been so vibrant... so alive.  And anyway, who would be there besides himself and Cordelia?  "Besides, he hates funerals, all that formality."  Angel froze.  "Hated funerals," he corrected in a whisper.

"We should do something," Cordelia insisted.  "I just... think we should do something."

"We will," Angel said.  They fell into silence then and stayed that way for a long time.

It was that evening that Cordelia realized they would have to tell Harry.  They had argued about who should go, both feeling obligated and neither really wanting to do it.  In the end, they went together and like with the Oracles, the visit was brief.

Harriet was stunned by the news.  She had heard of the Scourge before, which didn't surprise Angel.  He gave her a basic sketch of the events and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't ask for more.  The details were too fresh and too horrible.  Doyle's ex-wife didn't need to know about the screams.  She didn't have to know he'd died in pain.

Angel asked if there was anything that they could do, but Harry merely shook her head.  Cordelia had begun to cry softly and Harry pulled her into her arms.  Angel stood quietly, feeling useless and empty as Harry and Cordelia clung to one another as they cried.

They'd left soon after that, with promises to call.

On the way back to his apartment Angel stopped at a liquor store.  Cordelia was right, they should do something.

That night they talked about the night of Doyle's death.  The conversation was brief, neither really wanting to discuss it.  Sitting at his dinning room table, they'd both sketched out what had happened during the times they were apart, the hours leading up to the Scourge's attack on the ship.  Each of their accounts was monotone, emotionless as they tried to distance themselves from it as much as possible.  The only life came when Cordelia pinned him with an angry glare, demanding to know how long he had known about Doyle's mixed heritage and why he had never told her.  Angel found himself somewhat comforted that Doyle had at least known how little his demon side mattered to her before he died.

There wasn't much to be said in the end and the words quickly ran dry.  It was the only time they would ever discuss it.

"In Ireland it's traditional to hold a wake for someone when they die," he explained after a while, collecting the paper bags from the counter and setting several bottles of imported Irish liquor on the table.

"Okay, what do we do?" Cordelia asked, as Angel got two glasses from the cupboard.

"Basically," he said, sitting back down at the table.  "You get really drunk in that person's honour."

Cordelia laughed softly.  "That Doyle would approve of."

Angel nodded as he poured them both glasses of whisky to start off with and they raised them in silent salute to their fallen friend.

It was two days later when Angel had awoken to hear Cordelia moving around in the office above.

So, Angel Investigations reopened with only the two of them and no idea how to start again.  Without Doyle he was fighting blind and Angel struggled with his rage at the Powers.  How could he fight for them now?

That question had been answered soon enough and Angel would never truly be able to forgive them for it.

The first vision was blurry, just a grey blobby thing that Cordelia spent the better part of the day trying to draw.

Angel had nearly gone back to the Oracles.  Cordelia had nothing to atone for.  There was no blood on her hands, no evil in her soul.  She was only eighteen and despite the world of demons and death she encountered on a daily basis she'd remained untainted by it.  She was helping him because she needed a job and because in her own way she believed in the fight.  She had sacrificed enough of her innocence and peace of mind fighting the forces of darkness in Sunnydale.  She'd done more for "good fight" by the time she graduated from high school than most people did in their entire lives.  Cordelia was a good person.  More than that, her heart was beautifully, intoxicatingly pure.  Angel should know.  He'd spend over a century searching for those like Cordelia to corrupt and kill.

She didn't deserve the burden of Doyle's visions, all the pain she had to see and experience in them.  She'd committed no crime.

At first Cordelia had been angry, determined to get rid of the visions any way she could.  But that hadn't lasted more than a day.  Soon, she began to cling to the visions as all she had left of Doyle.  She framed the picture she'd drawn of the blob she'd seen in that first vision and hung it in the office.  A reminder that Doyle was always with them, as long as they remembered and loved him.  She accepted it, moving forward. 

But the new arrangement that never felt right to Angel.

He supposed that he should be used to how unfair life was by now, but what the visions did to Cordelia was something that he could never fully accept.  Over the next few months he watched as her view of the world, of their cases, and even of herself, had slowly changed and a haunted look had grown in her eyes.  It tore him apart to see, but all he could do was hold her when the pain of her visions struck and kill the demons she saw in them.  He felt totally helpless.  Because for him the real battle was the battle for Cordelia's peace of mind, for her chance at any life away from the darkness in which they lived.  And that battle was the one he couldn't fight.

It was their first case without Doyle that led Wesley to them and it had been a shock to both Angel and Cordelia to meet up with their old acquaintance from Sunnydale again.  Wesley immediately attached himself to them and the investigation, despite Angel's demands that he keep out of the way.  His insistence had probably saved Cordelia's life.

Angel had been moving in some sort of a daze since Doyle's death, going through the motions without much caring.  But standing in his apartment, the evidence of a struggle around him and the lingering scent of Cordelia's fear still in the air, he'd come awake with a jolt.

He had lost her, too.

Coming so fast on the heels of Doyle's death, it nearly paralysed him with fear.  If it hadn't been for Wesley...

Rarely since he'd regained his soul had Angel's demon so fully taken control of him as it did during the fight that followed.  And though he tried to appear normal afterward he had been shaken, badly.  The terror that had seized him eased but didn't let go.

He took Cordelia and Wesley back to the office, cleaned up the mess in his apartment while she showered and changed.  Glancing at the time, he set about making her breakfast without thought, finding comfort in the ritual.  He hadn't really wanted Wesley to stay, but he couldn't just let him leave after he had helped to save Cordelia's life.  Inviting him to stay for breakfast seemed an easy way out.  He left soon enough after they had eaten.

Angel didn't sleep that day.  Lying in his bed, Cordelia close beside him, he was simply unable to stop staring at her.  The idea of losing her was unbearable.  She was all he had left.  He simply hadn't really thought about what that meant before then.  His world narrowed while he lay there to one person and he silently swore to himself and to her that he would protect her.  Nothing would touch her.  He couldn't lose her, not after losing Doyle the way he had.  He needed her too much.  She was his only link, not only to the powers, but to life itself.

The next day Wesley came back, on the pretext of having left something at Angel's.  It was difficult at first, Wesley felt like an intruder barging in where he didn't belong.  The fragile world that Angel and Cordelia had begun to rebuild around themselves was, if not shattered, then at least greatly altered that day.  That night was the first time since Doyle's death that Cordelia returned to her own apartment to sleep.

Angel felt bereft at her loss and discovered just what power her presence had.  His sleep had been fitful, but generally quiet that week.  In her absence the furies returned with a vengeance.  They tore into him with nightmares that woke him gasping in pain, but still the tears hadn't come.

Night after night, he waited, hoping that this time the pain would cut deep enough and he could cry, but despite how deep the wounds in his soul were, he was granted no relief.

And as she turns
This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
This fire burns
I realize that nothing's as it seems
       –   ‘Desert Rose',  by Sting

Somehow he wasn't dead.

He had stood between a gang of street kids and a gang of vampires intent on battle and managed to come out of it alive.  Well, unalive, but that wasn't the point.  He still wasn't sure how he'd managed it.  It could have been a disaster  –  probably should have been  –  but somehow he'd managed to averted a blood bath.  Not bad for a night's work.

Angel still hurt from the battles earlier, but was in rather high spirits as he arrived back at the office.  Not surprisingly, the upstairs was silent and dark.  He made his way through the office to the elevator without the need of a light and leaned wearily against the side of it as it descended to his apartment.  Now that a bunch of innocent people weren't about to die he could afford himself the luxury of feeling just how little sleep, as in none, he had had in the last, what was it now...  thirty-four hours?

As he had suspected she would be, Cordelia was waiting for him.  She sat in the kitchen sipping at a mug of tea.  Angel held back a smirk, Wesley's passion for the stuff was begging to rub off on her, though she'd it deny it utterly if charged with it.  She rose as he entered, folding her arms across her chest and looking him over critically.

"Well, you don't too look much worse then when you left.  How'd it go?"

"I stopped everyone from killing each other and kicked the nest out of L.A."

"Well, that's good."

Angel winced as he struggled to take his coat off and Cordelia came forward to help.  "How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad considering I've been beaten, stabbed, and nearly staked today.  Or would that be yesterday now?"

"Yeah, but think about that check!"

"I have been, trust me," Angel chuckled.  They were able to get the coat off and Angel sat against the side of the table for a moment, trying to come up with enough energy to go take a shower.

"Angel, you're bleeding."

"What?"  He looked up at Cordelia then down to where her hand gently touched his chest.  The hole in his shoulder from the stake had reopened somehow and his shirt was damp with blood.  "I'll get the bandages," she said, turning away.

Angel watched after her as she went to retrieve the box from upstairs.  He finally had a moment to wonder what had been bothering her earlier.  The worry he could understand, but he was sure that he had seen anger in her eyes as she had bandaged him up that morning.  Was she mad at him?  He couldn't think of anything that he had done lately that would upset her.  The case?  He had been hurt worse many times and the case was nothing to things they'd faced in the past.

He unbuttoned his shirt but couldn't seem to get it off.  He ribs were screaming.  What he needed was to feed and have a good day's rest.  Then he would be back to normal and ready to do the whole thing over again tomorrow night.  Although, he rather hoped it would lack the almost being staked part.

Upon her return, Cordelia helped him to take his shirt off and Angel watched her as she set about removing the old bandage.  She had to step in very close when she began to clean the wound and Angel studied her expression carefully.

"Cordy, what's wrong?"

She glanced up at him.  "What?"

"What's wrong?  You're upset about something.  You were mad earlier."

Cordelia sighed as she grabbed another damp cotton ball to continue cleaning the hole.  "I have no idea what you're talking about."  She sounded annoyed, but she didn't look at him when she spoke.

"Cordelia, please don't lie to me.  Just tell me what's wrong."  Angel paused for a moment.  "Did I do something?  Or Wesley?"

Cordelia shook her head, still not looking up at him.  "There's nothing wrong," she insisted.

Angel caught her chin and her hand stilled as he made her look at him.  "There is," he said softly.  "I saw it in your eyes earlier.  I can see it there now."  But it wasn't anger he saw this time.  It was fear.  Angel was confused and her continued silence on the subject was beginning to worry him.  Usually when she was upset about something she came to him and bitched about it for a while.  She shouted, occasionally threw things, and got it all out of her system.  It wasn't like her to hide something like this.

"Please, I want to help."

She gave a choked laugh.  "It's you, okay?  You're the one who's bothering me.  Happy?"  The anger was back again, shining in her eyes.  She tossed her head and her chin slipped from his grasp as she returned her attention to his wound before he could recover enough to answer.

"Why?  I mean... What did I..."

"This," she said angrily as she dabbed at the hole in his shoulder with more force then was necessary.  Angel winced.

"I didn't get hurt on purpose."

She shook her head.  "You never do.  It doesn't change anything."

"Why are you mad at me for something I can't control?" he demanded, increasingly at a loss.

"I'm not!"

She tossed the blood soaked cotton ball on to the table with the others and then seemed to deflate.  "I'm scared, okay?"  She glanced at him nervously before she picked up the bandages and proceeded to cut viciously at one to get it the right size for his wound.  "You keep going out night after night and you keep coming back like this.  What happens if you don't come back?"  She looked up at him, her eyes angry again.  "What happens if the next Rambo-wannabes have better aim?  Do you ever even think about that?"

Angel sighed.  "It's hard, I know, but that's the way it is."  He closed his eyes and struggled to calm his thoughts before meeting her gaze again.  "I'm not going to lie and say that that won't happen.  All I can say is that I'll always try to come home."

She shook her head.  "And you're still not listening to me.  I know you could get dusted.  It's like... in the contract for the job or something.  But what happens afterward?  Wes and I might never even know what happened.  You might just not come back one night and that's it.  We..."  She trailed off looking away.  "How long do we wait, Angel?  How long until I know you're gone for good, that you're dust?"

She was right, Angel hadn't thought about that.  He hadn't thought beyond the fact that he'd be gone, not how Cordelia and Wesley would ever find out what had happened.  If the worst came to the worst, they'd probably hear about it eventually through the rumour mills.  After all, Angel had made something of a name for himself.  If a demon managed to take him out they'd probably brag about it.  But what if the demon wasn't local or his death was a lucky shot by someone like the kids he'd helped tonight?  Cordelia would be left waiting and he'd never come home.

Angel reached out and pushed her hair gently out of her face.  "I'm sorry."

Cordelia looked back up at him.  "Angel, you saw how those kids lived.  It's totally selfish, I know... but sometimes I wonder how easily I could have ended up like that, how I still could."

Angel was thrown.  "You'll never be like that.  You have a job, you have an apartment.  You have me and Wesley and..."  But Cordelia was already shaking her head.

"And what did I have when you found me?  I was stealing food from parties I'd faked my way into just to eat.  I was a few weeks away from being kicked out of that roach kingdom I was living in and I had no place to go."

"Cordelia, I know you.  I can't see you ever allowing yourself to end up like that."  But Angel didn't feel as confident as he sounded.  He remembered how desperate she had been for a job, how shocked he'd been when he first saw where she was living.  What if he hadn't found her when he had?

It didn't matter now, he told himself firmly.  He had found her.  "You're a clever, resourceful person," he said firmly.  "You'd have thought of something.  You always do."

She shook her head as she began taping a new bandage to his chest.  "That's the problem though, isn't it?"  She spoke softly, more to herself then to him.

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged.  "It's scary when you realize just how far you might go to avoid that.  I was willing to do anything not to be homeless.  That's why I was there that night, at that guy's house, when you saved me.  That Russell person."

Angel wasn't sure were this was going, but he didn't think that it was anywhere that he was going to like.  He'd never asked what she had been doing at Russell Winters' mansion.  In the frantic run from the house and the aftermath, he just hadn't bothered.  At that point, he really hadn't thought that was any of his business anyway.

"Why were you there?"

"Remember that party from the night before?"  She didn't wait for his answer.  Her eyes were focused on the bandage she was applying.  "Well, the lady that had thrown it called me the next day, said that this guy wanted to meet me.  I'd heard of him, he was rich.  She said that he helped girls get their careers started.  He'd seen me at the party and that he wanted to have dinner with me.  She said that he'd send a limo that evening."

"You went to the house of a man you'd never actually met?"  Angel frowned, his protective instincts kicking in.  "Cordelia, that was..."

She silenced him with a glare, but then her gaze softened.  "I'm not stupid, Angel.  I had a pretty good idea of what I'd have to do to get any help from him, but at that point I just didn't care anymore."  She looked down.  "I was just sick of being hungry.  And that's the way it's done, isn't it?  I'm no different than the rest of the girls, even if I can dress better."

"No!"  The explosion surprised both of them.  Cordelia's head snapped up to see the horrified look on Angel's face, a look that quickly turned to anger.  "Don't you ever talk that way again.  Do you understand me?  You're better than that.  You..."

"Stop it," Cordelia snapped.  "Those guys in Hollywood don't care who I am.  We're all the same to them and if you want to get anywhere you have to play the game.  At that point it was the only chance I had."

Angel was already shaking his head.  He grabbed her arms.  "Cordelia, I want you to promise me that you'll never do something like that again.  I don't care who the guy is."  He paused and then his voice softened.  "You're too good for that.  I thought that you knew that."  He could see tears in her eyes and he thought that he had gotten through to her, until she shook her head.

"I could end up right back there," her voice broke and she struggled for a moment, before she could look back up at him.  "That's what I'm scared of, okay?  I know it selfish, but I can't help it.  If you don't come home some night, what happens to us?  Wesley and I can't do this by ourselves.  We need you.  If you're gone, I'm back to stealing crackers and cookies just to eat and Wesley's back to wandering around after the wrong demons."

Angel felt sick and paralysed with sudden fear.  He had never really thought about it before and now that he did, he didn't know what to say.  This was his fight, not theirs.  But it was also the only livelihood either of them had.  They depended on him... needed him.

Cordelia looked back down at the bandage and laid her hand over it gently.  "I could have lost you today and that scares me so much, I just..."

Angel raised one hand from her arm, cupping her cheek, and her gaze met his again.  "You didn't lose me," he said softly, finding it difficult to speak past the lump in his throat.  "I'm right here."  He could see the tears in her eyes, threatening to fall and he moved his other arm around her waist to pull her closer.

"I know," Cordelia whispered.

Angel could feel the warmth of her hand through the bandage on his chest and the prick of her nails digging into his flesh just above it.  "Cordelia..."  His voice trailed off as he looked into her eyes.  She was so close he could feel the heat radiating off of her.  So close he could feel her breathe now, a light touch against him as it sped up slightly.

So warm, he thought, leaning in closer without even realizing it.  She was leaning in too and her heartbeat was like thunder in his ears.  He felt like he was drowning, floating in her eyes, her warmth...  And her eyes started to flutter shut and her breath caught in her throat for a moment.  Angel watched her face, turned trustingly up toward him.  His eyes fell shut and he hesitated a hair's breadth from her mouth...

And reality slammed into him.  What am I doing?

Angel's body jerked upright, startling Cordelia whose eyes snapped open.  Angel was already moving, pushing her gently, but quickly, away from him as he moved around to table.

"It's late," he said, briskly.  "You should go home."  He didn't turn to look at Cordelia, but he could feel almost feel her confusion, almost hear her question in the air.  What was that?  It was a question he wasn't sure he wanted to think about.

"Angel..."

"Goodnight, Cordelia."  He said as he opened the refrigerator grabbing a bag of blood.

There was a pause as he took down a mug from the cupboard.  Then, "Goodnight," and the click of her heels as she left.

Angel dropped the bag and mug on the counter.  Placing his hands against the edge for support his head dropped and he closed his eyes.  This couldn't be happening.  Not with Cordelia.  She was his best friend, the closest thing he had to a family.  What had he been thinking?  What was wrong with him?

"Oh, God," he whispered.

---

Chapter 3

When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone
I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
       –   ‘Dante's Prayer',  by Loreena McKennitt

What the hell had that whole thing been about?

In retrospect it seemed more like a dream than reality.  Had they almost done what she thought they had almost done? 

No, Cordelia thought firmly.  They couldn't have.  They weren't like that.  At least, she'd never thought they were.  She couldn't deny that the idea of being kissed by Angel had definitely appealed last night and it wasn't like she was unaware of how seriously hot he was.  So, maybe they had almost done what she thought they had almost done.  But even if they had, why had he thrown her out afterward?

Well, all right, she conceded.  He hadn't actually thrown her out, but he had made it quite clear that he wanted her to leave and Cordelia, unable to figure out what was going on, had just left. His sudden coldness when she was already off balance from...

She couldn't believe she had told him those things.

Was that what the problem was?  She remembered the horror in his eyes when she told him about what she had been doing at Russell Winters' house.  Was he so disgusted by what she had been willing to do...?  No.  No, that couldn't be it.  He had been so tender afterwards, telling her that she was too good for that.  For a moment she had thought he was going to kiss her and she had felt so safe.  Then she'd found herself being pushed away and shut out completely.  But why?

Her thoughts went round and round, but underneath it the fear remained.  She still saw that warehouse in her mind, somehow superimposed over Russell Winters' mansion.

Her life had always been one of extremes.  Wealth and poverty.  Perfect on the outside and falling apart on the inside.  This odd equilibrium she had found with Angel didn't feel like it could last.  Now, after last night she felt like it was already going to pieces.

Was she simply reading too much into what had happened?

"I asked for a coffee.  I know it must be in here someplace."

Cordelia looked up from her rapt contemplation of the sidewalk as Wesley came up beside her.  He held a styrofoam cup in his hand, heaped high with whipped cream.

He started walking slowly away from the coffee stand and Cordelia kept pace with him.

Angel hadn't come up from his apartment that morning.  He didn't always, preferring to wait until afternoon to make an appearance.  Today though, Cordelia felt his absence like a weight.  She wanted so badly to see him and have him assure her that everything was alright, but at the same time she dreaded his appearance just in case everything wasn't alright.  She had begun tensing whenever she thought she heard something from below.

She wasn't certain which was worse, the hoping, the dreading, or the waiting.  The whole thing had been giving her a headache and when Wesley had proposed a coffee break and a chance to get out of the office, she had jumped at the opportunity.

"Are you alright?" he asked, glancing at her worriedly.  "You haven't said two words since we left the office."

"Oh, I was just thinking about those kids."  Well, it wasn't a complete lie.  She had been thinking of the warehouse, sort of.

"Yes.  That place was pretty awful."

"And I thought my first apartment was bad," Cordelia commented wryly.

The park was lovely, if a little crowded.  The early afternoon sun was warm, but not uncomfortable.  The grass was green, a light breeze made the trees rustle softly...  It looked like something off of one of those lousy postcards they sold everywhere in LA.  And all the two of them could talk about was dingy back streets?  Sad.

"Can you believe people actually live there?"

They reached a shaded bench and sat down.

"Well, it certainly gives one a sense of perspective, doesn't it?" Wesley observed, as he used his little stirring straw to scrape off most of the cream covering his coffee.

God, was he going to be philosophical about this?  He could sometimes go off on the longest, most boring tangents.

Cordelia suddenly had a crazy desire to tell Wesley about the ideas that had been plaguing her mind lately.  She wanted a non-emotion skewed perspective on this.  Either that or she just wanted to get all this off her chest.  She wasn't sure which feeling was driving her more, and in all honestly she didn't care.

When Angel had found her, given her a job, she had been so immensely relieved that she wouldn't have to do anything... drastic to survive.  She had simply pushed those ideas aside and refused to think about them again.  Until now.  Now she had begun to seriously consider what would happen to her and to Wesley if anything should happen to Angel and the picture her mind presented her with wasn't one she liked.

"Yes, it does," she said, answering Wesley's rhetorical question.  "And I think, prospectively speaking, I might want to... prostitute myself to billionaire David Nabbit."

Wesley choked on the sip of coffee he had just taken and looked up at her in horror.  "Cordelia..."

Okay, so maybe this wasn't so good an idea.  Well, too late now.  Cordelia rushed ahead before he could say anything more. "What I mean is  –  he's a nice guy who wants companionship.  I could use some security.  So when I say 'prostitute' what I mean is..."  She searched for a better word and came up empty handed.

"Prostitute," Wesley finished for her.  He looked worried, and studied her closely.

"For instance," Cordelia sighed.  She was beginning to regret this.  Why had she thought telling Wesley would make anything better?  She only prayed that he wouldn't mention it to Angel.  He'd been upset enough about the whole thing last night and she'd never even mentioned this part of it.

"Do you really think you could?"  His voice was a little worried, but not horrified.  Maybe she had underestimated him again.  It did happen on occasion.

"I don't know," Cordelia answered honestly.  When she had a secure job and food in the refrigerator, it was hard to picture herself doing something like that, just to secure her future.  It was only when the food had run out and no money was coming in that she could seriously contemplate it.  "I could probably learn to love him.  Looks aren't everything... or chemistry.  Personality, that's important."  She was babbling now, and that was never a good sign.  "And except for a lot of other...  It's not what's on the outside that..."

Cordelia glanced at Wesley and he looked back at her steadily.  "Yeah," she said.  She wasn't going to go after Nabbit and Wesley and she both knew it.  She leaned back against the bench and looked out across the park.  All she saw was Angel, turning his back on her the night before. 

"Never mind," she said.  "I'm fine here.  Poor.  Alone."  She fell into silence and couldn't help but wonder if the idea of kissing her had really been that repulsive to Angel.  Honestly, what was she in comparison to Buffy?  Oh god, I wish I hadn't thought that.  But seriously, what was a two bit Seer who couldn't make it as an actress when up against a Slayer?  Cordelia hadn't even been able to hold Xander's interest away from a computer geek who couldn't dress to save her life.  What did she have when put against a Slayer?

"Cordelia," Wesley started softly, before pausing.  "Cordelia, what brought this on?"

She shrugged, not wanting to look at him.  Was he disgusted by what she had said, that she could even consider something like that?

"Cordelia?"  Through the corner of her eye she could see Wesley leaning forward, trying to catch her gaze.  She stared hard down at her hands, struggling for composure before meeting his eyes.

"Angel could have died yesterday."

Wesley nodded, obviously not understanding.  "This isn't the safest of jobs.  Anyone of us could be killed at any time."

"I know that," she snapped, her voice cracked unexpectedly and she heard a sharp intake of breath beside her.  Why did she still miss Doyle so much?  He'd been dead for longer than she'd known him now and still that wound inside of her couldn't seem to heal.

"I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to..."

Cordelia cut him off, not wanting his sympathy.  "What I mean is..."  She bit her lip and looked back at Wesley searching his face as if the answers were there.  "Have you ever thought about what would happen to you and me if Angel got dusted?"

Wesley looked surprised by the question, but then his expression grew grave.  "We would carry on with the fight, I suppose."

"How?"

"I assume that your visions would stop, but, of course, we can't know that for certain," his voice took on the half-lecturing, half-contemplative tone that it did when he was thinking out loud.  Cordelia could have kissed him for taking her concerns seriously.  She hadn't been certain that he wouldn't just blow it off with a ‘he hasn't been dusted, so let's not talk about it' attitude the way Angel had.  "But regardless of that, there are always people who need help."  Wesley focused his gaze back on hers.  "You, and I, Cordelia, have an opportunity to help a great many people.  We know what's out there.  It isn't just because of Angel that we are able to be of service to those in need.  I think we could always find a way."

He stopped, suddenly seeming to realize that there were tears welling in Cordelia's eyes.  He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her.  "That is, of course... um... well, if you wanted to continue working together under such conditions.  You're very young yet, and there are many things you could do, and... well..."

Cordelia blinked back her tears and managed a shaky laugh, which only seemed to confuse the increasingly flustered Wesley.  "You really think we could do this on our own," it was a question, but it came out sounding like a statement.

Wesley nodded anyway.  "Yes, I rather think we could."

Cordelia leaned over and surprised them both by giving Wesley a quick hug.  She sat back and took a deep breath.

She believed him.  While the idea of Angel's death was still heartbreaking, she didn't feel quiet so helpless.  If she and Wesley could make it by themselves without Angel, then they were capable enough to make sure that they never had to.

"I feel better," she stated.

Wesley still looked a little lost, but he smiled.  "Good."  They sat in companionable silence for a while, before Wesley chucked softly.  "You and David Nabbit?"

Cordelia glared at him.  "Shut up."

Why was it that every time he managed to get something good going he had to screw it up somehow?  What was the matter with him?  Cordelia had been angry.  She had made that apparent, but there wasn't much he could do about it.  What was Angel supposed to say?  Sorry, I lost my head a little there and almost kissed you, but it was nothing and everything is back to normal now.  Not likely.  He wasn't sure himself what had happened that night.  He had just been upset and tired.  At least, that's what he kept telling himself.  Whatever had happened had been a fluke and it was over now.

If only life actually worked that way.

Weeks had passed, and still, the only thing Angel could do was keep his distance.  He knew it wouldn't solve anything, but he didn't know what would.

Cordelia had tried to talk to him that first day.  She and Wesley had been out when Angel had come upstairs.  They had returned a short time later and Angel had stayed in his office and avoided eye contact.  When Wesley left for the evening Cordelia had stayed.  In response, Angel grabbed his coat and said he was going patrolling.  She'd been gone when he returned four hours later.  After that it had simply been a matter of hanging around Wesley a lot.  Cordelia had given up shortly there after, but she had made it quite apparent that she was not pleased.

Her anger, Angel could handle.  Her dejection was another matter.  A week passed and Cordelia's anger seemed to drain away.  He would sometimes catch her watching him, the questions in her eyes clear.  Why was he doing this to her?  What had she done wrong?  It tore Angel up inside.  She hadn't done anything wrong.  It was him.  It seemed silly after a few weeks to keep his distance.  What had happened wasn't that earth shattering.  But what had started that night was.

Like opening Pandora's Box, once he had felt that spark of attraction it couldn't be put back.  He had never looked at her like that before.  She was his best friend; he loved her as though she were his sister.  Logically he had known she was beautiful, but it hadn't affected him.  Until that night.  The moment he realized that he had been about to kiss her, it was as though he had been seeing her beauty for the first time and now he couldn't stop seeing it.  He had felt the warmth of her breath against his lips and he couldn't stop craving it.

What the hell was that matter with him?

Angel sighed as he trudged down the stairs to his apartment.  He didn't want to be thinking about this again tonight.  Besides, he and Cordelia seemed to have fallen into a pattern again.  It wasn't the closeness they had shared before, but it was friendly.  Still, there were nights he missed her more than he could ever have imagined.  Nights he spent standing outside her apartment building, watching for a glimpse of her through the windows. 

Tonight, though, he had other things to think about.

Wesley had gone out not too long ago to get more books, in order to better translate the scroll.

The scroll.

Angel looked down at the thing in his hands.  Funny, it was deceptively small and light.  The writing on it was strange, and looked more to Angel like the nonsensical shapes a child would draw than anything sacred.  And yet, it held the secrets to his future.  Or so Wesley believed.  Angel wasn't so sure if he himself did.  How could people writing thousands of years ago know that he was going to be cursed with a soul?  How would they know that he was going to die?

He wasn't afraid to die.  He had been more than ready to give his life on any number of occasions.  His mind shied away from the night of Doyle's death and he swallowed past the shame.  He should have been dead a hundred times over by now.  It was far past time that the world be relieved of his unwanted presence on it.  And yet... The thought of his own death sent his thoughts again back to that night.  Cordelia's fears about what would happen to her and to Wesley if Angel was gone were legitimate.

Angel forcibly shook the thoughts off and rolled the scroll back up.  There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.  If it was pre-ordained then there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.  And if it wasn't...  Angel placed the scroll in the weapons cabinet, closing and locking the doors for its protection.  As he did, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, as if someone were watching him.  He turned quickly, but saw nothing.  He shook his head.  All this talk of prophecies and deaths had him jumpy.

Okay, time to think of something else.  Like...

Angel was saved from having to come up with something when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Do you know a Cordelia Chase?"  He listened to the woman's nasal voice on the other end and felt a leaden weight drop into his stomach.

"Yeah, what happened to her?"

"Are you family?"

"I'm her employer. She doesn't have any family in town. What happened?"

"Miss Chase collapsed; she has been admitted to the neuro-psychiatric ward at St John's Hospital..."

He didn't give her a chance to finish.  "I'm on my way."

---

Chapter 4

There are visions, there are memories
There are echoes of thundering hooves
       –   'Night Ride Across the Caucasus',  by Loreena McKennitt

What followed was a nightmare.

Cordelia lay unmoving in the hospital bed and Angel didn't want to know how many sedatives it had taken to calm her to that point.  He knew it was a lot; too much.  Keeping her in this state for any length of time would kill her.

And the visions kept coming.

 

Hours later and she still lay caught in her own private hell as vision after vision slammed through her mind.  Her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.  Angel could only imagine what she was seeing.  Both she and Doyle had described the visions as intensely painful headaches that blocked out the world around them.  Inside their heads they were forced to endure the pain, hopelessness, and terror of those most desperately in need of Angel's help.  Cordelia had once had a vision of a man being burned alive from the inside out and Angel would never forget the look in her eyes as she had spoken of the man's fear and the feel of her eyeballs exploding.  Just one experience of dozens she would never be able to escape, even when the victims themselves were far past the pain, or Angel's intervention meant that they had never had to suffer it at all.

Cordelia's eyes were red-rimmed from crying, the occasional whimper that still escaped her was hoarse from hours of screaming, and her wrists and ankles were carefully restrained to keep her from hurting herself.  She looked as though she had aged ten years in the last few hours.

Angel felt consumed by his own helplessness.  An hour ago he had returned to the office to seek out Wesley's help and had arrived just in time to see it explode.  How he'd managed to find the ex-watcher among the burning wreckage he wasn't sure.  Now, Wesley lay in his own hospital bed several floors below in the ICU.  He was stable but unconscious and no one knew for how long.

Angel took Cordelia's hand in his.  He could feel her twitch every so often as another vision, another soul in torment, replaced the last one in her mind.

"Cordelia," he said softly.  "I'm gonna fix this."  Could she even hear him?  He didn't know.  He leaned closer, watching her eyes.  Hoping for any indication that she knew he was there, but there was none.  "Promise," he choked out.  "I'm gonna get you back..."  He swallowed back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.  "I need you back."

And so it began.  For the first time since he had returned home to find Doyle waiting in his apartment for him, Angel faced a battle alone; cut off from the Powers, cut off from his family.

Doyle dead, Cordelia in a coma, Wesley unconscious, the Oracles murdered...  And oddly enough, Angel felt nothing as he faced Vocah, only the grim determination to do whatever it was he had to do.  He barely heard the chanting as it continued behind him and he didn't care what they were doing.  It didn't matter at the moment.  Let them raise the devil himself, as long as Angel could get the scroll and kill Vocah, nothing else mattered.

Then Vocah was dead and Angel turned on Lindsey who held the scroll, a smug smile on his face, and a post with a cross on top in his other hand.

Most of his taunts didn't reach Angel.  He responded automatically, without thought.  He had once believed that Lindsey could become a valuable ally.  Now, human or not, he was only another enemy who stood in the way of Angel and his family... his seer.  If his death meant Cordelia's life, then so be it.  Angel moved carefully, watching Lindsey, looking for an opportunity to strike.

Lindsey held the scroll up, as if for Angel to see it better.  "I see that what happened here tonight was foretold.  That doesn't bode well for you.  I see that you are either the one with the power, or you're powerless."

"Uh-huh.  You see what I'm gonna do to you if you don't give me that scroll?"

"You need the words of Anatole to cure your friend.  She is your connection to the Powers That Be.  And since it's foretold that we sever all your connections..."  Lindsey held the scroll over a fire burning in an urn beside him.  "Well," he said softly, savouring his victory, as he destroyed the only way to save Cordelia.

Angel didn't think, he simply moved.  The scythe he had used to kill Vocah left his hand before he even realized what he was doing.  It sliced clean through Lindsey's wrist, knocking him and the scroll, still clutched in his now detached hand, backwards.

Lindsey's agonized scream didn't even penetrate to Angel's mind as he walked calmly past him to retrieve the scroll.

"Don't believe everything your foretold," he said as he left the room, without a backward glance.

It still took another couple of hours for Wesley to wake up, and a few more for him to translate the last part of the scroll once he had.  It took time to convince the nurses to allow Wesley to leave his own hospital room to visit Cordelia.

By the time Angel finally wheeled Wesley into Cordelia's room she had been trapped in a nightmare world for nearly twenty-four hours.  The doctors, who had been grim about Cordelia's condition from the beginning, had begun to talk about the possibility that she might never be coming back; hinting gently that he should "prepare himself."  The amounts of sedatives necessary to keep her quiet had grown exponentially and there wasn't much time until the sedatives themselves would begin to do irrevocable damage to her system.  Beyond that...  The human brain just wasn't designed to cope with this kind of stress.  Soon, it would begin shutting down in an effort to protect itself, taking the body with it.

Cordelia was dying, quickly.

Angel took up his now familiar post by her side.  He silently prayed to the Powers, whoever they really were, to watch over their seer.  They had chosen her, cursed her with these visions when all she'd done was try and help people.  It was due to them and in their name that she lay here now.  The blame was entirely on their heads.

And on your own, a voice in the back of Angel's mind reminded him.  She had been cursed by Vocah to cut him off from the Powers.  He was as responsible for this as they were.  He was supposed to suffer for his crimes, the pain of his redemption was supposed to be his and his alone to bear.  But now, it was Cordelia who was suffering in his place.

He swallowed past the guilt and watched her face closely as Wesley calmly read the words from the scroll.

"And if the beast shalt find thee, and touch thee," he intoned, quietly. "Thou shalt be wounded in thy soul, and thou shalt know madness.  The beast shalt attack and cripple thee and thou shalt know neither friend nor family.  But thou shalt undo the beast.  Thou shalt find the sacred words of Anatole and thou shalt be restored.  Three times shalt thou say these words:  unbind  –  unbind  –  unbind."

There was a blinding flash of light, and when Angel could see again, Cordelia was blinking slowly, her eyes hazy and unfocused.  He looked down at the hand he was holding and the mark Vocah had placed on her was gone.  Angel looked back up at Cordelia's face, as she slowly seemed to focus on the room around her.

"Hey," he said softly.

She turned her head to look up at him.  "Angel?"

She sounded so lost, her voice so very small.  Angel choked back his tears and forced a smile.  "Welcome back."  He didn't even notice the nurse who came and went.

The doctors said they were going to keep Cordelia for a few more days, just in case.  She wanted some things from her apartment and had Angel dutifully gone to fetch them.  It was easy enough.  Go to her apartment, get the clothes and whatnots on the list she'd given him, and get back to the hospital.  But the minute Angel touched her things, he felt dizzy.

Now, he sat on the edge of her bed, one of her tank tops clutched in his hands, unable to stop shaking.  How close had she been to never coming back to him?  How close?  He couldn't get the sound of her screams out of his head.  Or the desolate and terrified look on her face, when she had been too drugged to scream any more.  The pain and fear in her eyes had been unbearable, as she stared past the ceiling above her, straight into hell itself.

Familiar territory for Angel, but...  Cordelia?  While she would deny vehemently that she was any sort of innocent, she was.  There was no stain of evil on her, no crimes for which she had to atone.

She shouldn't be involved in any of this, much less be forced to suffer for his mistakes.  He should have sent her away a long time ago, but by the time he realized the danger to her it was far too late.  Because of the visions she was bound to him.  A life outside of the fight wasn't possible any more.

Angel didn't even realize he was crying until a tear dropped onto the tank top in his hands.  He stared at the little spot of moisture on the fabric as though he'd never seen anything like it before.

So close, he kept thinking.  So close to losing her.

And not only her.

He hadn't realized how much he'd come to depend on Wesley's presence in his life until he'd seen the office building explode.  Wesley could have been killed.  If Angel had stayed with Cordelia in the hospital only a few more minutes he might not have made it to Wesley in time.  And if Wesley had died, there would have been no way to save Cordelia.

Angel had come so close to losing everything.  He had been numb with shock then, but now he began to feel the effects, the rage, the helplessness, the pain...  the fear.  He wasn't sure he could live without them anymore.  He knew he didn't want to try.

How many times had he been forced to re-build his world?  Now, he found he had to re-build it again.  He had sworn to himself and to Cordelia that he would always be there to take care of her.  But it hadn't been enough.  He'd become too complacent in his ability to protect her, and she had nearly been lost.

He wasn't sure where to go from here.  The one thing he did know was that no matter what else happened, they had to be safe.  Redemption and his soul be damned.  As long as his family was all right, nothing else mattered.

Angel didn't see the box of tissue floating near him until one was taken out and pressed into his hand.  Angel blinked, and glanced up, surprised.  "Thank you, Dennis," he said hoarsely and set about wiping away the tears.  He sat up straight and frowned.  "Cordelia is going to be in the hospital for a few days, maybe as long as a week.  She's going to be fine," Angel assured the ghost.  "But she needs a few things.  She gave me a list..."

As Angel took the piece of paper out of his pocket it was whisked out of his hands.  A moment later, Cordelia's closet opened and blue duffel bag floated out and began to fill up with various things from around the room and the bathroom.  Angel simply sat and waited, not wanting to interfere with Dennis' obvious desire to pack Cordelia's things himself.  It didn't take long and soon Angel was presented with a very full bag to take back to the hospital with him.

"Thanks," he said softly.  Angel looked down and realized that he was still holding the tank top in his hands.  It took him another minute to convince his hands to unclench from the material.  He stared at the wrinkles he had made in the fabric and hoped that he hadn't just ruined it.  She was always so careful with her clothes.

In another moment, he stood.  Grabbing the duffel bag in one hand and unconsciously balling up the top and sticking it in his pocket.  Dennis either didn't notice, or chose to ignore it.  He simply opened the door for Angel and locked it carefully behind him.  Angel didn't even realize that he'd finally cried.

He returned to the hospital to find Cordelia sitting up and flipping through a magazine he had stolen from one of the waiting rooms for her.

He paused for a minute in the doorway to watch her.  She had born her ordeal well, but it hadn't left her unmarked.  Her face was pale and the circles under her eyes were so dark they looked like bruises.  In the two days since she had woken up her dreams had been plagued by severe nightmares from which she awoke shaking and crying.

She was barely nineteen.  She should be going to college, with nothing more to worry about than who to go with to the next party and what colours were in this season.  And yet, here she was, sitting in a hospital bed and...

Cordelia huffed and tossed the magazine to the bottom of the bed, glaring at it as though it had somehow offended her.  Angel shook his head.

And the truth was that she was going to be alright.  She had one of the toughest wills he'd even known.  It didn't mean that the nightmares would go away all at once, or that it wouldn't take time for her to heal.  But she was already on that road.  Anyone else would have buckled under the pressure by now, but not Cordelia Chase.

"I thought you liked ‘Glamour'," Angel said motioning to the rejected magazine.

Cordelia looked up in surprise.  She snorted and tossed her head.  "Sure.  When it was published in this millenium.  That thing is so... old.  Totally out of date."  She folded her arms over her chest and looked at Angel expectantly.  "So, did you bring everything?"

Angel shrugged, walking over to the bed and handing her the duffel bag.  "I don't know.  But if anything isn't there, you'll have to take it up with Dennis."

"Angel!" Cordelia gasped, looking up at him sternly.  "Please don't tell me you made poor Dennis do everything."

Angel held up his hands in surrender.  "He didn't give me much of a choice.  He just grabbed the list out of my hand and started packing."  Cordelia sighed and opened the bag and began poking through it.  Angel sat down on the edge of the bed to watch her.  "I think he was worried about you," he added softly.

A slight smile crossed Cordelia's face.  "Dennis is sweet."  She pulled out a stack of magazines from the bottom of the bag.  "I so love that ghost.  I forgot to ask for these, but he packed them anyway."  She held one up in triumph.  "See, this millenium's ‘Glamour'."

Cordelia placed the magazines on the table beside the bed and delved back into the bag.  Angel just watched her as she made an inventory of what Dennis had packed.  Finally she pulled out her brush and started work on the tangles in her hair.

After a little while she broke the silence.  "I know you've had to work hard to produce such a great impersonation of a statue and all, but why don't you try saying something every once in a while.  You know, break up the monotony."  She flashed Angel a bright little smile.

Angel couldn't help but smile back.  "What do you want me to say?"

Cordelia shrugged.  "I don't know.  I'm out of ideas.  Why don't you try and start a conversation for once.  Broaden your horizons a little."

"You, out of ideas of things to talk about?  I think that's one of the signs of the apocalypse," Angel teased gently.

Cordelia picked up the bottle of shampoo from the top of the bag and threw it at him.  Angel caught it easily.  "I said, start a conversation, not be a smart ass," Cordelia said, not entirely able to pull of the disapproving look she tried to give him.

"You're the one who wanted me to talk.  I was quiet happy sitting here, not being a smart ass."

"Watching me brush my hair?  Yeah, I just bet you find that riveting."  Cordelia rolled her eyes at him.

"I don't mind.  I'm just glad to be sitting here with you."  Angel's words were soft.  He hadn't really meant to say them out loud.  Cordelia paused and lowered her brush to her lap.

She looked Angel for a moment, and he could see the wheels turning in her mind, trying to find an appropriate response.  God, she's beautiful, was all Angel could seem to think.

"Angel..."

The sound of someone knocking tentatively at the door startled them both.  Angel turned in some surprise to see David Nabbit standing in the doorway wearing his ridiculous purple cape and holding a rather large flowerpot.

"Mr. Nabbit... er... David!" Cordelia said in some surprise.  "What are you doing here?  I mean, not that it isn't nice to see you and all..."

"Oh well," he blushed.  "I heard what happened.  The, uh, building and all.  I just thought I'd come by and make sure that everyone is... you know, alright.  I brought flowers," he stated unnecessarily.

"That is just so sweet of you," Cordelia said, practically beaming at the young man.  David blushed and attempted to enter the room.  He was pulled up short by a pink ribbon that rose from one of his hands up past the top of the door.

"Oh," he said looking up.  "I have a balloon too, for Wesley, but..." he tried to figure out how to pull the balloon low enough to go through the doorway without dropping the large pot.  "Um... it's stuck," he said, unhappily.

After a moment, Angel took pity on him and stood up to try and keep David from embarrassing himself any farther, even as he fought down a stab of jealously.  He hadn't thought of bringing her flowers.  He should have.  He reached up and grabbed the ribbon, pulling down until a large shiny balloon that read ‘Get Well Soon' in neon green was revealed.  He pulled it down under the top of the doorway and then released it to bounce merrily against the ceiling of the room.

"Uh, thanks, Angel." Angel nodded in response and watched as David walked over to place the pot full of some unknown kind of flower on the table beside Cordelia's bed.

Cordelia's smile couldn't have been wider.  "That really is very sweet of you, David.  You really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."

David shrugged.  "Well, you guys do such important work and all, and you helped me out a lot."  He shrugged again, uncertain what to say.  "Anyway, I brought something else too."  David pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and walked over to hand it to Angel.

"What's this?" Angel asked, looking down.  He blinked, glanced up at David and then looked back down at it.  Yes, it really was a check.  Yes, it really was for that much money.

"It's for the building," David said.  "I hope you don't mind, but I had someone over there to look at it this morning.  The structural supports are intact.  There's no reason the building can't be renovated and brought back just the way it was."

Angel and Cordelia stared at him in shock.  Angel recovered first.  "Mr. Nabbit, it's not that we don't appreciate the gesture, but we can't possibly accept this.  Besides, I'm sure the owners of the building will have plans..."

David shook his head.  "I bought it this morning, the work orders have already been sent out.  That," he motioned to the check, "is for your personal things.  I was told the bomb went off in your apartment."  Angel could only nod dumbly.

It was Cordelia who attempted to answer.  "Why would you want to renovate that old building?  I mean, having an office again and all would be nice, but that building is just... I mean..."  She looked flustered, and Angel couldn't blame her.

David smiled, blushing again.  "Well, I wanted to help, and I couldn't really think of any other way.  Besides, that's where your office was.  And it was a great office, even if I did only see it that once."

Angel held the check back out to him.  "Really, Mr. Nabbit, we do appreciate the offer, but this is… just too much."  Cordelia shot Angel a warning look, even as she craned her neck to get a look at the amount on the check.  Angel ignored her, intent on trying to give the check back, but David was already shaking his head.

"The helpless have to have somewhere to go.  Besides, it's just money.  I've got way more than I know what to do with.  This way, it's actually going towards something, you know... worthwhile."

"But..." Angel was cut off again.

"I'm not backing down on this," David said, looking surprisingly resolute for a guy in a shinny purple cape.  "This is too important.  Not just to me, but to all the helpless people in this city."  The illusion of resolve faded in a moment.  "Anyway, I should, um... take the balloon down to Wesley.  I hope your feeling better soon, Cordelia."

"Thanks," Cordelia said.  "I am already.  And about the building... thanks."

With a last shy smile at them both he left, trailing Wesley's balloon behind him.

"It's for that much, huh?" Cordelia asked, studying at the slightly stunned expression on Angel's face.  In response, he held out the check.

Cordelia took it and made a slight choking sound when she saw the amount.  "Yeah," she said finally.  "It's for that much.  Wow."

Angel shook his head.  "I can't accept this."

"You already said that, and you already did."  Cordelia composed herself and placed the check carefully in the drawer by her bed for safekeeping.  "Besides, a lot of the stuff you had was really old; all those demonology books and stuff.  Replacing it isn't going to be cheap."

"I can't spend Nabbit's money on that," Angel sounded offended at the suggestion.

"Why not?" Cordelia asked.  At a stern look from Angel she shrugged.  "Look at it this way.  David wants to be involved, to feel that he's doing something, like he said, worthwhile.  And he is right, the hopeless do need someplace to go."  Her eyes darkened then, and she seemed to grow older in the space of a few seconds.  "There are a lot of people out there who need us, Angel.  I never knew how many before.  If David wants to help us stay in business, fine.  We can't back out now, there's too much to do."

Angel came forward and sat back down on the side of the bed.  "I wasn't suggesting that we back out.  I have no intention of stopping just because the office is gone.  But taking Nabbit's money like this..."

"It's what he wants.  And in all honesty, it's what we need."  Cordelia reached out and took Angel's hand.  "For once, just accept that a good person is trying to do something nice for us, and for the people we're going to help."

Angel sighed.  He knew Cordelia well enough to know that he wasn't going to win this argument.  "We can't ever come close to paying back a sum like that."  But Cordelia simply smiled, knowing from his tone of voice that he'd conceded.  She squeezed his hand, and then moved to withdraw it, but Angel stopped her.  He held her hand tightly between both of his.

"You know," Cordelia said, twining their fingers together.  "Since your apartment is all gone, that means you're going to need a whole new wardrobe."  Angel could see the light growing in her eyes and he groaned internally.  "Maybe we can actually get you into some colours."

Angel shook his head.  "Look, you can redecorate the office any way you want, but leave my clothes alone."

"Aw, come on, Angel.  Don't you want to go shopping with me?"

The End
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