It was well past midnight, and even vampires were in bed. Or at least Angel was. Well, asleep, anyway. It had been a hard day at work, and he was additionally tired from that night’s patrol. There had been an inexplicable number of baddies roaming the streets of Los Angeles that night, and he had been forced to fight and kill all those he encountered. He had not been able to extract any information on why all the underworld scum were suddenly gathering in LA, however – that meant more work for tomorrow. Work, patrol, and more work. His life had fallen into a daily monotony.
Angel was understandably exhausted. He had gotten home and fallen fast asleep on the couch in the middle of watching the “I Love Lucy” marathon that was on cable.
The poor, hardworking darling. He so deserved his rest.
Sweet dreams.
Pleasant dreams.
The happy sort of dreams that anybody would hate being woken out of . . .
The door bell rang with an in insistent buzzing that penetrated Angel’s sleep-filled consciousness.
He started, and lifted his head, still disoriented from the sudden awakening. He opened his eyes groggily as the buzzer rang again shrilly.
“I’m coming,” he mumbled under his breath, and swung his legs from the couch to pad towards the door. “Who is it?” he asked cautiously once he reached the foyer.
“It’s me,” came the answer from the other side of the door.
He recognized the voice. It was Cordelia, back from a night of partying, no doubt. He sighed, and began unbolting the locks.
The final lock was freed, and he pulled open the door, stifling a yawn in the process. “Come in, Cor,” he said, looking up at the disheveled-looking figure that was leaning weakly on the wall outside. The person was (surely not Cordelia!) . . . mud-covered, blood-splattered (bleeding?), in clothes that were torn in various places . . .
He did a double take at the sight, all thoughts of sleep rushing out of his head. “Cordy?”
She flashed him a scowl from behind the strands of hair that hung wetly over her face. “What took you so long?” she asked, before slipping into unconsciousness.
“Cordy . . . Cordy . . . Cordy . . .”
She awoke to find a cool cloth pressed to her face. She kept her eyes closed for an instant more, savoring in the feeling, but all too soon, reality came crashing down on her. It took her a while to realize where she was, and who with. A bed? Sofa? Ricky Ricardo singing in the background. But that panicked voice belonged to Angel.
“Cordelia, wake up! Who did this? Tell me what happened!”
She let out a groan in response, and at last opened her eyes. Angel’s normally impassive face reflected his relief.
“Are you okay?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. No, she was not okay. He had noticed several cuts and bruises on her skin while he had tried to clean some of the mud from off of her. Something had done this to her, and he wanted to know who or what it was so he could cheerfully proceed with ripping its head off . . .
She stared at him mutely for a second. Her words came out in a croak as her parched throat clenched from the need for water.
A glass was immediately raised to her lips, and she took it from Angel gratefully, gulping down its contents with no regard for the water that ran down her chin as she drank.
Her thirst quenched, she was able to think more rationally. Memory of what happened came rushing back, and this time, when he pressed her for details, she had an answer.
“What happened?” she repeated. “What else? Vampires and other demon thingies. I counted five.”
“Five?” He could kick himself for not being there for her . . .
“I staked one vamp, and I managed to kill one of the other nasties,” she said, shrugging. Her tone was purposefully flippant. She had learned a thing or two in her years as a Slayerette.
He frowned. “But you said there were five.”
“There were. It got ugly really fast. Luckily the backup patrol came before they could do anymore damage to me,” she said a little ruefully, lifting a hand to touched a bruise on her cheek. She paused, then continued before he could ask. “It was Buffy.” She was evading his gaze, but he did not seem to notice.
He had not expected that answer. “Buffy?” he whispered.
Cordelia did not like the wistful flash of longing that went across his face. She felt, understandably, miffed at his sudden angst.
“Hello? Still hurting!” Her voice was more than a little sharp.
Angel drew his attention back to her with some difficulty, but his gaze softened as he took in the bruised and battered state of his friend. “Oh Cordy,” he sighed, reaching down and brushing a strand of hair away from her face, “why wasn’t I there to stop them from doing this to you?”
Cordy froze as his fingers grazed her cheek, and she unconsciously turned her face up to receive more of his gentle caress. Angel’s eyes were dark and unreadable, but as he bent down to her eye level, she imagined she saw something more in them than just worry and concern . . .
“I had help, remember?” she said, evading his gaze.
Had she been looking, she would have noticed the closed look on his face. “I remember.”
Cordelia had known Angel for long enough. She knew what he was thinking, and it bothered her, more than even she herself knew.
She couldn’t stand the thought of him thinking about Buffy while she was right in front of him. She owed the Slayer her life, and for that she was grateful, but she could not . . . would not . . . forgive her for keeping Angel in this perpetual brood.
She scowled suddenly and struggled to get up. “Well, thanks for the help, Angel. You’re a pal. I’m fine now. Really. You don’t have to nurse me anymore. I just needed a quick fix, but I’m fine now. I can take care of myself.” She spared him a quick glance. “I’m fine,” she repeated.
Angel looked at her in alarm. “What are you doing?” he asked, even as he held out his hands to keep her down.
All of a sudden she was furious at him, though she could not have explained why. “Home.” She hid a grimace at the shot of pain that coursed through her as she attempted to get off the sofa.
Angel moved to block her path towards the door. “You can’t go back to your apartment! Look at you!”
She narrowed her eyes and tried to move around him. “I’ll live.”
He sighed at her stubbornness and grasped her arm non-too gently. She winced visibly.
“You’ll live? Cordy, look at yourself! Your clothes are in rags, and you’re cut and bleeding all over the place. You’re in no condition to be walking the streets of LA at this time of the night . . .”
“Morning.”
“. . . morning.” He gestured to her bandaged arms and legs. You’re practically vampire bait!”
She permitted herself to smile. “You’re a vampire.”
He didn’t even bat an eye. “You’re safe with me.”
A flood of emotions coursed through her, and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “I know.”
He led her back to the sofa, and she let him. “Then you’ll stay?”
She sat back down. “I’ll stay.”
He smiled. “I’ll go make you some soup,” he said, already on his way to the kitchen. “Or some coffee or something. You want anything?”
Cordelia knew exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t dare say it out
loud. She sucked in a deep breath and settled back on the couch.
“Some soup would be great.”
But every time your love is near
And every time I’m filled with fear
Cause every time I see your face
My heart does begin to race every time
One half wants me to go
The other half wants me to stay
I just get so all confused
I’m scared to fall in love
Afraid to love so fast
Cause every time I fall in love it seems to never last
But every time your love is near
And every time I’m filled with fear
Cause every time . . .
My heart does begin to race every time
Di di da da . . .
I’m scared to fall in love
Afraid to love so fast
Cause every time I fall in love it seems . . . to never
last
But every time your love is near
And every time I’m filled with fear
Cause every time I see your face
My heat does begin to race every time
But every time your love is near
And every time I’m filled with fear
Cause every time I see your face . . .
Could it be that this will be the one that lasts . . .
The fear does start to erase every time . . .
Could it be that this will be the one that lasts . .
.
For all my times . . .