SCRIBES OF ANGEL

FanFic

________________________________

"Study in Darkness and Light"
by Hannah R.H.
June 2000
(See notes at end.)
 
The party she'd attended that night was close to Angel
Investigations, so Cordelia had enough of an excuse to
stop by on her way home and see if her boss needed
anything before she called a cab. She admitted a
little concern to herself, sure; the full moon
sometimes brought trouble to their door at strange
hours, and despite Angel's complete ability to take
care of himself, she liked to make sure he was okay.
 
The party was close by, after all.
 
She let herself in almost silently and went down the
stairs to his apartment, clutching her small purse in
her hand. She found him quickly, just where she
expected to. He sat in a large armchair in the center
of the room, folded into himself just the right way to
tell her he was brooding. Elbows on his knees,
hunched, his fingers woven together and just touching
his mouth. A single small lamp was on across the
apartment, and its light barely made it to his
features. He was a study in darkness.
 
Oh, yeah--that was brooding.
 
She knew he knew she was there, that no matter how
silent she was, he could smell her perfume, the
shampoo in her hair, and her blood. Her emotions. When
she was happy, he'd usually try to meet her with a
half-smile; when she was angry or down, his frown
mirrored hers before she had turned to face him or
spoken a word. She often thought it would be nice to
have a boyfriend with that ability, no matter how
unnerving it sometimes was.
 
Actually, maybe it was a little too unnerving. Only
Angel could get away with it.
 
At times like these, when she just watched him and he
was especially moody and uncommunicative, he could
smell her concern, but until she questioned him, he
wouldn't acknowledge her presence. She suspected he
enjoyed the drama a little bit, and in his mind, it
was her place to speak first. So he sat, and let her
watch. And, leaning against the doorjamb, she did.
 
It really was unfair, she thought, that God could
create such a great-looking guy and then abandon him
to become a vampire. She remembered those first times
she saw him, how darkly attractive and exotic he was,
and how she knew if she really gave it a shot, she
could have him. There was a good bit of lust directed
at him then, and now she knew with a rueful grin that
he probably could smell that, too.
 
Then, later, when she discovered there really was no
weakness to exploit in his relationship with Buffy,
those feelings evaporated as they had to--no point
banging her head against a wall, since she was
Cordelia Chase, which meant something then--and she
moved on to greener pastures.
 
Xander.
 
Okay, maybe browner, deader pastures.
 
She wondered what Xander thought when he learned--as
he must have by now--that she was here in L.A.,
working in Angel's agency. She wondered what they all
thought. Willow she had talked to a little, but the
conversations were only slightly gossipy, since they
usually only called each other about spells or
computers or spells on computers. It pleased her a
little that Willow sounded happier to hear from her
these days, that she increasingly talked to Cordelia
like she talked to everyone else, instead of sounding
weary or irritated.
 
Cordelia knew that Willow had every right to sound
that way when she did. She had prided herself on
tormenting Willow throughout their school years. It's
funny how things develop, she thought, still watching
the dark profile across the room. Here was Angel,
Buffy's Angel, and she was with him, but not like she
had once wanted to be.
 
Not long ago, she had asked about Xander, and Willow
hadn't paused a second before chattering cheerily
about Anya, the basement Xander lived in, and the
unbelievable yet oddly amusing string of jobs he had
held. It's funny how things develop, again--Willow and
Xander friends, then more, then friends again. It
mirrored her own relationship with him, though she'd
have to replace the friendship parts with painful,
passionate enmity.
 
Then, unbidden, Cordelia flashed on one of their last
moments alone, her and Xander, the shouting, long
after they had broken up even, her trying to defend
Angel after he was good again, Xander shouting at her,
demanding that she look at Giles' arms, the blade
scars and puncture marks at his wrists where Angelus
had bitten, taunting his victim with a promised slow
death. Some of Giles' scars were products of his
Ripper time and Watcher life, but now, most of them,
the fresh ones, were from that single day, alone with
Angelus.
 
Xander pointed out, almost smugly--hell, yes, he was
smug--that they could see Giles' arms every day, he
couldn't hide them, but there were other scars they
would never see, covering his flesh, on his soul. The
pain he must have felt, the fear ... She had been
scared of Angel then, truly scared, looking at Giles
later, looking at his arms, and even though Angel was
good, it took her a long time to forget ... and she
never really did forget.
 
Angelus.
 
She watched Angel intently, wondering not for the
first time how the vampire thing worked, how his
heart, though silent for centuries, kept him together,
how he had form and bulk but didn't cast a shadow or
give a reflection. If it was a trick of the light,
shouldn't her hand pass through him? If he were real,
shouldn't she see something in the glass?
 
Angelus.
 
What are you? She asked him that question silently
sometimes, especially times like these when she had a
little to drink but not enough to have fun, just
enough to lose track of her trains of thought and let
them pile up in dark tunnels, confused and jumbled. A
little jumbled. What are you?
 
The hands pressed lightly to his lips tonight were the
same hands that held Drusilla down as he made her
crazy and turned her, that twisted Jenny Calendar's
neck, that held a blade to Giles' flesh and cut, cut.
Those hands had killed thousands over the centuries,
the vamped-out face she had almost gotten used to was
the last vision those people had. His body, the bulk
of him, she found it a comfort now standing behind
her, but it had been turned against her more than
once, and, as Angelus, his bulk was terrifying. It was
unstoppable.
 
Those same hands ... That same face ... The demon
still in there, held down by the force of a vulnerable
soul. A spell, a moment of happiness, a needle or
pills, and it's gone. How can the soul be strong
enough to hold back the demon day by day, minute by
minute, this very second? And a drug, a moment of
happiness, and she and Wesley are gone, because this
time, no doubting it, they'd be the first. She
wondered what it would be like, after all this time,
to have his face be the last thing she sees, his fangs
the last thing she feels.
 
Angelus, held down just barely by the soul. A monster
that can't cast a reflection because there is no soul
... but Angel has a soul ... and yet no reflection.
 
What are you?
 
She blinked, once, and suddenly he was just Angel
again, hands, shoulders, face. She found herself cold
and shivering with her thoughts, and cursed herself
for the lapse. He would feel--
 
Too late. He looked over at her instantly, concerned,
then--achingly--blank when he realized she was simply
watching him still. He knew.
 
"Cordelia ... " He hands dropped across his lap,
though he otherwise remained the same.
 
"I'm sorry." The fear had disappeared instantly,
replaced again with concern. She took a couple of
steps toward him.
 
"Don't be," he said quickly, brushing aside her delay.
He tried in vain for a conversational tone. "What were
you thinking about? I mean, specifically."
 
She sighed, dropping her bag to the floor, and crossed
the room. "You want another reason to be the brooding
guy?"
 
That made him smile a little. He shook his head. His
words, as they always were toward her, were gentle.
His voice, as much Angelus as his hands, only made her
sad. "No ... I guess I'm curious."
 
The chair was big enough that she could sit on the
overstuffed arm of it and look down at him, so she
did. He leaned back, resting his head against the
wing, and watched her face.
 
She thought carefully, and her words were slow and
deliberately chosen. "I was thinking ... how weird it
is that ... such horrible things have been done, with
your hands ... I was wondering ... what you are, that
the same body, the same face that I see every day,
that I count on ... is the same that Angelus used."
She knew the pauses and careful phrasing wouldn't do
anything to make the words hurt less. He'd read into
it what he wanted. She tried to explain more: "It was
just thinking, Angel. It didn't mean anything."
 
He looked down at his own hands then, clasped them
together and pressed until the knuckles were white.
His voice was quiet. "It's hard to get your head
around, isn't it ... "
 
"Sometimes ... " She touched his hair lightly, felt
him respond. They didn't touch often, probably by
mutual agreement that it was the wrong path to start
down.
 
He laughed a little, but it was bitter, and he shook
his head before looking up to meet her eyes again. "I
wish I could tell you to leave, give you my permission
or whatever is required, but you can't, can you?" He
snorted. "I thought I could do something decent for
you, and instead I've condemned you to this ...
perversity. I'm sorry."
 
Perversity, he called it. She hated herself for
thinking of Angelus tonight, for making this one scene
unfold. She knew what he expected her to say, her
response, and what his answer would be. She ignored
the expected, and instead asked, "Are you happy that
I'm here?"
 
He blinked, smiled a little. The back of his hand
brushed her leg, stroked back and forth twice before
stilling. "Yes."
 
"Good. Then don't be stupid." She enjoyed the rare,
startled laugh her sharp command elicited. "I'm here.
You want me here. This is my life, for now or for
however long it has to be before I can get rid of
these goddamned headaches."
 
His attention was riveted on her face, and she
wondered what he saw there, what he thought when he
watched her sometimes. If it was half as cruel as the
things she thought, well, they were both in trouble.
She doubted his thoughts were cruel, though. She
couldn't smell his feelings, but she could read his
face, and right now he wanted to be touched, by her
hand and her words. Her fingers brushed across his
temple.
 
"Angel ... I know you don't always understand me,
which is fine since I'm two hundred years younger than
you are, female, and, oh yeah, mortal, but I can get
my head around what my life in Los Angeles would have
been like without you, and you know what?"
 
It took him a second to realize a response was needed.
"What?"
 
"It would have sucked." He chuckled again, but she was
insistent. "Seriously. I'd be waiting tables right
now, going on the same lousy auditions, fighting off
the same gross guys--not knowing half of them were
vampires or demons or whatever, and yeah, there's
that, you've only saved my life about a million times
when I was a total bonehead."
 
"You weren't a--"
 
"Yes! I was." She paused. "Come on. I know how things
could have been different. And no matter what, I'm
here."
 
"Cordelia," he said, still watching her, eyes sharp.
"You're afraid of me sometimes."
 
"Angel," she said flatly. "I've seen you. The other
way. Sometimes I can't help but think about it. Wesley
does, too--I know he does. But we're thinking about
Angelus, the demon, not you. Never you. You, we love."
 
His small smile collapsed at the word, and she cursed
herself again. "That's probably not a good idea," he
sighed.
 
"Too bad," she snapped. "Maybe it's part of the deal.
Doyle loved you, too, you know. He told me so." At
Angel's raised eyebrow, she continued, "Okay, well,
maybe not in those words, but I could tell how much he
enjoyed being around you. This whole messenger-warrior
thing? It's a lot easier if you care about each other,
right?"
 
After watching her for a long moment, he nodded.
 
"Then just accept it and move on, mister. You're stuck
with me. I'm stuck with you. And sometimes, I really
don't mind ... "
 
She looked down at him again, marveling at how safe
she could feel around him, just moments after
considering his uncountable sins. Her fingers were in
his hair, still lightly, but the moment was passing. A
road they weren't going to go down ... In a quick
motion, she pulled her hand back and lifted herself
off the chair arm.
 
"However, right now I mind," she continued smoothly.
"I'm tired. That party sucked. And I need to get home.
Drive me and save me a few bucks?"
 
He stood without answering, looking around for the car
keys. She spotted them on an end table before he did,
and she picked them up. As she passed him in the
doorway, her hand settled in his, just to give him the
keys. For a second, just a second, they both held the
keys, and his hand against hers was cool and strong
and Angel's.
 
And she trusted him. Always.
 
 
THE END
 
 
Notes: I'm not sure when this is supposed to take
place. They still are in his Angel Investigations
apartment, it plays on the smelling-Lindsey's-fear
scene in the penultimate ep, but I think it relies on
some of the feelings that were explored in the season
finale, after his apartment exploded. Whatever--that's
why it's fic.
 
Yep, I'm always into the needier Angel (shades of
Mulderfic--stick Scully in here and you'd hardly have
to rewrite) and the nicer, deeper Cordelia. Though
Angel/Cordy 'ship does absolutely nothing for me, I do
think she'd be a freakin' moron for not having some of
these thoughts (both the schmoopy and the scary). ...
Though I just reread it and it could easily be
interpreted as 'ship. Dude.

AUTHORS INDEX

Hannah's Site