SCRIBES OF ANGEL
FanFic
________________________________
Surfacing
by
Chrislee
Rated PG 13
Disclaimer: Joss owns ‘em, not me.
Feedback: sure. christie_mcdonal@hotmail.com
Summary: In the now, but pre- “Birthday” (there’s no mention of it in this
fic). Angel ponders his feelings for Cordelia. (which IMHO are ambiguous at
best!)
Surfacing
He sees the
way she looks at him sometimes, her eyes narrowed with anticipation or
expectation and he knows what she's thinking, what she masks as concern or
friendship. There's a part of him that, if not exactly encouraging it,
certainly does nothing to undermine it, either. He misses that look. That
trusting upturned face, the gentle voice, a hand placed on his forearm.
Now with her
visions and the way she's dedicated herself to learning to fight, Cordelia
Chase is more of a partner than Buffy had ever been. No, that's not exactly
true: Buffy had been Angel's partner, his equal, better than him, stronger and,
in the end, more honest. But Buffy had spent so much time in those early days
pushing him away, greeting his very presence with suspicion and fear. He didn't
blame her, but it had hurt. Imagine, a thing as old as he, hurt by a
sixteen-year-old girl whose idea of revenge is dancing (if you could even call
it that) with a sixteen-year-old boy. There's a part of Angel who resents Buffy
just a tiny bit for being so young, for being a kid. He'd fallen in love with a
kid.
Cordelia has
done a better job of hiding her feelings than Fred has but, still, Angel is
perfectly aware of them. He isn't interested in Fred any more than he is
interested in Gunn or Wesley. They are part of his 'team.' Now there's a funny
word. Shows you how much things have changed in the last few years. He has a
team, is part of a team, despite Wesley's new status, leads a team. In
Sunnydale he had worked alone. Well, that's not exactly true either- he had
Buffy. He had Buffy. And then he didn't and whose fault is that? Who can he
blame for that? Who can he turn to for comfort?
Much as he
hates to admit it, being a part of something is important to Angel. As much as
they'd depended on his connections to the demon world and his supernatural
strength in battle, Angel knew that he'd never really been a part of the
Scoobies. Standing in the rubble after graduation, Angel had watched Buffy,
waited for the moment he knew would come: when she would sense him and turn and
look for him through the haze and confusion. And when their eyes met, he hoped
he'd been able to convey to her that she'd be okay. He made himself believe
that she'd be okay. Beyond her shoulder he saw Oz and Cordelia and Willow and
Xander, her team, waiting for her. Behind him there was no one.
So if he
didn't really encourage Cordy, where was the harm? That was what being human
was all about, right? Feeling. Choosing to feel. Letting the feelings in.
Sometimes, just for a moment, Angel allows himself the luxury of forgetting
that he isn't human. That had become increasingly difficult to do around Buffy.
He wanted so much to be human, to be hers. She said all the right things, said
that when she looked into the future all she saw was him, but Angel had the
benefit of understanding far better than Buffy just how long and how short the
future could be.
As a mortal
he'd never given a second thought to anything he did: drink, mate, sleep, eat.
Basic human needs met without a second's thought, a moment's consideration for
the comfort or feelings of anyone but himself. A bastard, that's what he'd
been. And Angelus wasn't any better, was, in fact, a hundred times worse. But
with his newly restored soul (and God only knows where it had been when he was
alive) Angel suddenly felt the ironic arrival of his second chance. Now he over
analyzed everything. He'd kept out of the way of people, started drinking blood
that was not of the human variety and spent long hours ruminating over his
purpose in life.
When, hunched
down in the blacked out car, he'd seen Buffy for the very first time, he knew.
Knew beyond anything his purpose, his heart, his connection to this mortal
world. He remembers those early days with Buffy, the fumbling conversations,
making out against tombstones, the sweet smell of summer grass. Falling in love
with her complicated things, made him long for things that he only barely
remembered: the warmth of another human being, the great joy of companionship,
the feeling of being accepted, being a part of something. Even if it was only
Buffy who offered these things, it was enough.
Angel thought
that he might not find the will to go on, when the end came, thought he might
retreat to the sewers where he had hidden until Whistler had shown him the
light, literally. He'd walked away from her, for her own good, and come to Los
Angeles to make a new start. He hadn't intended on forming a team. It was
better, he'd thought, to work alone. Then came Doyle. Cordelia. Wesley. Gunn.
Like he was a bloody sun and they were planets in his orbit; all a little
broken, all a little world-weary, all needing exactly what he needed- somewhere
to belong.
Somehow, it
worked. Somehow they'd banded together and made the impossible, possible. It
wasn't perfect. They'd all made some mistakes, Angel more than anyone, but
still they made it work.
But Angel
could feel the dynamic changing, could feel Cordy's eyes on him and could feel
his own eyes on her. And he wondered: what would it hurt? He was lonely. He
missed the smell of a woman, missed the soft hairfingersbreasts. He watched her
obvious delight in Connor and he thought why not? She was beautiful. She adored
him. She was the kind of woman he liked: strong, smart, fierce. Where was the
harm?
So, to say
that he hadn't ever thought about it would be a lie. He thought about it all
the time because in some ways it was better than thinking about Buffy. To
imagine her life moving on, to imagine his life moving on; separate but
parallel beings working for the greater good, that thought almost made him
happy. But underneath it all was a wound so deep and so wide and so painful
that sometimes at night it made his howl into his pillow.
Because in
his dreams there was no Cordelia. There was only Buffy, there would only ever
be Buffy. And in the dreams she was always the same: asleep, peaceful, safe. He
never dreamt of her fighting or worried or wounded. In the dream he would be at
the window watching her repose, knowing with certainty that her dreams were of
him. Every word they'd ever said to each other would filter seamlessly through
his mind: all the happy words and all the words that had broken their hearts
and all the hopeful words he hoped to one day be able to say to her. When it
was time. And in the dream, even though he never left the window, he made love
to her. He soothed her limbs with his fingers, forced a ragged gasp from her
mouth with his tongue, gentled her slamming heart with the palm of his hand,
wound his fingers through hers and pressed her tightly to him. His soul,
anchored, soared.
The dream
rarely varied. Sometimes she opened her eyes, pinning him to the sill just as
he was about to surface from sleep to wakefulness. He'd let the dream pull him
under once more, reluctant to leave her. And they'd stay, just as they were,
physically apart but joined nonetheless by a bond neither could name nor
dismiss.
And when he
finally did wake up, the shadows of approaching dusk creeping reproachfully
across his bed, Angel felt as though he had betrayed Buffy. More than anything
he wanted to protect the memory of her, even if that's all that it ever was.
So, when Cordelia
breezed into the room while Angel was dressing, to tell him about what was
happening downstairs, as she did almost every night, Angel did not meet her
eyes.
He said,
"You should knock, you know."
"Pardon,"
she replied.
Angel turned
to face her. "You. Should. Knock."
Pushed down
for so long, avoided like a boring party guest, his feelings for Buffy
surfaced. And almost as if she could suddenly see Buffy tattooed on his skin,
Cordy mumbled, "Sorry, Angel. I wasn't thinking."
"Neither
was I," Angel whispered to the closing door.