Blurry by Little Heaven
Summary: Part of the Stranger Things Halloween Challenge. Mrs O-Town's theme: Isolation. One of the AI team gets trapped in an alternate dimension where they're taunted by images from their past and it changes them somehow.
Spoilers: Home, Season Four.
Notes: Thanks to Starlet2367 and Queen Mab for the beta.
Everything's
so blurry, and everyone's so fake
And everybody's empty and everything is so messed up
Pre-occupied without you, I cannot live at all
My whole world surrounds you, I stumble then I crawl
You could be my someone, you could be my scene
You know that I'll protect you, from all of the obscene
I wonder what you're doing, imagine where you are
There's oceans in between us, but that's not very far
-
Blurry, Puddle of Mudd.
At first it was like being asleep. Dark, and peaceful.
Floating on a sea of warm molasses, which, thank God she really wasn’t,
because that would *so* ruin her clothes. Of course, she wasn’t sure if she
was wearing any -- but that’s what it felt like. Drifting, calm, relaxed.
Her brain was soft and woolly, and all the dreadful
memories and thoughts of the last few months were hazy and far away. No more of
the horror of being a human puppet. Here, wherever she was, she was safe from
the full impact of the hurt.
Cordelia was grateful for the respite. Kissing that
beast thing had been gross. And if she thought of Connor -- well it was a good
thing she was asleep, or there would have been a lot of unattractive barfing. If
she ever woke up, there wasn’t going to be enough water in the world to wash
away the yuk of what she’d been forced to do.
Then, after what could have been hours, or days, or
even weeks, there was the sensation of rising, of coming up out of the sea.
Black turned to grey, turned to pink. Sounds became sharper, clearer, louder.
Her face broke the surface. Cordelia opened her eyes.
Okay, everything looked a bit out of focus. Maybe
she’d been under so long that her eyes were out of practice. She blinked a few
times, rubbed her fingers over her eyelids. It didn’t help. The room looked
fuzzy, like she was viewing it through a frosted window, and the colours were
drab and faded.
She peered down at herself, stretched in a
half-sitting position on what looked like a hospital bed. Oh, God, she was still
a bit fat. “Enough with the demon pregnancies,” she muttered. Perhaps she
had ‘incubator of evil’ tattooed across her forehead in ink that only demons
could see, because it was becoming an alarming recurrence.
At least her clothes were nice. Actually, *really*
nice. Calvin Klein jeans. She couldn’t see the label on the shirt, but it felt
like real silk. The boots were suede. Someone had given her a top-notch
manicure, and the smell of L’eau D’Issey tickled the back of her nose. How
had Angel been able to afford this?
A cold shiver ran up her back. What if he hadn’t
won? What if, right now, she was being kept, like a pet, by the thing that had
hijacked her body?
“Only one way to find out,” she said aloud,
frowning as her voice made no echo in the room. Like she was talking into cotton
wool. She swung her legs off the edge of the bed, expecting that ‘you got up
too fast’ dizzy rush, but her head was clear. Carefully, she slid her butt off
the mattress, her feet making full contact with the floor. It felt weird,
rubbery, like she was standing on latex. Like she’d sat on her legs for too
long, and her feet had gone half-numb.
Cordelia turned to look at the bed, and her breath
jammed in her throat. She was looking at herself. Her body, still asleep,
immaculately dressed and groomed, a few clear tubes running from her nose and
mouth. She let the breath out with a ‘whoosh’ and put her hands on her hips.
“Oh crap, not again!”
She glanced around the room. It looked, through the
haze, like someone was moving in. Boxes were piled against one wall. She went up
close, bent her head and squinted at the vivid-marker scrawl on the side of the
top carton. ‘Cordy’s things.’ It looked like Angel’s handwriting. A
little flutter tingled in her chest. He was still alive.
So, she was the one moving in. This was her room. For
some reason that made her stomach drop. It had a feeling of permanence. Why
would they bother moving all her stuff in here? Unless they thought… Yee, not
good.
The door swung open, and Angel, looking as
out-of-focus as everything else, strode in. He had his ‘mega-brood-face’ on,
and the slump of his shoulders betrayed weariness.
“Angel?” she said. It was worth a try. Maybe not
all comas were equal.
He didn’t look up, just leaned on the edge of the
bed, and took her body’s hand. For a while he stroked her fingers, pressed
them to his cheek, and just stared.
Cordelia felt like she was intruding on someone
else’s private moment. He looked wrecked, despairing. Fear bloomed in her
chest.
Finally he let her hand go, placed it across her
stomach, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Cordy.”
With a swish of his black duster, he turned, striding from the room without a
backward glance.
Cordelia ran after him. At the doorway, she hit some
sort of barrier, bounced back off it like someone had strung a trampoline from
the frame. “That’s it?” she shouted as the door drifted closed. Her only
answer was the muffled echo of his feet, dwindling away to silence.
What the hell was wrong with him? Last time this
happened, he’d been frantic, they all had. Trying desperately to get her back.
Now all she had was ten minutes of defeated pessimism. She sank, shaking, into a
nearby chair. It, too, felt rubbery and distant, the touch not fully registering
against her back and legs.
Days passed. Nurses came and went. Stylists,
physiotherapists. All distant and fuzzy, their speech quiet and distorted.
“Stop making me look good, and try waking me up!”
she screamed at them. She tried picking up items and throwing them, but somehow
her hand slipped off, nothing would stay in her grip, nothing even moved.
And Angel didn’t come back.
Cordelia realised that, for the first time in her
life, she was truly alone. No fake friends to hang out with. The Cordettes had
been better than nothing. No Scooby Gang -- the closest thing to real friends
she’d had in Sunnydale. None of the others from Angel Investigations came to
visit. “They hate me,” she whispered, sickly cold spreading through her gut.
She’d betrayed them all, the day she let that demon inside, she knew that now.
God, she hated herself, every day since she ran out of the Hyperion and away
from her family.
Cordy had never realised how slowly time moved when
there was truly nothing to do.
Eavesdropping on conversations held only a little
interest. The woman who bathed her was having problems with her landlord, and
the gay hairdresser was having a spat with his boyfriend. Big woop. It all
seemed so small, so insignificant compared to the things she’d seen, the stuff
that was out there. Stuff she used to be able to fight.
Now she was cut off from everything and everyone she
loved, trapped in this little, sterile room. Isolated in a drab, blurry world.
Cordelia found that she didn’t sleep. She wished she
could. With every minute that dragged by, she wanted more and more to lie down,
and never wake up. No helpless to help, nobody to talk to, and it was only going
to be so long before she ran out of things to think about, started dwelling on
that part of the last few months that was tucked away at the back of her mind.
Lurking like a monster, ready to leap out and crush her. It was coming, and she
didn’t want to be around when the dam broke.
She wanted to die.
On the evening of the fourth day, she curled up in the
chair she couldn’t really feel, and began counting the blips on the small
machine beside her bed. Her heartbeat. Every flash seemed to get brighter,
pulsing, filling her vision. She was drifting again, floating, her mind consumed
only with the steady rhythm. It filled the room, and nothing else existed…
***
“Cordy?” Angel’s voice made her head snap up.
“Huh?” she glanced around, relief washing through
her. Her apartment, warm and familiar, everything clear and sharp and full of
colour. Thank God. And then came the shimmering sense of déjà vu. She’d been
here before, not just in this place, but in this moment.
Her hair was long, tangled, curling over her shoulder,
her ponytail tatty and unruly. Her eyes felt swollen and gritty, and her nose
was running. A tide of grief crashed down. Doyle.
“I hope this is all right,” Angel said, coming
through from the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hand. The rich smell of cocoa
filled the room. “I wasn’t sure how you like it.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, sniffing. “I
can’t believe he’s really gone.”
“It was my job. I -- I tried to stop him…” Angel
shook his head, his voice catching. Fresh tears shone in his eyes, and he made
no attempt to disguise them. He sat beside her, dirty, shattered, placing the
mug on the table.
She wiped at her nose. “And then you would be dead,
I would be crying over you, instead.”
“You’d cry over me?” he said, looking like the
idea had never occurred to him.
She slapped his arm, hard. “Of course, dumbass. If
you were gone, who’d sign my paycheck?”
“Oh.” He seemed crestfallen for a second. Then,
“Oh, you were joking. Weren’t you?”
“I figure Doyle wouldn’t want us to be all maudlin
and puffy-eyed,” she said, and the sound of his name on her lips was all it
took to bring her own tears flooding back, running unchecked down her face.
“Nope, he’d be making us drink that Poly-Malt
scotch, and telling us to pull ourselves together.” Angel dug in his pocket,
presumably looking to offer her a handkerchief, but came up empty.
Cordelia used her sleeve, blotting up the dripping
mascara, even though it would probably never wash out. One more ruined outfit,
courtesy of Angel Investigations. Maybe that’s why Doyle had always dressed so
badly. On those shirts, you could never tell which bits were the pattern and
which bits were stains. Perhaps it was all part of a cunning master plan.
She’d never given him enough credit, for a lot of things.
“Oh, God, I slapped him,” she gasped. “I called
him short, and poor.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing he hadn’t heard
before.” Angel gave a melancholy chuckle.
“I was horrible to him,” she said, the memories of
a hundred snarky comments crowding into her head.
Angel’s hand landed on her shoulder, an awkward,
timid touch. “He didn’t mind. He loved that he couldn’t work you out. I
think he saw it as a challenge.”
She glanced up at him. “Loved?”
A sad, reminiscent smile spread across Angel’s face.
“Well -- he called you a stiffener.”
“Why that little…” Cordelia stopped the word
‘weasel’ from coming out. She heaved a giant sigh. “I’m really gonna
miss him. Bad clothes, funny smell, and all.”
“Me too.” Angel stared across the room, his eyes
unfocussed, misty, the beginnings of his brood-face beginning to show.
She reached a hand out, stalling for a second as he
startled, then gently poked at his Brylcreamed fringe. “I like this look on
you. Very Hogan’s Heroes.”
“You think?” He smoothed his hand over it.
“I think,” she replied, smiling, reaching for the
cocoa. The overpowering chocolatey smell hit the back of her nose, and the first
sip caught in her throat, causing her to cough and splutter. “Eww, God, Angel!
How many spoons did you put in this?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, six, maybe seven? Hot
chocolate isn’t my area of expertise. Is it really bad?”
“Worse.” She nodded, trying to stop her tongue
sticking to the roof of her mouth.
“I’ll make tea. I’m better at tea,” he said,
taking the mug from her and rising, turning for the kitchen.
“Angel, I think there’s some vodka in there. Get
that, too,” she called after him.
She sank back in the cushions, pressed a hand to her
forehead. This was too horrible. Poor Doyle. He saved her life, and Angel’s,
and all those scared, half-demon families…
Something cut into her reverie, a cold, shuddery
sensation. A draft blew against her feet, and the feeling of being watched made
all the hair on her neck prickle.
Cordelia looked down, wondering where the icy breeze
was coming from. Maybe there was a hole in the floor, beneath the sofa. She
lowered her hand, trying to gauge the source of the air. As soon as she touched
the floor, it stopped.
“Huh,” she said, shrugging. Just as she was about
to sit back up, one long, bony finger shot out from beneath the sofa, wrapping
around her ankle. She dragged in a lungful of air -- the prelude to a scream --
and jerked upright.
Nothing. Just the poky little out-of-focus room, her
comatose body, motionless on the bed before her, and the sound of her heart
hammering in her ears. “Must have been a dream,” she murmured, pulling her
feet up onto the chair, hugging her knees to her chest.
For a few moments, she’d been back in the real
world. Sure, in her past, and a pretty painful part of it, but just to be back
in that moment, with someone to talk to -- with Angel -- had been so wonderful.
Until the Finger of Freak-out had ruined it all. That definitely hadn’t
happened the first time around. Probably a hangover from carting around an evil
hell-thing inside her for months.
She wanted to go back. It wasn’t real, but it was a
hell of a lot better than sitting here in the room that time forgot. Cordelia
trained her eyes on the blipping machine again, slowing her thoughts, just
concentrating on breathing in, and out. In, and out. In…
***
Her arms were full of clothes. They covered her desk,
spilling onto the chair. Blouses and skirts, jackets, wraps -- a myriad of
colours and expensive fabrics. Real, honest-to-God couture. Bags and tissue
paper littered the floor, and her smile was so big it hurt her face. She jumped
and squealed. “I have new clothes!”
A dark shadow lurked to her right. Angel. Cordy could
see him out of the corner of her eye, his expression half goofy, half smug.
“Get over here.” She pointed to the floor in front
of her.
Angel’s face transformed from smug to scared.
“What?”
“We need to get something straight,” she said, as
sternly as she could with the smell of designer labels wafting past her nose.
God, she’d missed that aroma. Money.
“You do like them, right? I mean, with the bouncing,
and the hugging…?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. Little bits
of gold glitter from her top had stuck to the front of his jersey when she'd
hugged him, and they sparkled as he moved.
She put down the garments and crossed her arms across
her chest. “Well, duh! Of course I do. But don’t misinterpret my screams of
joy to mean that buying me all this stuff gets you off the hook just like
that.” She snapped her fingers.
The beginnings of a pout tugged at his bottom lip.
“We’re still not friends?”
A flash of cerise caught her eye, one of the gorgeous
tops beginning to slide off the table. She grabbed it, felt the fabric. So
beautiful… No, dammit, focus, Cor. “I’m not saying that,” she sighed,
releasing the blouse. “But I’m not saying you’re forgiven, either, not by
a long shot, mister.”
The pout got bigger. “I’m…”
“Don’t say you’re sorry again. It’s just too
painful to listen to. And if you get all stumbly and uncoordinated, you might
trip and damage the clothes. This is going to be our final discussion on the
matter. You know why I was mad?”
“Yes.” He hung his head.
“You promise not to go all ‘Dark Avenger’ again?
“I promise.”
“And no more skanky blondes? What am I saying?
You’re a eunuch.” She shrugged.
“I’m not…”
Cordy held up a hand, stopping him mid protest.
“Don’t interrupt. I *am* still your friend, Angel. With you until the end,
blah blah blah -- remember?”
His face lit up, the smile almost stopping her in her
tracks. Now there was a sight.
She took a step forward, jabbed her finger in the
middle of his chest, sending a little shower of glitter to the floor. “But,
you ever do anything like that again, and I swear, I will kick your lily-white
vampire butt all the way to hell. Understand?” She punctuated the last word
with an extra hard poke.
“Yes. Cordy, you know I’m…”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I know.” Cordy turned back to
her clothes, so he wouldn’t see the grin threatening to break across her face.
“Now, get me some coffee, Office Boy. And I’ll need some hangers. Don’t
want these to crease.”
She peeked at him, just a flash. The look on his face
was priceless.
“Office Boy?”
“Tick tock.” She bit her lip. Mustn’t laugh now.
“Right, coffee, hangers, I can do that,” he
scurried away, and she managed to keep it together until he left the lobby. He
deserved to pay for what he did, and she was *so* going to make sure of that.
But it was good to have him back. Really good. Not that she was admitting it to
anyone else. No siree.
A figure cut across the edge of her vision. She pulled
herself together, put her serious face on, and turned, ready to give another
lecture. There was no way Angel could have fetched her coffee that fast.
She was right. A swirl of black robes and a flash of
red eyes. A gust of cold air, rancid, the reek of graves and rotting flesh. A
glint of metal. Then it was gone.
Cordy opened her mouth to call for Angel. Or Wes. A
small noise behind her made her jump, and before she could whirl in that
direction, a gnarled, flaking hand was over her mouth, muffling her scream,
yanking her head back. The room began to swim, blur, and…
***
Cordelia was in bed. Her own bed. Sheets that smelled
of fabric softener and body lotion. A gentle flutter on the pillowcase indicated
Dennis was there, fussing, as he always did.
The evening’s memories came flooding back -- scored
flesh, boils and pus, skin blistering and peeling from her arms. "Oh,
God," she gasped, hands flying to her face, feeling for lumps and scabs.
"Cordy." Angel towered beside her bed, and
her heart shot into her throat.
"Dammit, Angel," she gasped. "Don't
sneak up like that!"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to -- I just wanted to be
sure you were okay,” he said, sitting on the mattress beside her, his solid
thigh pressing against her leg through the covers. His face was sombre in the
dim light from the hall. “How do you feel?"
She breathed a moment, listened to her body. It was
quiet. All the burning, stinging, aching; just a memory. "Fine. Tired, but
okay. Are the boils gone?"
"Yes, it's fixed. You look great," he said,
hooking her hair back behind one ear. For a moment his finger stayed across her
cheek, smoothing over the skin where the welts had been.
She frowned at him. "You smell of smoke. What
happened?"
"The usual. Got transported to a hell dimension,
broke some guy out of a prison made of fire, came back. Standard stuff."
His voice was light, but she could tell by the little line that appeared between
his eyebrows that all was not well.
Cordy pushed herself up, leaning forward to rest her
arms on her raised knees, eyeballing him. "What? Spill, I know something's
wrong."
He turned away, looking out the window at the city
lights. "The man I rescued was evil. I had to hurt some good people -- and
other things."
"So why did -- ooooh. For me." She hung her
head. This sucked. "You shouldn't have."
"Not an option, Cordy," he said, his voice
gruff. Turning back to her, he took her hand, his eyes boring into her. She felt
naked, a rabbit caught in headlights. He swallowed hard, blinked a couple of
times. "I don't want you to be scared anymore. If we can find some way to
take the visions..."
"No. Keep your hands off my visions." She
shook her head.
"But you said..."
"Well, wouldn't you? I was all burnt and gross
and oozing. It freaked me out. I'm fine now. Good as new."
His frown deepened. "You know I meant what I said
-- I'd still need you, visions or not."
"Oh yeah, the car thing," Cordy sighed. She
really wished people would stop comparing her to stuff. However good the
intention, it always came out sounding like an insult. "I'm not just doing
it for you. I'm doing it for the people who need our help. They need me, too.
The day the PTB start contacting you by SMS, I'll gladly give the visions up. Of
course, you'd have to work out how to use your phone by then."
"It's the buttons," he protested.
"They're too little."
She quirked her eyebrow at him, watched the conflict
pass across his face. Knew he wanted to press the point. Wondered if he was
going to sit there all night, brooding. "Angel I'd really like to go back
to sleep. You are planning to go home, right? Because lurking in girls' bedrooms
while they sleep is just disturbing."
He looked embarrassed. "Okay, if you're sure
you're all right."
"I'm fine. Shoo. I'll see you at the
office." She smiled and waved until he’d closed the door behind him.
Waited until the front door clicked shut, and then let herself slump back
against the pillows. It would have been so easy to take him up on the offer.
Offload the visions. Save what little was left of her brain.
She *was* scared. Scared of dying. Scared of leaving
him. Scared of being alone…
A noise startled her. A scuttling, scratching noise.
Something was under the bed. “Don’t be silly,” she laughed, thin
and nervous. There were no monsters under the bed -- well, none in here anyway;
Angel would have smelled them.
More scuttling, louder, and she could feel small
impacts on the underside of the bed base. Cordelia shrank down beneath the
covers, pulling them up beneath her chin, staring at the foot of the bed, a
horizon over which anything could rise. Oh, God, let it just be a really big
spider. Even a cockroach. Anything but…
A dark shadow took form, growing, two red eyes,
unblinking. A long, craggy arm reached toward her, fingers stretched outward.
Dread stabbed in her chest, constricted her throat.
“Angel!” she shrieked, closing her eyes, unable to
move or think or…
***
The sky burned bright with fire. A sour wind whipped
at her coat, her hair. Little red coals dropped down around her, smoke pouring
from them in hazy grey arcs. She didn’t remember this place, turned to get her
bearings.
A black figure approached, leaping from rooftop to
rooftop. Moving with the swift grace and strength of a vampire. Angel. As he got
closer she could see blood, dirt, bruises. He landed heavily beside her,
staggered, and she reached out to him. Her hand passed right through, and he
stumbled forward, oblivious to her presence. Righted himself and stared at the
building across the street. At the window.
Cordelia followed his line of sight, and her stomach
lurched. So this was how he knew. How he found out. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry. It wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault,” she said, putting her hand
to his cheek, though she knew it wouldn’t really touch him. The look on his
face was worse than what she knew she’d see in that room, but she couldn’t
turn away. It was like a knife slicing through her chest, hurting more than the
boils and the burning, even more than the rebar in her guts.
Angel opened his mouth, a cry of pure rage and anguish
poured out, and he turned, storming into the stairwell. Smashed the door open
and blasted inside.
Cordelia didn’t follow. Couldn’t. She just sank to her knees and wept, on
the roof of the building, listening to Angel wrecking everything he could touch.
She never knew how much she’d hurt him. “It wasn’t my fault,” she
sobbed, over and over, and for the first time in a long while, believed it.
This was where ‘doing the right thing’ had left
her.
After a long time she stood, wiped her face, and
looked back at the window. Saw herself and Connor asleep, wrapped together. Then
she turned, glanced across the roof at the tall, robed figure, with red eyes
glowing beneath its hood. How long had it been there, watching her? It lifted
one skeletal hand, and beckoned.
She looked back out over the city, wondering if it
would do any good to run. The lights were pale beneath the glow of the fire,
blurry through the smoke. Thousands of little haloes in the City of Angels.
“Let it come and get me. Cordelia Chase is done running,” she murmured. Her
eyelids felt heavy, exhaustion clouding her vision, dragging them down…
***
“Cordy.” Angel’s voice made her blink. The
lights of LA were clear, winking through the large window at her. She turned
around, eyes widening as she took in the plush apartment. It reeked of money.
Every ornament and furnishing was beautiful and obviously expensive. The subdued
lighting gave it a smoky, sexy appeal, and it took her a second to spot Angel,
half-sitting, half-laying on a large, square sofa, shoes off, dressed in only a
white tee and loose, black drawstring pants.
“Huh?” she said, dumbly, trying to take it all in.
Glancing down at herself and wondering why she was standing there in a long,
red, satin slip.
He rose, coming towards her, looking concerned. “You
okay? Where were you just then?”
“Somewhere not very nice,” she admitted, rubbing
her arms as gooseflesh prickled.
His hands landed on hers. “It’ll take time. If you
want to talk…”
“No,” she said quickly. This was too weird. Where
was this place? And why was Angel looking at her that way? Soft, dark eyes
making an appreciative sweep of her body from waist to head, his hands sliding
around to her back, fingers resting on the curve just above her ass. The way
lovers touched.
Oooh, right, she got it now. This must be a sex dream.
A coma sex dream. Well, why not? Wasn’t like she was getting any real action,
wherever her body was.
“It’s okay. Take your time. We have plenty of
time.” Angel reached up and smoothed a strand of hair from her face, cupped
her cheek in his palm, and moved closer. His thighs touched hers, the hand on
her back pressing her into him, just there. “You know I never thought we’d
get to…” he trailed off, his lips almost touching hers, then pulling back.
Fire sparked in her belly, heat sweeping outwards,
crackling across her skin like a forest fire. She didn’t need words -- every
part of her body must have screamed desire that lit her up like a beacon.
He felt it, the sharp intake of breath through his
nose a giveaway response. “Are you sure?” he whispered.
“Well, duh!” she replied. It was supposed to be
flippant, but came out throaty, breathless.
He hovered, an endless second humming between them,
and then slowly, slowly, pressed his lips to hers. Soft, unhurried, dry, like a
schoolyard kiss. Pulling away just a little, leaving her hanging, sweet torture,
then sucking her bottom lip, just touching it with the tip of his tongue.
Cordelia felt the moan come up from her belly. It
spilled out, an animal noise she wasn’t aware she could make, and his nostrils
flared, small pants of breath cooling her face.
And then the restraint was gone, his mouth crashing
down on hers, teeth clashing, tongue darting out, cool velvet, tangling with her
own. A groan rumbled through his chest, his hands cupping her ass and pulling
her harder against him, his hips grinding into her stomach, and she felt a hot
thrill at the sudden hard steel pressing into her belly.
He pulled again, up, and her feet left the floor. The
slip rode up to her hips, covering his hands, as she wrapped her legs around his
waist, gripping the back of his neck as the kiss deepened.
This was so good. Too good. Even though she knew it
was a dream, she broke free, gasped, “the curse.”
“You’re safe, Cordy. I’ll always keep you
safe,” he said, his voice low and gruff.
She stilled, listening to her heart pounding, blood
hammering through her veins. “I know you will, Angel.”
And then they were kissing again. He drank her in,
like she was his water, his air. She could feel the heat pouring from her,
soaking into him, like the sun warming the ocean after a long, cold winter.
With strong strides, he carried her to the sofa, sat
down so she straddled his lap. Her knees sank into the soft cushions, bringing
her centre down on his. She could feel the hard press of him, and all she wanted
was to have that part of him deep inside her. Just the thought had her stomach
and thighs quivering, and she rocked forward, making him groan and buck against
her.
His lips left hers and trailed down her neck, her
chest, making a damp circle on the fabric as he sucked one nipple into his
mouth. Cordelia gasped, hung her head back, lost in the sensation.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against the hard little
pebble, running his hands up her sides, carrying the red satin higher. She let
go of his shoulders and raised her arms, and it shimmered up and away in a wide
arc, pooling on the floor. She glanced down, realized she wore no underwear. Saw
the solid column of his cock, outlined through the black fabric, nestled against
her thigh.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, her fingers plucking at his
t-shirt.
“Okay?” he said, his eyes burning like the embers
that had fallen from the LA sky.
“Want…” It was all she could get out.
Words were forgotten and all she knew the song of her body, a symphony of
need drowning out coherent thought.
He chuckled, and it was the sexiest thing she’d ever
heard. The t-shirt flew up, joined her slip on the floor, and he raised his
hips, shimmying the flowing black pants down, kicking them free.
Damn, he was hot. All chiselled muscle and pale,
smooth skin. Cordelia pressed herself to him, rubbing herself up his chest like
a cat, feeling the rumble inside him, and doing it again. Sparks went off all
over her body, and she was sure her skin must be twinkling, like the lights of
LA that watched them through the window.
His hands found her hips, lifted her, positioned her
so she could feel him, pressed against her entrance. Time stood still, and all
that existed was that exquisite feeling of almost. And then he lowered her down,
over him, and every nerve centre in her body went off like fireworks.
“Angel,” she cried, grabbing his shoulders as he filled her all the way.
His arms came around her, the room spun, and she was
beneath him, on her back on the sofa. Angel loomed over her, his elbows either
side of her head, hands touching her face, her lips, her hair. “I love you,
Cordy,” he whispered. Something cold and wet splashed on her cheek, and she
realised it was a tear. His tear.
“Shhhh.” She reached up, touched his face,
smoothed his skin.
“Sorry. I just never thought we’d make it,” he
said, blinking.
“Oh, we’ll make it,” she crooned, shifting her
hips. His eyes closed, the muscles in his jaw twitched. Just like the kiss, he
started gentle, hesitant. The slow drag of skin on heated skin. She reached
down, grabbed his ass. “Come on, harder, please.”
Angel’s mouth closed over her breast, and he drew
back, ramming into her, once, twice. Her hips shot up to meet him, legs twining
around his thighs, feet rubbing against corded muscle. She reached up, gripped
the armrest of the sofa behind her head, hung on. Nothing had ever felt this
good. His tongue on her nipple, his fingers on the other, and the wonderful,
aching moment when his other hand slid between them, thumb slipping between dark
curls to press in the sweetest place of all.
Little incoherent grunts and moans rose from deep
inside him, sweat beaded on his forehead, and she could tell by the way his cock
throbbed inside her that it was all he could do to keep it together. That idea
of him, on the knife-edge of control, together with the delicious drag of his
thumb, sent her orgasm spiralling, unexpected, out of control. His name poured
from her lips, over and over, and as her whole body clenched and tingled, he
gasped and jerked, and she felt him empty into her.
For a long moment they lay, twined together, damp,
panting. Cordelia closed her eyes, waited for equilibrium to return. When she
opened them, he was smiling down at her. It was the most beautiful thing she’d
ever seen. “I love you,” she whispered. He leaned in to kiss her, and then
-- he was gone.
***
She sat up, gasping, taking in the blurry little room
and her comatose self. Dammit, back in hell again. Or wherever this really was.
Darkness gathered like smoke, on the edge of her
vision.
“Okay, what? Quit following me around and get to the
point,” she snapped, turning towards it. The cloaked figure with red eyes,
and, for goodness sake, a scythe.
“Do you know who I am?” The voice was eerie, like
wind howling under the eaves of a house. It made her flesh prickle.
“You *are* Death, right? Because I’ve been caught
out on this point before,” she said, staring into the black depths beneath the
hood.
“Yes, I am Death.”
“Thank God, because I’m ready to go. Really. Take
me away from this -- nothingness, before I go stark raving loony,” she sighed.
“You’re not scared?” Death sounded surprised.
Cordy shrugged. “Not any more.”
“Damn, I must be losing my touch.” Death leaned
his scythe up against the wall and sat down in the armchair opposite her. The
stench of decay rose up around him as his robes swirled and settled.
“Where the hell are we?” She waved her hand at the
out-of-focus room.
“Another dimension, only one degree removed from
your own, which is why you can still see it. Limbo,” he replied.
She frowned. “Like the dance?”
“No, not like the dance,” he said, an edge of
exasperation creeping into his tone. “It’s the place between your world and
the next. The place before the afterlife.”
Made sense. Not really alive, not really dead. Limbo.
A bad place to spend the rest of eternity. “Okay then, let’s get this over
with,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, a little cold and shivery
despite the relief of finally getting what she wanted.
“Not yet. I have a choice for you.” He made a
dramatic sweeping gesture with his hand, stirring up more smell.
Cordy wrinkled her nose. “What is it with you
people? Showing up and giving me ultimatums. Because I tell you, the last time?
*So* not fair. Led me right into a trap. How do I know you won’t do the
same?”
“I’m Death.” He sounded a little irritated.
“What reason would I have to lie?”
“Okay, go on then.” She rolled her eyes. This had
better be good.
“You can choose to die, now, and go to your eternal
peace, or you can awake from the coma, and resume your life, whatever there may
be left of it. Decide.”
It was Cordelia’s turn to be irritated. No,
actually, damn mad. “Now? Jeez, impatient much? How am I supposed to chose
something this important with no prior warning?”
Death sighed, a long-suffering sound. “I gave you
plenty of time to consider.”
What was he on about? He’d only just showed up…
Except he hadn’t. He’d been in every one of her memories, except the sex
dream -- and how embarrassing would that have been? He’d sent her back to
those special moments with Angel, to help her decide.
She got up, paced across the room. “Why only Angel
memories?”
“You are connected,” Death replied, in his spooky,
whistling voice. “But they weren’t all memories. Your last experience, for
instance.”
“You saw that?” she gasped. “Freaking
pervert!”
“It is your future. The future for one of the two
paths.”
“Which one?” she demanded. Oh, she was *so* going
to chose that one.
But Death shook his head.
“Okay, can I ask one thing?”
“Shoot,” Death replied.
She blew out a long, shaky breath. Maybe she didn’t
want to know this. “Where would I go, if I died? Would it be hell, because I
know I’ve been a bitch in my time, and I gave birth to a demon that nearly
took over the world…”
Death made a strange, choking sound, and it was only
after a few seconds that Cordelia realised he was laughing. It wasn’t very
comforting. “Do you really think, after all you have done for them, that the
PTB would send you down there? Did you do everything with good intention in your
heart? Look inside, and that’s where you will find your answer.”
She nodded, relief flooding through her. She was going
to heaven. Maybe heaven was whatever you wanted it to be. How else could she be
having sex with Rich Angel without fear of the curse?
Her heart twisted at the thought of Angel. He was
still alive -- or undead, anyway -- back in her own dimension, the blurry world
she could see all around her but not be a part of. God knows where the others
were. Would he, or any of them want to see her again? There was no way of
knowing. She could be alone, penniless, waiting tables in Denny’s, and buying
clothes from Penny Saver. Did she deserve that, after all she’d been through?
“Decide!” Death boomed, standing and reaching for
his scythe. “I can’t hang around here all day. I’ve got a fifteen-car
pile-up on the Autobahn to attend. I won’t be back.”
Cordelia closed her eyes, remembered all the things
she’d seen and felt, and more. Angel leaping off a balcony with her in his
arms, bullets ploughing into his back. Angel holding her hand in hospital. Angel
sitting in a room, scratching on the wall, mad and hallucinating. Angel making
love to her with tears in his eyes.
She breathed deep, let the choice come on it’s own,
and when it did, it felt right.
Death nodded, reached out his hand, and pressed it to
her forehead, pushing her back towards her body. Wind whirled around her, and
something was tugging, sucking her back into that lifeless figure. Darkness
fell, and all was silent.
***
Noise exploded in her ears. A door slamming open, loud
beeping, someone running. Her throat hurt, tubes choking her, and her head
screamed with pain. Hands grabbed her, rolled her on her side, and she coughed
and spat, feeling the tube slide out. She dragged in a painful, burning breath.
“She’s coming ‘round,” someone said.
“Cordy, can you her me?” Angel. His voice
wavering, but unmistakeable.
She tried to open her eyes, squinted at him. He was
blurry, but coming clearer with every blink. And tears streamed down his face.
“Angel,” she tried to say, but it just came out as a croak.
“Don’t. It’s okay. Rest,” he said.
***
Later, she dozed. After all the doctors had checked
her over. After the respirator had been unplugged, and the tubes taken from her
nose.
Angel still sat in the corner, in the chair Death had
occupied. He looked shaken. And *really* well dressed. Cordelia may have only
been out of a coma for two hours, but she knew Armani when she saw it. She had
no idea what was going on, where they were, but there was plenty of time to find
out.
“Hey,” she whispered, as loud as she could manage after
the tiny sip of water she’d been allowed to drink.
“Hey,” Angel said, coming over to her, linking his
fingers with hers, careful to avoid the drip in the back of her hand. “You
came back. I thought I’d lost you.”
“So did I.” She turned her face away. Didn’t want him
to see her cry.
Desperation and panic welled up inside her. Oh, God, he had
to know; she had to tell him everything, now. “I didn’t do it.
Didn’t…” She couldn’t say it -- didn’t leave you, didn’t fuck your
son… “It wasn’t me,” she croaked.
“Hey, shhh, it’s okay, I know,” he said, squeezing her
hand.
“You do?” Her voice was barely audible.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered.
His words dissolved, filtered into understanding, and her
heart began to soar, relief flooding through her.
He didn’t blame her, didn’t hate her. Didn’t doubt her.
She’d sacrificed love for the mission, and it cost her soul. Of course, Angel,
of all people, understood that. About wrong choices made. About regret. About
loss of control. The sob caught in her throat and made her cough.
He cupped her cheek, turned her face back to his, and kissed
her, just like in the dream, soft, barely a whisper on her lips. “Don’t
think about that now, it’s over. The important thing is that you’re here.
You’re awake. Nobody knows how. Do you remember anything?’ he murmured,
forehead resting against hers.
Cordelia nodded, swallowed hard, found her peace. “I
realized I didn’t want to die." Took a deep, shuddering breath, and
looked him in the eye. "This time, I chose love.”
Contact Little Heaven