Hold You Down by Ignited

Summary: To make up for his behavior, Angel takes Cordelia for a ride.

Spoilers: Up to "Tomorrow," Season Three.

Notes: Tweaked from what originally set out to be a fun loving smut piece, but you know me, I had to add the angst in. Also, I have avoided the smut route for .well, forever, and finally tried to venture into dangerous and uncharted waters. Let me know whether I should keep my feet wet or not. And, this is from a different point of view, just for the ladies.

Dedication: To Steffi and Kath, as usual, because they are my greatest critics.

She was tired, bitchy, and about to ram those 2" heels of her newly acquired Jimmy Choo stilettos into Angel's foot. Perhaps if she put her mind to it, she could get his shin as well.

The vampire in question had been suddenly active lately, Cordelia Chase thought. After his untimely disappearance, and her sudden departure, Angel acted like he was in the quest for his. well, to gain back something that had been important to him. No, not Cordelia, he already had her back. Smothered and hugged the life out of her practically, when he saw her again. He'd been so needy afterwards, not wanting to leave her, wanting to stay in the same room as she was. Heck, the day after, he'd gotten worried when she went to the bathroom.

Ah, such is young manpire love.

Nevertheless, he tried to gain back the sense of duty, obligation to fight for the Powers That Be. Angel had been terribly angry towards them though, for taking his Cordelia away. The anger remained, but he took up more cases again. Wanting to support her. To support Connor, Fred and Gunn.

However, in terms of feverishly working hard, Angel acted like a husband in a Circuit City store commercial.

Brow furrowed, posture relaxed, yet tense at any moment. Those long legs were perched atop the corner of his desk, his by ownership and marking. She wouldn't go into that though, but rest assured the marks were by two females. Head tilted down, pale, looking ragged, but in that energized kind of way. He'd been going at this for three years, receiving more bruises and pain than those spent in Sunnydale. He'd been more quiet then, lurking.

Angel admitted he loved to lurk, although nowadays he would hum- good lord, the man would actually whistle sometimes- when he came into the room she was in.

Cordelia loved him for it.

She loved his plain fashion sense- dark for himself, colorful and simple, yet lovely for her. How he was cheap with a buck, no nonsense when it came to Connor's curfew time - Twelve on weekdays, Four if they were in the process of killing something disgusting. How he sat in his chair even, a perfect statue of marble, looking better than he had before. More trim, heck, he even SMILED more often.

However, his cute crooked grin would not deter her from what she was about to say.

"Cordelia," Angel sighed, knowing she was there, smelling her, still intently looking at the file he was reading.

She didn't have to say anything. Just raised that eyebrow, trying her damnedest to be irresistible. The lips pouting, the hair flipped, the sigh came, and he was sinking down even farther into the cowhide.

"What do you want?" Angel asked at length, almost infuriatingly calm, innocent, tired, just plain Angel.

He was still looking at the folder, eyes trained, playing his part in this common act upon the stage.

Cordelia pushed his boots off the edge of the desk, and holding her weapon of choice in her hand, she pushed down his folder with. a feather duster.

"I want you to take a break," she told him, firm, but letting that honey slip, ensnare him. "You've been working non stop this week, and if you were human, you'd be having a nervous breakdown right now. We can call it 'post-life crisis'."

She made air quotes, and he leaned forward.

"What? I'm fine. I want to work and help out." Frowning a little, he threw the file onto his desk, knowing that he wouldn't get any further work done at the moment. "I'm running a business, Cordy. To take care of you and everyone."

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," Cordelia accused, hands going on her hips, the purple feather duster weaving slightly. "Yeah, we have Connor now. And it's just the fou-- five of us. But Angel, you're working too hard. And we're working too hard. Connor, Fred, Gunn, they've all been out with us, avenging stuff daily. We need a break."

"I'm not forcing you guys to work more than you're able to," Angel said in protest, chin jutting out in defense.

"Oh really? When was the last time we had a night to ourselves?"

"Thursday."

"Hacking up Garloth demon parts while waiting for their eggs to hatch doesn' t count."

Searching for a response, Angel quickly uttered, "Saturday. Remember? The restaurant?"

"Which happened to be run by evil demons using people in their food, as proven by your tactic of 'punch now, confirm suspicions later.' And yuck, Soylent Green much?"

Stymied, Angel straightened, a boy caught doing something wrong. "I'm a horrible date. What can I say?"

Cordy, infuriated, opened her mouth to say something.

"I'm not going to give you a raise, Cordelia," Angel said, deadpan, pointing to her shoes.

He wanted to be a smart ass, Cordy knew, that crooked smile of his coming into place. The fleeting satisfaction of having said the right thing, at the right time, and she shut up because of it. Frustrated she plopped herself down in the chair across the big expanse of his polished wooden desk.

Her fingers trailed over the edge of the folder that Angel reached for again. Fingers snatched it up quick, now in her lap, she flipped the pages. "This the train thing you're workin' on?"

To summarize what he had deducted so far, Angel sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Passengers on the train say they were attacked by an especially 'slimy and rotten looking creature.' I figure it might be a Triloch demon. Rare in these parts."

"Oh yeah, definitely," Cordy drawled, no idea as to what demon Angel was talking about. "You sure it's not one of those Kwame demons?"

"Kwaini."

"Whatever."

He shook his head. "It's not. We stopped the drug operation so they wouldn't randomly attack passengers anymore while under the influence."

Photos were there, pictures of the train car itself, empty, abandoned. Passengers, scene of the crime, evidence. Angel planned to check it out as soon as possible, once Connor got back from getting information. In other words, he waited until Connor to come back to scold him for most likely smacking the informant's head in, then he'd give him an appreciative pat on the back.

She remembered going on the train before. The clink, clack of metal meeting metal, the jostling. The smoothness when it sailed breezily over the tracks. Darkness, lights flashing sporadically.

Sure, Cordy preferred the GTX any day, but now the thought of trains was alluring.

"When was the last time you've ridden a train?" she asked, random, expression quizzical.

"What?"

"A train. Last time in one?"

"James," Angel responded, thoughtful even, the memory of his old lovesick vampire friend surfacing. They had escaped from the vengeful monster on a train briefly, only to meet up with him within minutes again.

She paused. Considered that.

"I want you to make love to me on a real train," she told him flatly, raised eyebrow daring him to argue.

Her request made, and like the love addled vampire Angel was, how was he to disagree?

*

Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time the night is my companion, and solitude my guide would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?

*

At your back, a knight, his conquest awaiting him in the belly of the beast.

Paying for the train is the first step. Heels clack down the emptied staircase, the aroma of many different beings lingering. The soft touch of a man's cold grasp brushes past your arm, moving to touch the small of your back gingerly. He smiles at you, a flash of bright white in the dim lighting, and you go to the booth. The worker doesn't look up, doesn't read your mind.

He doesn't know that what you're planning isn't something by the book. But with that new grasp on your waist, you don't really care what the man in the booth thinks. You're too busy anticipating the fall.

After this exchange, your eyes lift to his taller height, and the eternal gentleman brings you close to his side. Angel, you notice, is not talkative while you both approach the train platform. He smiles at you once more, then escorts you towards the relative safety of the wall. You remember old things, mundane and different from this situation. The harsh sounds of train cars whizzing by, the glaring loudspeaker, the bustling crowds. Neo versus Agent Smith fighting in a dance of death and twirling camera angles as you drooled on Angel's shoulder.

He didn't mind then, and when he cups your cheek and plants a slow kiss on a hungry mouth, he doesn't mind it now.

Feel embarrassed, for mother always set the rules. Told you public places were for those with proper manners. How making a fool of yourself wouldn't attract a man.

The vampire, with two hundred years of pain, expertise, and love knows no boundaries, heck, he wouldn't care if you woke up with bed sheet marks on your face.

Muffled cries spill against his lips before he pulls back, and you let out a gasp for air. You are not protesting, not really, although the underside of your breasts feels light, numb almost from his touch. He looks pleased, damn well proud of himself that no one has seen your little escapade.

You're not done yet.

Moving in for another kiss, mouths crush against hungry lips, your knee rises and you feel your stiletto brush the wall behind you. It feels rough and corrugated, although right now you could be standing in a pile of garbage and not tell the difference. His hold on your waist tightens, your fingers dip into the gelled hair. Relax and take him in, notice the careful construct, imagine those minutes spent meticulously maintaining it.

He pulls away from you, and disheartened, you almost not bother to look at the direction he tilts his head towards. The tracks rumble, slowly, slowly, louder, louder, a harsh cacophony. You walk on air, the light gray dress-ending right above the knee- he purchased for you making you feel confident, sexy. He prefers red, no surprise there, but any shade of the rainbow looks 'extraordinary' on you. Don't complain about it, just smile, that flash of a grin that renders him dorky and speechless, as per usual.

Offering a hand, long tapered fingers, he helps you into the train car once the doors slide open. Flashes of cinnamon tainted evenings, flounces, honey lighting and melodic violins come to mind, as he makes you feel like a noblewoman during the age of his demonic monstrosity.

Take a step forward. Smile.

Study the benches, how the bright lights reflect off the glass, the silver poles. Bright and colorful, orange, yellow, silver. You car is not the first one, it is last, and it is three in the morning. However, the time nor location does not deter sleepy passengers, as there are three other ones.

He lingers momentarily, dark eyes looking to you for instruction. Take this opportunity to give him a quick squeeze of his ass, and from this his eyes lighten, roguish and endless vigor.

Vouching for another car sound like a good idea, but Angel, determined now, will have none of that. He chooses a bench near the door, fit for two, secluded as a Los Angeles public train could be. Pulling you onto his lap with a mischievous grin, and while tripping, his lap welcomes you as he breathes in the scent your hair. Almost, but not quite, purring greeted your ears, his proximity relaxing.

The second part begins.

Keeping his arm on the back edge of the seat, he lets you adjust yourself. Don't rush; tease him. Tantalizing flesh awaits his touch and he'll have none of it unless he listens to you. For the moment, everything grimy falls away. You aren't Cordelia Chase, associate, higher being, partial demon. You are part of him, with him. Comparing you and your love to a normal human couple is ludicrous at this point, because although it's been weeks since you left the higher realms, you're nearly there.

And it doesn't look like Angel will stop stroking your thigh anytime soon.

Before it happens, study the features of his face. Notice the strong jaw, the slight pouted lips pulled into a line. Angry, he looks, content, in the ministrations of his hands, falling as solid upon you as the love in his eyes.

Don't linger too long, because this moment will not last forever. Angel, being a souled vampire knows of the pitfalls and heartaches of romance. Years may go by, and he lingers, waiting, wishing for things. Nothing material, no money, cars, fame. He wishes for acceptance, redemption. Remember to smile, to let him know everything's all right, you belong to him.

You love him, no matter how he acts, dorky, evil, or looks. Because he's just Angel.

For now, everything is well. Before the horror starts up again, a battered Ford truck. Don't let him go down without a fight. Don't let him fall.

Leaning, those pliant lips give way to ecstasy, as ambitious you can be, that feeling of shyness stays. Lights flash sporadically, sent in through streaky windows, casting harsh shadows across the countenance of this vampire, who leans back after a series of slow kisses. Out of the corner of your eye you notice an older woman, staring at you both. She rolls her eyes, huffing, the sheer audacity for a young couple to carry out such public acts.

She was probably one of those 'free love' girls in the sixties. In total denial, she was.

*

And I would be the one To hold you down Kiss you so hard I'll take your breath away And after, I'd wipe away the tears Just close your eyes dear

*

The soft touch of fingertips on the nape of his neck, moving towards his ear, cheek, pushing softly moves him from his reverie. Smiling, he ducks in for another kiss, and you think he's disappeared. Flashing lights and darkening hues floor your vision, only momentarily, as the train pulls from the tunnel into a stop. No one gets on, the older woman leaves.

It starts up again, slow, the crescendo rising, and the train slides along like a knife on butter. Feel his hand on your thigh harder, pulling you to him. You ride him sidesaddle, two legs over his own, your arm wrapping around his neck. Feel the kisses he gives you, watch your fingers grip the edge of the window as you fall into him, connected by limbs, blood, and duty.

The train slides along, jostles for a couple seconds, smooth, bumpy, slick, rough.

Too far from the hotel. You'll get another ride. The hotel doesn't matter. Nothing else matters.

Stops pass, the sun rises slowly in its eternal race. He can smell it with the taste of longing. You've been on this ride for only ten minutes, but haven't a lifetime and a day passed on your arrival?

The people leave. Two, gone. Another couple, older.

It's all to yourself.

Quietly, the sound of the tracks drowning you out but Angel listens, attentive, not distracted at all.

Ask him, "Anybody going to come in?"

"Cordelia, you - asked to go on this train in the first place," Angel scolds, not in the least condescending. He is playful, hyper, and yearning for love.

"I don't care. That wasn't in the plan."

The stroking stops. "What plan?"

"Give me your coat," you instruct him. "Give it!"

"You're not gonna to cover the door window with my coat!"

"Then what else would do you want me do?"

An eye roll and he taps your leg, indicating for you to move. You do so, snappish, but you watch the fluidity of his movements as he goes to the door. Look for the grim line of his mouth to curve into a smirk; he jiggles the door handle a bit. A cracking sound, you can't see his reflection on the window, but you know he's probably frowning.

"There. No one can get in. Defacing public property wasn't on my list, but- "

Shut him up with the grip of your hand on his bicep, you followed him, your mouth kissing his own. Don't let him speak. Not yet. He is rough, his hand picking up your thigh. You wrap your legs around him and he staggers. Shooting out, a hand grasps the metal handle bar above for pedestrians. Acrobatic, arms straining, picking you up, continuing.

Fall to the bench, turn him so he falls with you. Watch him strain, pull you up, in front of him. A lost little puppy, begging for more. Please him, the teasing part is over and now it's down to business. The dress is gauzy and light, comfortable and sleek.

Moving up, he pauses, kissing your cheek, the flesh of your neck. Over, and over, then down, down, trailing a row of blazing fire down your stomach. Sitting down again, that dark gaze rises. Concentrating, piercing. Not angry. Not sad. Waiting. Wanting.

Fingertips skim over trembling flesh, the train jostles you to attention. Hands move underneath the fabric, pulling, and the soft touch of underwear are felt as they dragged down.

He's not getting away easy. Lean, push aside the foreboding trenchcoat. Unfasten his belt, unzip his pants, and then.

"Cordelia."

Saying your name, he can only admire the curve of your jaw, touch the gooseflesh of cool arms. So angelic, serene are his features.

Remember to breathe.

*

Through this world I've stumbled so many times betrayed trying to find an honest word to find the truth enslaved oh you speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes my body aches to breathe your breath your words keep me alive

*

Move down, onto him, and he enters. The pain of several lifetimes, months flows away. Forget about the bad times, Angelus. The hot pokers, the steel coffins don't exist. Buffy, Groo, they don't matter. Everything falls down and away, the grime of slain demons, the streaky soot of weary battles, the stinging tears of bitter reality.

It's been so hard these past months. Feel anger, resentment, bitterness towards Angel's situation of dreary life for only a moment. Only a second. Don't blame him for hiding his feelings, nor yourself. Time and time again obstacles have arisen, and it's been so hard to try to let go. Every single time it seems, Angel never has a lucky break. Soul leaves, torment in Hell, child gone. The sheer intensity of heartbreak and lost can cause a normal person to break and fall, but not Angel, only nearly.

Rumbling along, picking up people, the car in the back 'mysteriously empty' .

Falling into darkness seemed so easy for him, his sire the cause. The malice in his eyes when he told you to move, just to get that damn book. Angel was angry, lost then, and is not much different now. In the sense that he seems still lost at sea. Reformed again, lonely weeks and cramped confinement making him reserved. Detached. Concentrating. Determined that for this time, for a little, just a little longer than before, everything would be right and good again.

He chooses to love, knowing well enough it may turn out wrong again.

The pain of losing him again is unbearable. Finding out that he had been locked away for so long was heart wrenching, soul tiring. He found you again, and falling into his arms you wept, and both were happy. Both, tangled in limbs and tears, fell asleep on the soft, unused covers of his bed. No sex, nothing except for the chapstick smeared, pale and grinning face of his, and your fingers were sticky with gel and sweat before you curled your finger 'round his collar.

Savor the moment again, so far away, the vicarious kisses and fevered grasping, the pain of seeing each other again. Because you know the ride starts over, the ups and downs of dating, family, and this thing called 'living'.

Arch back as you snap fully to the present, feeling his ministrations and thrusts. Look down at him again, watch how the lights play sporadically across dark eyes. The world passes by in a blur, lights flashing, blurry faces and miles of wires, tubing, and stale air. So cold and dead in these tunnels, mirroring the yearning to be free from the locked box Angel had been in.

Feel his hands move up to your shoulders as the train still click clacks along the track, jostling you into him again. He thrusts in response, mouth partially open. Saying something you cannot understand, only mouthing it. Run your fingers through his hair again at this opportunity, then turn to his features. Splay your fingers across his temples, brush gentle fingertips down the side of his face, which would elicit a giggle on your behalf if you were on the receiving end of this 'onslaught', as Angel will refer to it later.

He bites his tongue, jaw rigid, turning away when you arch up away, but slightly this time. Wacky aerobatics are not needed. As passionate and bleeding for love that Angel is, he need only look, undress with his eyes, to be pleased. Wasn't it Xander who had said that looking at linoleum made him think about sex? This is the case, without inanimate objects, with only you, Cordelia, to whom Angel shortens it to 'Cor'.

Other names are used, but the sailor talk will be left out of this endeavor.

Trail a line of soft kisses up the curve of his neck. Taunt him, let him know that now, you will make the first moves. Wrap fingers tightly on the cool metal bar of the train-remember where you are, for it would be embarrassing if perhaps you forgot-just so you don't fall.

Don't fall that way. Let Angel do it first.

He is used to it, and yet, curious. Two hundred and forty odd years of the eternal roguishness have not gone away. The same laidback wastrel from Ireland, twenty seven in appearance, two hundred forty nine in age, thousand years of passion, is used to being in control. Relishes it. For it is all he owns, the clothes, car, hotel be damned.

His face, turned away, and the light plays on your eyes again, the train hits a mild bump, moving onto him further. Release a laugh of pleasure, hips touching his shoulders, dark shadows shift, and more appear.

Pay close attention, for this is important. Notice the curvature and strong jaw, raise your eyes- at least from his waist for a second- to view the contorted features. Angel averts his face, the dark eyes wild. Soft mouth pulls back revealing fangs, and just take this in. He- no matter how many times you reassure that you love him despite the other face, the true one- will not fully back down.

Prove him wrong.

The control factor has been used. Angel may be able to rein in his baser instincts, but the human equivalent of arousal is different, just for this moment.

Fingertips, after he pushes them away, move to his cheek. Touch the tip of his nose gently, hand moves, and forefinger and thumb grasp that strong chin. Fingers walk along the curve of his cheek, one, two, three steps, pause and touch his brow. Buck up again, in, hands move further to wrap an arm around his neck, and he around the waist, to pull towards him.

The train rumbles, moves up, down slightly, sending a chill of ecstasy, blazing yellow eyes bright and dark, bright and dark, the lights flashing. They steady, full on, accentuating the paleness of his skin. Rhythm increases, blood screaming, pleasure mounting, and Angel grunts again, mouth parting. He turns his head away again, guide him back, deeper, reaching a place undiscovered.

Lights flash before your eyes- it is not the subway this time. An ethereal spectrum, vivid and burning, crashes into view. Angel bucks up those strong hips, just reaching - there! There it is again. That place of starbursts, brilliant beauty. He thrusts again and again, unrelenting. Don't stop him, for this is the moment, while you might scream and follow with an array of exclamation points, but this - THIS-

"Don't."

"What?" He asks, forehead rigid, fangs gleaming, and love him truthfully, for he is worth it, no matter how many reasons people, events, logic throws at you. A hundred years will pass, and he will always, always be there.

He is concerned. The face of an angel, hidden, gone, the true face emerged, and he loves you, Cordelia, back.

Angel, so caring, so ruthless, all in one.

His eyes are there, but gone, the blazing gold, and while they are those of an animal, you can see the thoughts click and run in his mind. After losing so many times, everything, he had said, was temporary. Even this, he wonders, batting down the hatches to be prepared to lose again. It is no big deal. Centuries of reckless living has left him with no material possessions, faces around him growing old and dying. Everything he wants, owns, fades eventually, yanked from his grasp.

The face of Connor, jaded, solemn now, older. Was he the same infant she knew months before, now a strapping young man, who rolled his eyes, smiled infrequently, heck, had the same statuesque stance of his father? Had it been so long? So short?

He is waiting, you know, for his father to come home.

You waited and longed for his father for an eternity.

The swoosh of wind whipping, the fluidity of the train brings back his clipped description of the months in the ocean, the water, so dark and.

Suffocating.

"Don't - stop."

Filled with a ferocity that was unimaginable before, he bucks forward, sweeps an arm down, picking you up. Quick, wrap your arms around Angel's neck, ignore the crying of back muscles when you slam into the wall. The colorful signs directing you on your course don't apply here, although your eyes may glance to them. He is rough, not violent, nearing, his yellow eyes wild. His thrusts grow more frequent, deeper, and all of it- feels glorious.

Angel's actions are slow, but carefully tuned, two hundred and forty nine years of practice shedding light on parts unspoken, slow strokes deeper, trying so hard to make up for all the wrongdoings.

He cannot have pleasure, but that doesn't mean he won't see that his girlfriend get the full share of what he has to offer.

Back rubs up and down against the wall, head cants, mouth parts. He goes at it, again, and again, fervor mounting.

Angel feels different now, brooding persona at a standstill, the edge of recklessness and sarcasm emerging. Not fully, for that is a terrible thing.

Sound emerges, shouting in pleasure. Release a sigh of terrible ecstasy.

Bodies strain together as lips meet in a frenzy of kisses. Drawing closer, press against the cold chest, hands cup buttocks, and be careful-biting your lip may cause him to go wild even more. Angel's rein on the beast wears thin, too thin, and that is never good.

His head rolls back and he groans, feeling the beginning of spasms that would-dear, let this not be the second child-

"Angel!" The burst of sound comes through. There. Breathe, a bit, and the wave comes-

The wave, ocean walls slamming down, crashing, the coffin smoothly sinking into darkness-

"Ohh!"

The dam is broken, the blissful feeling of release, mouths part to let indiscernible words, stars go white, fireworks painted on lids exploding.

Passion has stirred from a deep slumber, howling, and then clinging follows, savoring the moment of rapture. So soft, the rushing of the train, feel him take in an unnecessary breath. Everything falls to Earth again, and he pulls away, lifting you to fall gently on the seat. The flesh of his throat seems to tingle, brimming with vigor, from kisses left as afterthoughts.

Lean, and he responds but with that casual smirk, his pointer finger raises up in front, the thin little scrap of material hanging. Snatch the underwear, smack his arm, and he laughs, showing that rare flash of a smile. Tell him to smile more often, only inwardly, and as if reading your mind, he growls in protest. Let him zip those pants again, fix himself, and do the same.

There are moments like these that are unforgettable. Take pleasure in this, for Connor may have bad news for Angel, or Gunn, or Fred, and there will be fighting. There will be death, pain, and anguish, but you must be prepared. You will fight it when it comes. You are Cordelia Chase, unwilling to back down.

Not even from the touch of Angel's hand on a breast, and he is leaning quite crookedly on the seat. Don't talk, just tap him lightly, move him to rest his head on your shoulder. The smooth material of the dress he bought now is a bit rumpled. Those dark eyes-feral golden hidden for the time being-close, angelic, demonic all in one.

"Angel."

The name isn't being shouted in pleasure, but is said with the same love as before.

"Yeah?" he asks, eyes at half-mast now, almost sleepy. Content, twirl a strand of spiky brown hair, cross your legs, skirt barely covering. Mess with his hair, once, twice, before speaking again.

Relish it.

"Nothing."

*

Into this night I wander it's morning that I dread another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread oh into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied

*

By no means in the least does that mean returning to the hotel. He says nothing, then after a moment leans his head back, kisses your cheek, before turning to face the ceiling. Feel him lean forward, watch those eyes go wide and remember, do not become angry when he throws you down, pushing you off the seat.

Angel is throttling one of the train demons that crashed through a window, twisting his body to the side to let a kick fly by. Face feral, roaring, fists shoot out and connect with the rotten maw of the Triloch demon,. The monster in turn backhands Angel, and he staggers to slam into the sliding doors, which thankfully do not open. Stunned almost, blood flows from the cut on his forehead. Watch him shake his head to clear vampire vision, he bares his fangs in anger, then attacks once more.

The creature screams, cackling almost, an old woman in putrid flesh.

Don't stay on the floor, get up, move back. Body screams in yearning to help, but if you do, you might get pummeled. Those long hours of training float into a scared consciousness, the fluidity and innuendo coming to a shattering peak when Angel's fist goes through the window glass, lights flutter, the demon, rotten, slimy, and tentacle-y, laughing.

Avoid the cliché of screaming, "Go away!", "Help!" "Stop it!" What are the true reasons for these phrases? Do people realize that more often than not, no one will listen? No one will choose to care?

Angel cares.

Do what you have to do.

"Eat this, psycho bitch."

Heels, while not appropriate for traipsing around the subway, are ideal for stabbing demons. It breaks the skin, sending a howl through the demon, Stand back, avoid the counter blow, the shoulder is red and bloody. While the Triloch moves to look at the wound, Angel rears up again, and in one swift stroke he turns, body slamming the creature.

They fall, fists of rage tearing down, severing the spinal cord of the demon.

"Cordy?"

The first thing he says. Bleeding, head and fist, and he says that name. Let him move over, with that mildly shocked look of his. Let him envelope you into his cold embrace, then sigh contentedly. Touch the skin of his forehead, blood flows, ignore the mumbling and aversion to your hand.

Tell him, "I'm fine. You're the one I'm worried about."

The vampire gives that half smirk of his, in return lean forward and engulf his hungry mouth with trembling lips. Those wounds open again, steel, metal, light, yelling, blood, they mix and form a plethora of memories, shifting and fragmented, from the dark graveyards of Sunnydale to the slick, wet overpasses of Los Angeles. The pain will never stop, for it always lingers, months separated, the childhood missed, fired, wounded, all of it remains.

For now though, the burst of bruises and fighting fades.

Five minutes later, the train slows, doors open. Step out into the fluorescent light of the subway, Angel hangs back, foreboding, human face and Triloch demon body slung over one shoulder. Feel the comforting kiss on your brow, and like a husband off to work, Angel leaps effortlessly down onto the track, close to the platform, finishing the task at hand.

Wait for him. Always.

*

"Dad?"

Connor rose from his place at the desk, placing the leather bound book down. Yawning, the young man moved to the office counter, eyes half open. He could clearly see his father, Angel, come down the short staircase from the front door, Cordelia at his side. Both were in disarray, Cordelia's dress crooked and creased, Angel's hair no longer the immaculate gelled construct of hours before.

Connor could smell blood, vampire blood he knew, from Angel, who idly touched a gash on his forehead. The pain of locking his father away was still fresh, and he was deeply sorry for it. Yet another weight fell on his conscience, being spirited away from his father so long ago, lied to, raised in a place no child deserved to grow up in.

"Connor," Angel started, a light-hearted tone as he raked fingers through tousled hair. He glanced left and right, before sitting on the sofa across from the office. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."

Cordelia gestured to her wrist, indicating the time although she had no watch present. "Or waking up. It's like."

She yawned, and Angel appreciated the curve of her mouth. ".Four, five in the morning."

"I was worried," Connor blurted, then stood ramrod straight, arms crossed. The same, caught in the act stance of his father. "That. That you wouldn't be around to teach me weapons training."

"Do I detect some - gasp, teenager worried about his parent syndrome? That fleeting moment every couple of years?" Cordelia drawled, sarcastic, giving Connor a wry smile.

He scoffed, shaking his head nonchalantly. "No."

"Why don't you head on upstairs and try to get some sleep?" Angel asked, nodding his head in the direction of the staircase. He stretched exaggeratedly, wincing. "Looks like I could use a bit of shut eye myself."

"All right."

Shrugging, Connor moved to the staircase. Never admitting that he worried about Angel, no, because - he couldn't. He just couldn't. After all that. all that he'd done. Angel had done. Connor had done. Saving the pain for another night, he walked up the staircase to his room.

Silence followed, as Cordelia went into the office, coming back a minute later with the first aid kit.

"Take off your jacket. And don't flinch."

"Cordy-"

"I mean it," she said firmly, and he complied. Touching his face tenderly, Angel winced at her ministrations, but he made small talk, jokes, hoping for that frequent, pure smile of hers.

Cordelia knew that soon, there would be another obstruction in Angel's path. She knew there was the possibility of losing him, by trap, soul, or conscience. There would never be peace in his long, dark life, not for a moment. The semblance of bliss, of happiness had arrived that night, that early morning, and already booked a ticket for the land of redemption. Heaven seemed too far away now, the realm of the Powers That Be faded from mind, and Los Angeles came into place.

His and her city.

She mended his wounds, the physical ones. He made her smile.

And until the last battle was fought, she would wait for him.

Because he loved her.

End.

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