Slow Road To Nowhere by Babs
Summary: An AU look into what might have been for Cordelia. If you want to try, you can squeeze it into canon starting right after Birthday but it kind of veers off from there.
Spoilers: Birthday, Season Three.
Notes: Special thanks go out to Soleil, the bestest beta ever who read despite the fact that C/A references make her cringe. Big hug to you.
She'd made the
decision without really thinking about it. It had come to her as easy as
breathing and there had been no need to think. Sure, she'd hesitated for a
second or two but that was more like a hiccup, her mental diaphragm's way of
adjusting itself to the new pattern of things. In that moment, as she faced an
Angel so far from the man that she knows, the decision made itself. Consequences
be damned.
She loves Angel. She figured it out when she was thinking about how easy it had
been for her to decide to become, even just a little bit, of something she has
always hated; the disdain for most demons has always lingered in the back of her
mind. The realization came to her as she sat in the courtyard, watching the
sunset and the sky go from blue to orange to pink to purple. Angel was in the
lobby telling Connor some inane story and she remembers thinking, <God, I
love him.> The thought ran through her mind like an echo and when she finally
processed it she dropped her coffee mug, wintessed the hot brown liquid splatter
through the air, the mug shatter, and the ceramic shards scatter across the
ground. It was almost as if she were casting lots. Then she threw up her Krispy
Kreme donut next to the shrub that Fred used to talk to. There is no moment to
pinpoint when exactly she fell in love with him, she just has the moment when
she realized that she loved him. If she could take back that moment, she would.
As they say, ignorance is bliss.
Her grandmother used to tell her how, if you put a frog in a pot of boiling
water, it'll just jump out. The heat is too much for it to handle and it gets as
far away from it as fast as it can. Interesting thing though, if you put a frog
in room temperature water and light a fire beneath the pot, the frog will
assimilate itself to the rising temperature and let itself be boiled to death.
She figures that's what happened to her-- except in her case the frog's her
heart. It's slowly getting burned, but she refuses to get out of the water. Not
now. She likes the temperature; likes how the warm water seeps between her toes
and fills the crevices in her skin.
There is no way she could (or would) have just jumped into the boiling pot.
Angel has changed in the years that she's known him, but he's still strictly a
no-bone and there is always Buffy to think about. Doesn't matter. She doesn't
plan on taking any action. Cordelia Chase can't risk getting burned any faster
than she already is. But still she'd like, for just a little bit, to enjoy the
ride.
The guys and Fred accepted her transformation much more readily than she'd
imagined. As she'd told her the story, fairy tale as she likes to think of it,
that day she'd waited for the tirade, waited for someone, anyone, to question
her judgment. But they hadn't. Nobody said a word. Instead they'd settled into
it like she'd just told them that she was dying her hair or buying a car. When
she thinks about it, she knows that they accepted her choice because they love
her. She thinks they know that if she hadn't agreed to the change, she would be
dead, No one wants that. Angel has enough guilt to deal with, so they take the
lesser of two evils. None of them were too worried anyway. She'd transformed for
the cause; the Powers wouldn't damn her. Right?
She's become a master of hiding things, emotions and demons (sometimes they are
one in the same.) It's best that the visions don't wrack her brain anymore, best
that she doesn't collapse to the floor and convulse in agony. She sure as hell
doesn't miss that, no siree, but she misses the way he used to hold her in the
aftermath. Nobody holds her anymore. Still, it's best that way. She lives every
day in fear that the people she loves will find out what she is becoming, or
maybe what she already is.
It's a dance of some sort, more like a tragic ballet. Maybe Romeo and Juliet.
Her parents used to drag her to the ballet as a child and it was never where she
wanted to be. Her friends were all at the park or the pool, and she was afraid
they'd forget her if she wasn't there. Please don't forget. Dancers would twirl
on stage and the drama would unfold, but instead of wanting to learn to dance
like most little girls do, she'd hope to heaven that she could be anywhere but
there. The ballet still makes her stomach churn, but it taught her a valuable
lesson. She watched tragedy after tragedy play out before her eyes as the
dancers told their stories. She'd sit in her seat and expect a happy ending but
it usually didn't come. Life never hands you what you expect, and there are no
happy endings. Not for her. Never for Cordelia Chase.
Her father grew up poor, not dirt poor but pretty close. On the occasions when
he'd had too much to drink, he used to tell her stories. He'd pat the chair next
to him and say, "Sit on down CC. Let me tell you a story." She would
of course. Sometimes she'd roll her eyes and heave her shoulders but she'd
always sit down next to him and listen, wishing that her father wanted to talk
to her more than just when he was drunk. But you take what you get, she
supposed. Her favorite story was when he told her about the long, lazy summer
drives to nowhere. They couldn't afford much in the way of entertainment so, in
her own words, they had to make their own fun. Days when it was hot, the kind of
hot when the air stands still and when you breathe the air sticks inside your
chest, his parents would gather him and his sister into the car and they'd just
drive. Windows rolled down in the old beat up car, they'd pick a direction and
just drive while Elvis sang on the radio. Sometimes, his parents would pull
together twenty cents and they'd stop at a roadside stand and pick up two
bottles of Coke to pass between them. Those were the best times, her dad would
always say, when the wind flew across his face, the soda passed between them and
the vinyl seats stuck to his legs. His heart always sank some when his father
turned the car around and they headed back home. She thinks maybe that is what
her life has come to, a slow trip to nowhere. Except for her, there's no turning
back.
Gunn and Fred have fallen in love, or at least they're on their way. They walk
around the hotel holding hands and just watching each other. It's a saccharine
kind of thing, but it's what is to be expected. Both of them are new at this
kind of thing. Angel is glad; glad that they are happy and glad that he doesn't
have to be as careful with Fred's heart. Cordy hasn't really noticed them,
doesn't know that they have found some happiness with each other. She hasn't
been paying attention to a lot of things. Wesley has pulled away from all of
them, has drawn himself tightly in. Angel, Fred and Gunn have all seen it, are
all powerless to do anything about it. Except for Cordelia. She could have made
a difference. Out of all of them, Cordelia is the one who might be able to make
a difference. But she's too caught up in what's happening to her to notice
anything else. To this, she must confess.
While making dinner one night, she'd cut herself. She hadn't been paying
attention and mistook her finger for one of the vegetable she was chopping. It
wasn't a bad cut, didn't need stitches, just a little antiseptic and a bandage.
In reflex, she brought the cut to her mouth and suckled. Nothing new, just what
she always did to try to stop the trickle of blood flowing from the wound. This
time her nose didn't curl at the metallic taste of the blood in her mouth.
Instead of pulling her finger out of her mouth to rinse it under the running
water, she let it linger and sucked just a little harder. The tiny bit of blood
was sweet as it sat on her taste buds. When she realized what she was doing, she
yanked her hand away in horror. Now, she thought she might know what is inside
her.
She tells no one, crosses her fingers that what happened that night had been a
fluke, but is still somewhat shocked that she still has a reflection in the
mirror. Angel hasn't noticed. She is surprised that he hasn't sensed it because
she lived under the assumption that vampires notice these things. Then again,
Angel has to shut of his radar around her and Fred for five to seven days a
month (an eeww factor when she thinks about it.) Maybe he's turned off his
senses completely. He certainly doesn't notice the way her pulse speeds up
whenever she's around him. All the more reason to avoid him, dart down the
hallway as he comes up the stairs and duck into the bathroom as Angel passes by.
The cravings start to come. She dreams one night of a fountain filled with
thick, red liquid that's sweet when she tastes it and dances on her tongue. When
she wakes up, she finds a razor and draws a small line on the inside of her
elbow. Watching the blood seep from the cut is intoxicating; when she puts her
lips to her arm, it is heaven. This happens once a week and soon she wears only
long sleeved shirts to the office. Once a week, and she hope that will be
enough.
She misses her conversations with Angel. They used to talk about nothing at all
for hours and she always found that comforting. Now they hardly speak at all.
She can't risk it, can't risk him finding out. She's not sure what would happen
if he knew. He misses her too. She can tell from the way her looks at her with
confusion, but knows that he'll never truly approach her about it. Angel's not
really a talkie, not unless you talk first. This is what she has counted on.
When they do talk, it's always variations of the same conversation. Variations
on the same theme.
This time, when he finds her, she's sitting on the back steps trying to find a
star in the sky. It's hopeless, she knows, but sometimes she likes to take a
shot at lost causes. Angel stands in the doorway and clears his throat,
"What are you thinking about?"
"Oh nothing," she answers without turning to face him. "Just
thinking."
"Okay." He says it like he always does, like he's disappointed that
she didn't respond to his attempt at reaching out. Then he turns and walks away.
Her own blood stopped being enough three weeks ago and she's started pilfering
blood from Angel's supply. At the end of the day, she may grab a container from
the refrigerator and shove it into her handbag. It doesn't taste the same as the
blood from her body, but she's pretty sure her body can't taken being cut twice
a week. And that's what it takes now to satiate the hunger. So she settles for
the bitter aftertaste of pig's blood, even after it's been heated, and wonders
how Angel can live like this.
She gave blood one day and noticed how the nurses who oversee the sight leave
the cooler of blood unguarded. Three months later, she returns and manages to a
steal a bag from their supply. The nurses were busy tending their charges and
hadn't thought anything of leaving the cooler untended. Nobody would steal blood
after all. The bag of blood sits in the back of her refrigerator buried behind a
loaf of bread, some oranges and a bottle of wine. She can't drink it yet, but
leaves it there as a kind of safety net or security blanket.
When she wakes one night in a cold sweat, she half crawls to the kitchen.
Shoving her hand to the back of the fridge, she pulls out the blood and sets it
on the counter. For awhile she just stares at it, hopes that looking will be
enough to make the cravings stop. Her jaw is clenched, her hands shaking as she
pours the liquid into a mug and waits for it to heat up, but as the warm fluid
trickles down her throat, she feels her muscles sigh.
She's surprised that she doesn't turn to dust when she walks in the sunlight.
Maybe because she waits for the day when she can't, she's begun to take long
strolls in the city, to nowhere in particular, in the harsh light of day. The
sun feels lovely on her skin and the people are so much fun to watch. She sees a
homeless man huddled in an alley and thinks about how easy it would be to slit
his throat and how much blood runs through his veins. Nobody would miss him
either, nobody at all. When she gets home, she heads straight to the shower and
spends an hour under the scorching water trying to wash herself clean.
A Bible lays on her night stand. She likes to read from it before she goes to
sleep, hopes that reading from it might chase her demon away, if only for one
night. She likes Daniel and Revelations and their talk of horned beasts because
she can relate to all of that. She has a fondness for the books of poetry too
because she finds them soothing. She's not sure if she believes in God, but she
takes comfort in reading from a book that some consider holy. There's a verse in
Psalms, the twenty-third verse of the fifty-fifth chapter. It says, "But
you, O God, will bring down the wicked into a pit of corruption; bloodthirsty
and deceitful men will not live out half their days." She wonders if it
applies to her.
She wonders if a time will come when the demon will consume even her soul and
she'll become a shell of the person she once was. She's not sure that she even
cares.
End.
Contact Babs
http://www.geocities.com/hypspeaking/