visiongirl | Didn't Want To Be Anyone's Ghost | For chuisle

He should've smelled her, but he didn't — he couldn't while he was like this, so hearing her voice speak his name from behind is like a slap to the face. Angel's no stranger to hallucinations of her in particular, but he hasn't experienced anything of the sort in months, not since he came out of recovery and hit the streets after being out of commission for Powers know how long after he foolishly leapt from a skyscraper while human. (In his defense, he didn't know he was human until he was already mid-air.)

Angel doesn't turn around, he doesn't even stop walking. It's easier to tell himself that he's hearing things than it is to consider the very real possibility that she's standing behind him.

It hurts, a little, when he doesn't even stop at the sound of her voice. It doesn't occur to her just yet that he thinks she isn't really here. So she calls out to him again as she jogs after him. If he wasn't going to stop than she would just have to catch up. Cordelia, if nothing else, has always been persistent. Of course, she's also rather unaware that she's dealing with a human version of him who probably can't sense her presence as well as he used to be able to.

"Hey dumbass, I'm trying to talk to you!"

This time, Angel does stop, if only to turn around and reassure himself that it's his most recent use of powerful magicks taking it's toll on him. When he finds her standing right behind him, looking solid and real and so very her, it's a little too much. More than he was expecting his, at times, unusually vivid imagination to provide him with.

He looks down at his hands; they're trembling. Not because of her, but seeing a vision of her isn't helping him keep them steady. It's the strain of the spell he performed in order to bind Dawn to Buffy, the same strain that had him sleeping in late and feeling generally sluggish for weeks now. He's wore out — beyond tired, impossibly exhausted. He's sore and spent, yet in spite of having the opportunity to relax and regroup, he isn't.

Because that's what he does. He's too bullheaded to stop, too selfless to put himself first, even when he ought to. (Especially when he ought to.)

Angel balls his hands into tight fists in attempt to steady them, redirecting his gaze to the ground.

"You're trying, but you can't. You're not here. You're not real."

She was never real. Months' worth of hallucinations and none of them were ever real.

Over the years Cordelia's gotten good at watching Angel, at reading him. She notices the way his hands ball up, the way they were seeming to shake. Something was off but she wasn't sure exactly what it was.

She steps closer now, not even hesitating before she places a hand on his arm in an attempt to comfort him, to reassure him that she's real. Assuming she can. She has a feeling it's not going to be easy to convince him she is. Which she can't really blame him for -- all things considered.

"Angel, I don't have any idea why I'm here or how that's possible, but what I can tell you it is really me. I'm here."

In a roundabout, depressing sort of way, there's a lot more Angel can get away with around others now that Cordelia's gone. The only one who comes remotely close to knowing his ticks well enough is Spike, and the bleached blonde either doesn't care enough to stop him or say anything, or is on board with whatever he's planning to do. Spike had been the hardest to trick when he was pulling a fast one on the Circle, doing his damnedest to make them and his friends believe that he was going bad again, but he'd pulled it off because he knew Spike as well as Spike knew him.

The truth was, if Cordelia had still been around, he would've had a harder time pulling all of that off. She likely would've seen right through his rouse, called him on his shit, and stood up to him when not even Spike dared to do so. It makes him sick to his stomach to realize that it had only worked because she had been gone. Nevermind that she was the one who pointed him in that direction in the first place.

Her hand is warm on his arm and the reality of what the hotel is capable of doing in regards to people who are supposed to be gone hits him like a ton of bricks. It's too much and he lurches back, shaking his head.

"No. I can't do this. You..." Died.

"I know." She doesn't say the word out loud either but she knows what he was going to say. She died. Kicked the big one. Is no longer with them. Etc, etc. She gets it. She's not supposed to be here. But whether she's supposed to or not, she is.

And she knows it has to be difficult for him to believe (and undoubtedly painful to do so) but she needs him to. Still, when he lurches back she doesn't push closer this time. She gives him his space, for now.

"I know I'm not supposed to be here, Angel. Believe me, it's as much of a shock to me as it is to you."

"I didn't fight it," he tells her. "I fought other deaths, but I didn't fight yours. I had exhausted the resources of Wolfram & Hart's medical and mystical divisions and not a single thing they did had the power to wake you up. And then you woke up on your own and wrapped up all your loose ends... Like you knew. You did, didn't you? You knew." It's not a question. Not really. He knows that she knew. "I respected that, that you had accepted it, that it was your time. But respecting it and liking it are two different things. I didn't like it. I still don't like it. And I don't appreciate this place making me hate it even more."

Angel's been through so much since she passed away. His world's been turned literally upside down since the fall, and there's a lot of traumatic experiences, anger, and heartbreak he's been keeping a tight lid on. There are very few things in this world (or worlds, given the setting) that can break through his tough exterior when he's got it locked into place. He's the world best actor, but he just happens to be looking at the one person capable of making him forget his lines — one of the few people who can break through his defenses without even trying.

Other deaths. Her stomach churns a little at that. She wonders, briefly, which of their other friends died. How much has happened to him since she died? While she just exited his office before ending up here -- it's clear the same can't be said about him. Something's messing with the time. She's not sure what to do with that.

"I did know." It wasn't a question, she realizes, but she's answering anyway. She knew as soon as she woke up (not that she really woke up) that her time was limited. She had one last chance to get him on track, and that was it.

"Angel, what is this place?" Maybe it's not fair to ask questions of him right now, when he's clearly upset but she's still rather confused about...how she could be here at all. Whatever brought her here had to have messed with the Powers intentions. That isn't comforting.

Other deaths. Unfortunately. He fought tooth and nail in attempt to bring Fred back, but to no avail. In truth, part of his blind determination to restore Fred to her body had been fueled by his inability to save Cordelia. Jasmine had crawled inside and used her up, and he wasn't about to let the same happen to Fred. But it did. Illyria's grown on him, but that doesn't mean that what happened to Fred was right, or that it ought to have happened at all.

He's done a remarkable job of staying positive in the face of adversity — even going out of his way to do so for Buffy and the causes of hers that he's learned of (like Dawn fading away), even though he doesn't have to. It's less about it being Buffy and more about who he is. That's what he does; he helps. He'll put his own stress and burdens aside to do something for someone else, because that's the kind of person he is.

It just took everything gong to hell for him to see that his path was his original one, the first one Los Angeles bestowed him with when he rolled into town after leaving Sunnydale.

"A nexus," he says, finally. "It's a sort of middle grounds for various worlds, dimensions, and times. Like an interdimensional bus station."

"And it's all located...within this hotel? This really nice looking hotel, mind you, but still."

It's a lot to take in -- but after everything Cordelia has gone through -- well she's experienced worse fates, at least. That's what she keeps telling herself. Sometimes it even works.

"I guess that might explain how I ended up here, anyway. If nothing else."

Angel nods stiffly as he finally allows himself to get a good look at her. He'd seen visions of her before — visions that weren't really visions so much as they were wishful hallucinations created by his subconscious to distract and comfort him during times in which he was overcome with blinding, mind-numbing pain that no human, seeing as that was what he was now, was meant to endure.

But he endured it with visions of her in his head, babbling incoherently to an otherwise empty room occupied by himself and the dragon that had claimed him and taken up guardianship of him. The dragon who thought Angel was talking to him, who now believed his name was Cordelia.

He missed the dragon, but he missed her more. Especially in hell where he knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that the Powers That Be had no reach. Even if they wanted to help him, they couldn't. The white hats had no place where pure darkness dwelled, in a realm without light or good. It was beyond their jurisdiction, a place they couldn't reach into if they tried.

Angel wonders if they ever did, but his thoughts are more focused on the woman before him, looking exactly as she did when she disappeared from his office.

"Some off ramp. I think it's defective. Or maybe I'm defective." He shrugs a shoulder. "Possibly both."

"The off ramp is defective, not you." Sure, Angel's not perfect, even she knows that, but she would hardly call him defective. Not by a long shot. And selfishly -- defective off ramp or not -- she's glad to be here if it means getting to spend more time with him. Saying goodbye to him in that office had been one of the hardest things she's ever done.

She knew it had to be done but that didn't make it any easier.

"Somehow, I doubt the PTB intended for either one of us to end up here." Because Angel is their champion -- how can he fulfill that role if he's stuck here?

No, he's defective. Very thoroughly defective and very much alive under all those layers of primordial glamour. Defective because he's not a vampire anymore when he ought to be — when he needs to be. Which is exactly why Wolfram & Hart took it away from him.

When she mentions the PTBs, he laughs. He doesn't meant to, but it irrupts from him almost involuntarily, because the PTBs have never been more out of reach. Angel doubts they had a hand in any of this, if only by virtue of how utterly impossible it was for them to touch him where he'd been last.

The bitter laughter doesn't last long, and Angel's soon got himself under control and clearing his throat in attempt to dispel any awkwardness.

"I don't think they have any jurisdiction here."

She doesn't know about the human part just yet. That'll be a thing to discuss if/when she figures it out but for now? She's pretty sure he isn't defective -- or she hopes he isn't anyway. One or the other. Maybe a little of both.

The laugh -- the sharpness of the sound, he bitterness lacing through it, unnerves her but luckily it doesn't last very long. Just long enough to put her a little on edge. What exactly has he had to deal with since she left anyway?

"No, I would suppose they wouldn't. This doesn't really feel like their sorta gig, you know?"

He told Faith, because he needed to tell someone and in spite of what people may think, Angel trusts her with his life. She's loyal to default and he knows that she would never give his secret away. She'd take it to the grave if she had to, and Angel's counting on that. He would rather still be perceived as a vampire here, especially with the potential for people he's pissed off in his past to come waltzing through one of the doors. It's best if they don't arrive thinking they have a one up on the vampire that was.

As for Buffy... Well, she found out by mistake. Angel's made it clear to Faith that if not for the fact that he was quite honestly convinced this was just Wolfram & Hart fucking with his head — with good reason to — he wouldn't have told her at all. Buffy knowing that he's human is going to create problems down the line and he knows it, but that time has (thankfully) yet to come.

In all likelihood, he'll come clean to Cordelia. If only because she's the one person in this world who'd be able to see through not only his glamour, but also his bullshit. He's an amazing liar, a master manipulator, and he can't lie to her to save his life. She can always tell when he's lying, always pick up on when he's hiding something.

God, she's real, isn't she?

The realization hits him and suddenly his throat feels tight, like there are words that need to be said, but his mouth refuses to give them release.

Hesitantly, he takes a step forward.

"You're here."

Then another.

"I'm not losing my mind."

And another.

Cordelia doesn't like Faith and in all honesty probably doesn't trust her much -- but she'd never question that Angel does. She gets the connection between them, or she thinks she does. She had been extremely skeptical when Angel was first taking Faith in -- even going as far as to sign herself up for paid vacation time until Faith was gone -- and even a little angry considering how Faith had knocked her out and tortured Wesley. It's hard to let go of those sort of grudges. But she seems to be getting better, last Cordelia heard anyway. So he must be doing something right.

Either way, she hasn't quite picked up there was anything off with him just yet. Give her a little more time and she'll probably figure it out, once the shock of the whole scenario wears off a little.

When he steps closer to her she does the same -- and any holding back is off the table now as she wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"I'm really here," She murmurs softly. "I promise."

Seeing her is one thing. Touching her is another. It undoes him, makes him believe, pulls the rug out from under him so he falls firmly into the pits of reality.

She's here.

She's real.

He's not hallucinating.

All it takes is a moment for him to respond in kind, his arms coming up to wrap around her tightly, holding her close as if he's afraid she'll vanish if he lets go.

His delusions have never been this real. Every time he'd go to touch her, he'd meet an intense feeling of nothingness that would startle him awake and remind him of the immense pain he was trying desperately to distract himself from. His subconscious mind couldn't recreate the feel of her, just the image and sound. And even then, the things she said were too on point with what he wanted, and what he wanted was hardly ever in line with what he needed.

But he needs this. How long as it been since Angel's let someone get this close to him? Buffy stitching up his side from where that demonic T-Rex (or the She-Skip, both had lunged at him and he was too busy trying not to die to notice which one actually managed to touch him) had slashed through him doesn't count. That was medical, this is... This is physical, intimate. Something he hasn't allowed anyone to do since before she died.

Fred tried to comfort him in the aftermath. Angel wouldn't let her touch him. Now that Fred's gone, he wishes he had.

He doesn't know how he's going to go about telling Cordelia what happened to Fred, but he knows better than to overload her with all that information at once. For now, he's content to just hold her and bask in the knowledge that for the first time in over a year, this is real and he's not risking his sanity by indulging in a fantasy.

All in all, she's not in any hurry to let go just yet. It feels better to hold on, to convince herself this is real. That in spite of all the odds, in spite of how things were supposed to go she's somehow here. With him. It's no small thing. No small win.

She of course has no idea of how many times he's imagined this, only for things to crumble when he tried to actually touch her. But she's glad they can have this moment -- selfishly she's really glad to be here with him.

There are nagging thoughts. Something feels off and she can't place quite what. And there was the comment he made earlier that makes her stomach twist when she thinks of what might have happened to all of their friends. But for now she's just staying where she is, holding on a little tighter.

Something likely feels off, because while in close proximity to him — very close proximity — the glamour's affects are at their weakest. He's warm and breathing and his heart is beating, and it's not the shanshu or anything he wants for himself. Achieving human status has been the ultimate goal for so long and now that he has it, all he wants is to be a vampire again.

He draws back after a moment, if only far enough to see her face, to touch his forehead to hers.

"You don't know how many times..." His hands come to rest on her shoulders, fingers worrying at the fabric of her collar. "It was always an illusion. Never... Never this. People like us don't get to have things like this."

It's the warmth that startles her. His forehead leans against her and it's warm. Angel's never warm. Not his fault, it goes with the whole vampire thing. She's about to ask about it when she hears his words. And she gives him a sort of sad smile as she repeats something she said to him not that long ago for her.

"There are no people like us."

There are no other people with their strange circumstances and lives. Speaking of strange -- she gets back on track.

"Angel...why are you warm?" Did he finally reach Shanshu? She always knew he would -- but she hates that she didn't get to see it.

Not only is he warm, but he's flushing with color upon realizing what lingering in her embrace has clued her into. This close to him, the glamour's unable to give the illusion of a constant, lifeless pale complexion. His ears turn red, color creeping up his neck and spreading across his cheeks as his true genetic make-up betrays him.

Damn it.

"You pose enough of a threat, they're bound to neutralize it."

He didn't shanshu. He was neutralized — or so they believe. Faith's the only one here who seems to get that he's just as lethal alive as he was dead.

She's never seen color in his face like that before. It's almost fascinating in a strange sort of way. For a second she things maybe he did shanshu, that he got what he wanted -- but the way he words it tells a different story and she frowns a little.

"Wolfram and Hart?"

Who else would have done this to him?

He used to want it, but now that he's human again, all he wants is to be a vampire again. His memories of humanity were romanticized versions of his own recollections of life, but there were things that he hadn't taken into account when presented with the possibility of shanshuing. Like the fact he hasn't had to use the bathroom since 1753 and having a ghost show you how to properly work something you've only ever flushed demon goo down was an awkward experience for he and Wesley both.

Nobody told him that he would still crave blood as he remembered it, that he'd try and drink it once and experience one of the other primary uses for a toilet as he puked his guts out while his ghost frowned at him in the doorway. Nobody told him flying on the back of his dragon would make him nauseous — every single time.

Being human was like riding a bike without training wheels and he honestly wasn't very good at it. If it weren't for the fact he was still playing vampire, it would be painfully obvious how horrible of a human being he actually was.

"Wolfram & Hart," he echoes. "They thought it would change things."

Angel takes one of her hands in his and takes a step back, putting himself at arm's length from her. It's important he stay attached to her for irrational, panicked reasons he isn't ready to rationalize just yet. At this length, the vampire paleness returns, though his hand remains warm to the touch.

He grins, genuinely proud of himself. Wolfram & Hart often forgot about the fact that he was immensely clever. Take away his vampirism to make him a walking target? He finds a way to take the target off his back.

"I found a way to make it stay the same."

Edited 2014-06-21 12:33 (UTC)

When he steps back from her it's almost as if she's looking at a different person. A still vampire person but the warmth of his hand reminds her of what he really is now. Human. A human Angel. It's a bit of an adjustment but not in a bad way.

Except he doesn't seem too thrilled about it. She imagines it had to be quite the adjustment. It had been when she became half demon, after all. Not quite the same thing but still.

Cordelia grins a little in response to him, she's rather proud of him as well. For as much as Angel can not be subtle at times he can be surprisingly crafty when he needs to be. She's not surprised to find he found a way around Wolfram and Hart's plans.

"I'm impressed -- this is quite the spell, even for Wes."

She of course, has no idea that these days Wesley is more a ghost than anything else. There's a lot she isn't aware of just yet.

"Who said Wes was the one who cast it?"

He tugs on her hand to draw her back to him, leaving out the part where he'd ask Wesley to hand him a book and ghost sarcastically responded with some retort about it slipping through his hands. Jabbing at one another over his intangibleness and his inability to function as a proper living person kept them going on some days, made them laugh at themselves and get past the moments when his temper flared and he lashed out at the ghost and the tight leash the Senior Partners kept him on.

"I got better. No more scorch marks on the tile."

Not from him, anyway. Any and all scorch marks were pure dragon.

And just like that, in spite of his need to continue to hold on to her, he's falling back into himself — smiling. It's been months (a year?) since he's grinned with something other than smugness and vitriol behind it.

"My mistake -- I just assumed."

Of their little rag tag group Wesley had generally been the one to work magic when the need came up. But maybe now that Angel is human things are different. It's possible.

She doesn't mind that he can't let go of her yet or how he pulls her back in close -- it's actually kind of nice. But what's even nicer? Seeing him smile. That always did wonders for him. It's infectious and she can't help but find herself smiling in response.

"Good, I'd hate to have to work on the tiles here too" There's a pause and then. "Is it a spell you have to keep casting or does it sustain on it's own?"

She can't help but be curious.

"It's sustained. Talisman. Best not to ask."

Getting the talisman in place had been a long, awkward night for he and Wesley both, but it had ultimately proved affective. It was necessary to perpetuate the lie that nothing had changed. In Angel's mind, the only way to survive this — the only way to win this — was to keep acting like nothing changed. It had to be the same.

Keep calm and carry on, as they say.

"You should know that Buffy, her sister, and Faith are here, too. You remember Dawn, right?"

She was about to ask about the talisman anyway when her attention is shifted to what he says next. She can't imagine Buffy will be thrilled to see her but there are worst people to run into. And Faith is far from her favorite person -- but she's important to Angel. Cordelia remembers how hard Faith fought to get Angel back while Jasmine had her body hijacked -- she remembers more than she'd like of all that, sometimes.

She nods a little, focusing on his question vs the thoughts that came with what he had said. "Yeah, I remember Dawn."

"Faith doesn't. Something happened—" No, that's not the truth, and Angel can tell Cordelia the truth without censoring it or sugar coating it like he would for anyone else. (He isn't in the business of protecting Buffy from her mistakes, anymore.) "Buffy did something. Something she thought would do a lot a good, but ended up coming with more than a few unforeseen consequences. One of which was undoing the magic that bound her sister to human form."

He still has a hold of her hand, when he falls into step beside her and guides her towards the elevator. Angel knows that Buffy is going to be less than thrilled to see her, but is grateful for the fact that he told her that she died. At least that will detour some of the questions regarding how much he's bound to hover around her in the weeks to come.

Angel lost her. He doesn't want to lose her again.

"Part of that magic is the glamour that has all thinking that she's Buffy's sister, remembering things that never actually happened." Not he can judge what the monks did, given Connor... If anything, he better understands it. "Which is why Faith can't remember her. She's pretty upset over that — she and Buffy both. She was fading for a while, but I managed to bind her essessence to Buffy to stop that from happening. So, as long as Buffy's alive, her sister won't turn back into a glowing ball of energy."

She doesn't mind at all that he hasn't let go of her hand yet. It feels kind of nice, and more than kind of comforting. And she can understand that he needs that reasurance right now too. That he's not going to turn around and find her gone again.

Because you know, that's already happened once...

She listens carefully to his words, nodding. "I'm glad you were able to help them. No one deserves to be reversed back into just a glowing ball of energy." No matter how Dawn was created -- she's a person now. That's what matters. Okay, the memory modification is creepy and she doesn't approve it here anymore than she does with Angel letting Wolfram and Hart mindrape their friends but still. It's not like Dawn got a choice in any of that.

When they get to the elevator she makes her way inside and it doesn't occur her to inquire about a room for herself just yet. Much like how she had made herself home back in his penthouse she seems to be content for the moment to stick by Angel's side.

There are very few things in this world that Angel is honestly afraid of. As one of those (former) things that go bump in the night, it takes a lot to shake him to his core, but the very real fear of her disappearing on him again is one of those things. It grips him tight and he has to refrain from doing the same to her fingers, keeping the curl of his hand around hers gentle and soothing in spite of the callouses on his palm from gripping the hilt of a sword with very human hands.

Buffy and her sister live on the topmost floor, while Angel resides in a corner on the floor below. The youngest summers talked him into staying close, a combination of having almost vanished and things he's unaware of that may or may not be yet to come, but he wasn't comfortable sharing a floor with an ex-girlfriend. Not when there were moments when Buffy looked at his restored humanity like he was something that stepped out of a dream that she thought would never come true.

It made him fight the urge to fidget in her presence, had him biting down on his tongue to stop himself from lashing out and reminding her that this was a punishment, something he didn't want and didn't ask for. He knew she was likely doing it without thinking, but it made things a hell of a lot more awkward than they ought to be.

He regrets that she figured it out, that he'd been forced to tell her, though he is grateful she had enough field experience to stitch him up so he didn't pass out from blood loss or face the possibility of infection. And while he knew that modern medicine had advanced to a place where such a fear was unprecedented, in hell amongst the filth and lack of proper medical care, he was mindful of the potential of dying from something as simple as an infected wound.

Growing up in the 1700s, he saw plenty of people lose their lives to things people these days take pills for or get a shot to cure. A few stitches and you're fine, but back then... Often, the methods used to save you often aided in dooming you.

Digressing, Angel pushes that morbid train of thought aside, shifting his hand in hers to lace their fingers together. The elevator stops at his floor and he leads her out of it.

"I should warn you," he says as he slips the keycard into the reader. Ever the gentleman, he reluctantly releases her hand and holds the door open for her. His gaze doesn't stray from her form. Not for a second. "I'm kind of bad this. The being... y'know thing."

Human.

Angel continues once the door is shut behind them, hauling his hoodie up over his head and depositing it on the couch nearest to the door, leaving him in the plain white t-shirt underneath. The rooms are lavish — well, some of them, including this one — but he'd honestly be more at home in one of the dust-clogged rooms back at the Hyperion.

"Not that it doesn't work to my advantage. If I started behaving like a human, people would begin to suspect something was wrong and look into it. As long as I keep acting like a vampire, nobody's going to question or consider the possibility that I no longer am one."

Angel, if you get vaccines a lot of those diseases and infections won't be nearly so scary. If Cordelia knew about those fears she would point it out. But she doesn't so she can't. Her fingers lace through his and she's surprised by the callouses there, somehow. Normally she'd be happy for him, happy he got the Shanshu and got what he wanted but she can tell this isn't what he wants. He's using a spell to disguise what was done to him, what he is now. So there's no reason to celebrate, sadly.

She laughs a little at his comment. "Well, you were always a kind of awkward vampire anyway, maybe it'll even out." She's teasing -- mostly. She can't resist the urge to give him a hard time. Some things don't change.

Though it's on a much smaller scale she can remember a time in her life when she pretended to be something she no longer was. The way she worked hours to buy a prom dress so no one would know she wasn't rich anymore. It's hard.

"Not to change the subject too suddenly but have you looked at this place? It's almost as nice as the apartment."

She can't help herself, looking around the spacious apartment with a smile on her lips.

Edited 2014-06-24 05:15 (UTC)

Vaccines have likely come up during his and Wesley's discussions of the 'H-word,' but nothing important enough for Angel to absorb beyond momentary acknowledgement that was promptly forgotten before he was finished nodding his head in response. His mind had been on other things, and the reckless part of him that had been beaten down so low in response to having stood so tall against a force nobody else dared to said bring it.

They wanted him human? Fine. They could deal with him sick, they could watch him wither away from some treatable disease that people in his day and age dropped dead of on a daily basis, because his 18th Century body had never been conditioned to endure them. He'd die and they'd never get their precious apocalypse they were so determined to ensure he lived to see.

Maybe that's why he never got sick in hell. He tries not to think too hard about that, not liking any of the implications.

"I wasn't that awkward." He mumbles, fishing things out of his pockets to drop onto the counter — a handful of small charms that are obviously magical in origin, the keycard, a Tootsie Roll wrapper. "Not all of the time."

Actually, the change of subject is welcomed. Angel hasn't really talked much about his current state of being. He and Wesley discuss it without discussing it, and only pertaining to matters of survival and great importance. Faith is respecting his boundaries, and Buffy... well, that was just— awkward.

He smiles a little, glad to see that her experiences haven't taken a toll on her expensive tastes.

"You take the bed, I'll sleep on the couch. It folds out."

Angel, that side of you is stupid and Cordelia will be more than happy to point that out to you if she ever hears that reasoning. Needless to say, at some point they'll probably have a more in depth conversation about him being human and all that that may or may not mean but now isn't the time. There's a few other conversations they need to have to -- like making him elaborate on that comment he made earlier about other deaths he tried to fight.

Cordelia knows she won't like the answer to that one but it'll be one she needs to hear eventually all the same.

But for now, as strange as it might seem she's here with him and the rest of the things they need to talk about can wait. They have time, now. There was a time where Cordelia would have taken his bed without question (the time she briefly lived with him before finding her better apartment in LA comes to mind) but she's grown a lot as a person so while she still has her expensive taste she does have the empathy enough to frown a little.

"Are you sure you'll be comfortable? We could share -- it's not like we haven't before"

Okay, so maybe just happening to fall asleep in his bed with his baby between them was a little different, but still.

It's a miracle he doesn't drop the trundle bed on his foot, but he somehow manages to set the end of it down on the floor before turning to address her suggestion.

"Not like that. Not like this."

Falling asleep with Connor between them was one thing. It was a mutual, parental act done on behalf of the newborn they were both raising in unspoken agreement in regards to the gap she was filling for the motherless child. They were lying together for Connor, because he would wail every time one of them got up, and had unintentionally fallen asleep there with the baby still resting between they woke up the next day.

This would be the conscious act of crawling into bed with her. It wasn't even about the possibility of sex, for that was the farthest thing from his mind. Sleeping with her — just sharing the bed with her — would keep her close, but it would leave him vulnerable. He can lie and build his stone wall up as high and thick as he can around him, but she's the one person with the ability to not only see, but break through his defenses with little to no effort.

He's been through a lot. (Too much. Far too much.) Angel's holding himself together, but he fears if she gets too close, he'll far apart and then she'll see how much he's hurting behind that brave lie of a face.

Edited 2014-06-24 06:19 (UTC)

There was a finality to his words that she knew not to argue with. Cordelia knows that sometimes with Angel it wasn't the right time to push. And really, if she was that concerned she would offer to find her own room. But selfishly she doesn't want to stray from him any more than he wants her to be far from him.

So she drops it.

"It was only a suggestion."

If he's fine sleeping in the discomfort that a trundle bed provides she's not going to argue it any further. Not at the moment.

(At least if nothing else he probably doesn't have to worry about her getting peanut butter in his bed. Probably)

She can tell there's something brewing there underneath those walls of his, stories she maybe isn't ready to hear just yet. But eventually. They have time now.

What a novel concept.

There's a part of him that wants to go her and allow himself to unravel at her feet, but he can't. So much is still too raw, too sudden. Cordelia's name was something he struggled to say in the month's following her demise, something only a dragon ever heard uttered from him after Los Angeles fell to hell. Now it's sitting on the very tip of his tongue, practically begging to be said.

It's the only thing he wants to say, as if making up for all those times he refused to say it when probably should've. Probably would've benefited from doing so. But in spite of all his good intentions, all the people he's saved, Angel is terrible when it comes to handling himself and dealing with issues in healthy, human ways.

He doesn't even have the demonic excuse anymore. As long as he stays in the hotel, he doesn't even have hell to back him up on that one. Now, all he's doing is avoiding dealing with something that's easier to compartmentalize and shove in box in the corner of some dark, forgotten room.

Frowning, but unwilling to budge, Angel lays down on the trundle bed to sleep there for the night.

But that isn't where he ends up falling asleep.

Leaning uncomfortably off the side of the overstuffed chair near the foot of the bed, Angel snores lightly, undisturbed. He moved to the chair some time during the night, and dozed off after his exhausted human body got the best of his stubborn, determined mind.

Still shirtless from his failed attempt at sleeping in the trundle, the long, jagged scar on Angel's side is bare and visible for all to see.

Cordelia doesn't really manage to fall asleep. To begin with, she doesn't really have any sleep clothes on her (she'll have to ask him where she can get some -- luckily she's always up for shopping). And also...after all that time in a coma the idea of sleeping kind of makes her uneasy. She tosses and turns a lot, but she doesn't ever really settle.

So eventually she gets up. Tries not to make too much noise as she gets out of bed. Maybe he has a book lying around or something she can try to read (she's more of a magazine girl than literature but beggers can't always be choosers about these things).

It's as she's puttering about that she notices where Angel is sleeping -- not in the bed like he said (she told him it would be uncomfortable, didn't she?) but instead in a chair. It can't be comfortable but what distracts her from those thoughts is what she notices in his shirtless state now.

A long scar across his chest. The reality of the situation -- what being human really means for him -- settles in her stomach ad twists uncertainly. For the first time she really finds herself angry at the PTB, that she wasn't allowed to be there to help him when he probably needs her help most.

It isn't fair, and more than that it isn't right.

She doesn't wake him up just yet, as she stands there, uncomfortably trying to process the swirls thoughts in her head.

It's like living with the world's oldest teenager.

That comment she made, years ago, wasn't entirely inaccurate. At ~~278~~ 26 going on 27, he sleeps like a teenager. Not that anyone's bothered to tell him as much, but he falls dead asleep in the most random of places, in the most awkward of positions. On a desk, in a corner of the room, leaning against a table — the way his head slips from the hand it's propped up on and leaves him leaning to one side of the chair, his arm now dangling over the side is no exception to that. His current position can't be comfortable, and yet he slumbers on.

After months of listening to the cacophony of hell and the months of excruciating pain that proceeded it, Angel sleeps like a baby in this calm, quiet hotel with air conditioning, soft blankets, and good food.

He's really, really bad at the human thing. Really bad.

She's getting that. The bad part, at least. She watches for another quiet moment until she finally approaches him, placing a hand on her shoulder. She doesn't shake him because she doesn't want to jar him awake too ruffly. After all, he might not be awake enough to remember she's here and the shock could end badly.

Still, he's going to be in pain in the morning if he sleeps like this.

"Come on, big guy, we need to get you on the actual bed before you wake up with a backache.

There's a groan of protest that emits from him, followed by hushed mumbling that quite possibly isn't even English, but he complies. Angel sleeps far more soundly now that he's human, something he found very troublesome back in hell. There's no reason to fight how deeply he sleeps while stuck in this place, and it's in a dazed, half-awake state that Angel rises from the chair, pads over to the bed, and drops himself onto the mattress.

He stretches, and something in his back pops — but it must've been a good pop, because it doesn't manage to startle him into full awareness.

She stays by his side in case he needs steadying in his half asleep state -- he doesn't end up needing it but a girl likes to be sure all the same. Once he's settle on the bed she smiles a little weakly, bringing a hand up to brush back some of his hair for a moment.

"Goodnight, Angel."

It's a little strange to think she'll still be here when he wakes up in the morning -- but not in a bad way.

Didn't Want To Be Anyone's Ghost | For chuisle | all_inclusive

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject