FIC: My Loving Vigil

[mph0506]

My Loving Vigil
Gen, mostly, starring Cordelia and Angel. Mentions multiple pairings.

This was completed in about two days. I wanted to write something involving Christmas, and this is what came out. I just can't seem to give Cordelia and Angel a bona fide happy ending. Posted today to start the holiday season officially. Post-NFA, with mentions of earlier seasons of AtS & BtVS.

It's Christmas, and Angel's after the Senior Partners. Cordelia has other ideas.



Cordelia leans over his shoulder. "So this is what you do now, huh?"

"Yes," he says, without looking up. "This is what I do now."

She moves away from him, to the opposite end of the desk, propping her hip against it just as she always had. "What is this stuff, anyway?"

Angel leans back, surveying the suite. The walls are hung with maps-- the United States, North America, Europe, and even a small one of Africa-- and the floor is a calico of ancient scrolls, archaic compendiums, and the occasional weapon. "It's how I'm going to get to the Senior Partners," he replies.

"Good plan. I mean, it's not like you've never tried that before. Except for that time you indirectly killed a room full of lawyers and kicked me out on the street."

Before he can react, his cell phone rings. It's one of the few remaining memoribilia from his old life, and he vowed many months ago to use it until it simply fell apart. All of their numbers are still programmed in. He lets it ring, as he always does, then picks it up to listen to the voicemail. Nina.

"Hey, Angel, it's me. I know you never answer but--"

Cordelia crosses her arms, frowning. "All those years of cell phone training and now you don't even answer? Are you serious?"

"--I just wanted to tell you that I'm still here, and since it's Christmas, I thought it would be really nice to see you--"

"God, Angel, ungrateful much?"

"--and that I'm sorry. About everything that happened with your friends. I'm really sorry."

Angel hangs up the phone. Cordelia glares, and there was a time he would've slunk away, chastened by the expression alone. But now he just returns to his book, because it's sort of comforting. "This is what I do now," he repeats.

It was their first Christmas together. Cordelia dimmed the lights in the apartment, to better admire the decorations. The tree on the table was small, but it gleamed proudly, decorated with a string of tinsel and a star lined with white lights. It was also fake, because it was Angel's apartment, and the scent of pine bothered him.

She seemed proud of it, regardless. There were only two presents tucked beneath it, because Wesley had traveled back to England for Christmas, and they had given their gifts to him before. Cordelia was drinking a glass of red wine, the grocery-store variety, while Angel watched the chicken baking in the oven. "Dinner'll be ready soon," he said, over his shoulder.

"For the fifteenth time-- I GET it. Dinner, soon." She rolled her eyes, turning away from the tree. "Have you ever even celebrated Christmas before? Why are you being so awkward?"

He stared at his hands, holding the kitchen rag. "Sorry. I'm not used to social gatherings."

"Just so you know, two people does not really count as a 'social gathering.' It falls more into the category of 'pathetically friend-less.'"

Angel hung the rag over the handle of the oven, picked up his glass of wine, and moved into the living room to stand next to the tree. "I'm sorry that it's just the two of us. I know you like big holiday celebrations. We can call Wes, wish him a merry Christmas, if you want."

Cordelia sat down heavily on his ottoman. "Hello! It's not Wesley. I mean, he just got here, and now he's in England for Christmas. Big whoop." She bit her lip, tilting her head to conceal her expression. "It's just-- it's Doyle. I miss Doyle."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Me too."

"As much of a freak as he could be, I bet he would be really fun at Christmas. Drinking all of the eggnog. Buying stupid presents. He'd probably carry around, like, a whole bush of mistletoe just to try and get me to makeout with him."

"That sounds about right," he said, giving her a smile. "Although I think eggnog would be a little bit soft for him."

"God, Doyle," she murmured. "I never really figured it out. Not until the end."

"Figured out what?"

"How brave he could be. How happy we could've--" she stopped, swallowing, then fixed him with one of her soft, wide-eyed looks. "Do you think he loved me?"

He hadn't really thought much about it. It crossed his mind, naturally, as Doyle only mentioned Cordelia every other sentence. But he never said so, at least not explicitly, and now Angel wished he had. If only because, with everything else gone, she would at least have that to remember him by.

"He never told me," he said, after a moment. "But, yeah. I think he did."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, looking at the tree. The gesture surprised him; he gave a little start she didn't seem to notice. For a long time, they sat together on the ottoman, watching the lights on the star flicker in and out.

The streets of Los Angeles are filled to the brim with Christmas decorations. Trees, wreathes, tinsel: the cityscape is even brighter than usual, flecked with multi-colored lights flashing competitively with the gaudy dress of the crowds. He's developed a pattern, at this point: spend the night scouring the streets, painstakingly following each thread of the Senior Partner's power, then hitting the books during the day.

It's easier, outdoors, where Cordelia can't follow. Alone, he can concentrate on things beyond the hole in Wesley's guts or how his hands smelled like Gunn's blood for weeks afterward. The only small comfort is Connor, up in San Diego, but Angel can't even visit him for fear of luring the Senior Partners. Even Spike is gone, more than likely dead: Angel never found any sign of him, never saw that familiar shock of overbleached hair ever again. And probably won't, when he allows himself to think of it.

Eventually, he has to return to the hotel. Cordelia doesn't appear until he has trudged up the stairs and into the suite. His boots have tracked a purplish ichor all the way into the bedroom. Cordelia tsks disapprovingly, sitting in his desk chair with her feet propped on a stack of books. "You used to be better about keeping house. Find anything interesting?"

Wordlessly, he crosses a name from one of his lists, then moves to the map. He adds a single thumbtack to the map of Los Angeles, then studies it contemplatively. After a moment, he takes a pencil and draws an acute angle from it to another tack of the same color.

"So, this is what you're pinning your big vengeance plan on, huh?" Cordelia comments. "Looks like a half-ass game of connect-the-dots."

"There's something here. I just haven't found it yet."

"Did you ever think that maybe you'll never find it?" she asks. Her voice has softened. He refuses to face her, to see the gentle sadness in her face. It makes him think of everything he's lost, of how he still wakes during the day reaching for his baby son or staring down into the abyss of the Deeper Well and Illyria's empty eyes. "I know what you're doing, Angel."

He keeps staring at the map. "What's that, Cordy?" he asks sharply.

"Obsessing, obviously. What you do best." He doesn't hear her move around, but suddenly she is beside him. "This isn't going to help. There are people who need you, and you're tossing them aside for some stupid kamikaze mission that won't bring any of us back."

"What did you think I would do?" He whirls to face her. He can't stop himself from shouting. "That I would just let them do this to you, to all of you, and just not care? They took everything from me! From all of you! How can you talk like it doesn't matter?" Without realizing it, he has begun to pace. He wants to kick something. "Like it doesn't even matter. Jesus."

"I'm sorry," she sas simply. Although her eyes are shining with tears, her mouth trembling, she scowls at him as viciously as she ever has. "But, in case you were wondering, I'm the one who's dead here. You've had, what, 200 plus years? I got about twenty, you ungrateful ass."

He often forgets how young Cordelia is. With a sigh, he slumps into the nearest chair. "I can't just let them get away with it."

"Whatever. I can see you have no intention of stopping," she snaps. "But just so you know, they already did get away with it."

He can't bear to look at her any longer. "Yeah," he replies, without looking up. "Maybe they did."

Buffy's hand was small and incredibly warm. He followed her through the streets, hazy with snow and the strands of lights dangling from the shop windows. He could hardly look away from her, her face flushed pink with cold and happiness, her golden hair freckled with half-melted snow.

"You're staring," she said, dimpling up at him. "Is my hair already frizzy?"

She was so beautiful, and yet she never even seemed to realize it. "No," he said, undone.

"Well, quit it. No brooding in the snow." Grabbing his hand, she began dragging him down the street, her boots leaving smeared footprints in the slush. "C'mon, Angel, it's Christmas. And you're still here, and so am I, and it's snowing. Let's enjoy all the miracles the Hellmouth has to offer, because most of the time? They seem to be in short supply."

He allowed her to drag him along. "Well, what do you want to do then?"

She paused, considering, then seemed to shiver with happiness. "This way. There's a little yard over there. I've got an idea!"

"Alright, alright. But I don't sled."

"Whatever," she replied. Buffy pulled him into the yard, peering about the house for any sign of activity. Satisfied by the darkened windows, she pulled her hand from his to stand in front of him. "I don't know if you've ever done this before, but if you haven't, it's about time you learned."

"If you say so."

With a grin, she flopped down into the plush snow. For an instant she simply laid there, staring at the sky and blinking against the falling flakes. Then she began moving her arms and legs, and although he instantly knew what she was doing, it pleased him just to watch. "Snow angels!" she yelped. "Come on. How often do you find someone who can actually be a snow Angel with a capital 'A'?"

He stepped away. "I don't know. This is my nice coat, and--"

"And this isn't mine? Who cares! Get down here."

With a put-upon expression, he eased down into the snow, turning his head to look at her. She wiggled her eyebrows encouragingly. He nodded and cautiously began moving his arms and legs, and eventually, he found he had a reasonably neat angel. He closed his eyes and simply laid there, content.

When he opened his eyes, Buffy was smiling, the little puffs of her breath as comforting and sweet as smoke from a distant chimney. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He reached out and took her hand. "You make everything easier," he said.

"Liar," she replied.

The next morning, when he returns from his nightly patrol, Nina is sitting in the lobby with a clay pot in her lap. "Hi," she says.

"What are you doing here?" he replies.

She stands hesitantly to her feet. Over her shoulder, Cordelia is standing in the shadow, shaking her head. Angel refuses to meet her eyes. "I've been calling you for weeks," Nina explains. "I knew you were here, and I know you also probably don't want me here. But I don't want you to be alone on Christmas."

Angel walks past her to place his sword in the half-open cabinet. "I'm used to being alone."

"Maybe. But I'm not."

He turns toward her. "Look, Nina--"

She bows her head. He notices her hair is longer. "Before you get into the get-out-of-here speech, I brought a pot. I didn't wrap it and it's early, but-- pottery always makes me feel better. And rare steaks, but you probably knew that." Her laugh is brittle, a little afraid.

"Does she always make jokes like that?" Cordelia asks.

Angel crosses his arms. "Thank you. It's nice, but-- but I don't really have time for this anymore. And just being here puts you in danger."

"After everything I saw on the news, I pretty much knew that already," she says. "But I wanted to come by anyway. Maybe, after you finish-- whatever it is you're doing, I guess-- we can go out sometime?"

"Ballsy," Cordelia remarks.

Angel accepts the pot. He stares at it awkwardly for a moment, then places it gently on the edge of the counter. Cordelia used to keep a vase there, filled with fresh flowers, until he and Gunn knocked it over with Connor's miniature hockey sticks. "I'm sorry, Nina," he says finally.

Nina stands and starts for the door. As she closes the door behind herself, she turns to glance at him over her shoulder. "I figured. I'm sorry too. Merry Christmas, Angel."

After things had begun to calm down at the hotel, Cordelia and Fred helped Angel clean out his suite. Fred was in charge of carrying the salvageable items to the local shelter, with Gunn's truck, while Cordelia and Angel carefully sifted through each layer of charred material and melted plastic. Most of Connor's things had been removed, before. Now it was just his own things. He hardly even cared.

As he piled away one of his books, he heard Cordelia gasp and sob. He turned, instinctively, and found her holding a burned box with a strip of blue and white material inside, her other hand pressed tightly over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and wet, horrified, and her shoulders were shaking.

He moved to her side, his hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Hey, what's wrong?"

"I bought this for Connor," she explained. "For Christmas next year. It was a sailor's outfit. I knew you wouldn't ever let him wear it, but I-- I just--" She stopped, turning her head as he put his arms around her, and cried.

His hand began stroking her hair, but before he could, she pulled away. After a quick gulp and a wipe of her eyes, she looked up at him with hard smile. "I'm okay now."

"You sure?"

She nodded and gently laid the box to the side. "Yeah. I'm okay," she said. "It's just weird, you know? All this time, and I just realized he's never coming back."

He falls asleep trying to puzzle out his next move and piece together what he knows of the Senior Partners so far. When he wakes up, Cordelia is lying across from him, her cheek resting on the smooth skin of her hands. "Hey," she whispers.

He rolls to face her. Thinking of the night, long ago, when he fell asleep to the crest and fall of her and Connor's whispering breath. "Come closer," he says.

She does. Her hair is a dark wing behind her, spread elegantly across the pillow. "I've been watching you sleep. Now you know it feels like."

Suddenly, he thinks he might cry. He rarely does, except after particularly bad dreams, but when he does it leaves him frazzled and lost for days at a time. Cordelia pulls her knees closer to herself. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "Don't get upset. What's wrong with you?"

"What do you think is wrong with me?" he says. He doesn't want to start yelling again, and makes a conscious effort to lower his voice. "I'm the only one left, Cordy. You're all-- you're all--"

"You can say it," she says. "I mean, I used to call you dead all the time."

He puts his fist against his eyes and pulls in a deep, trembling breath. "Don't do that. It's not funny."

"Well, duh. But it's better than the alternative. Exhibit A: you."

The conversation is wearying. There is a moment when, against his better judgment, he wishes she would just leave. But an instant later, overcome with the idea that she might actually disappear, he opens his eyes and instinctively reaches for her. His hand, passing over her waist, meets nothing but empty air. But Cordelia shudders from head-to-toe.

"Did you feel that?" he murmurs, half-hopeful, half-afraid.

Her voice is breathless. "No," she says.

After a moment, he shifts away from her. Cordelia doesn't follow.

"I can't do it without all of you," he says.

It seems to touch her: there is a terrible moment where, her breath held, her face is completely open and the ache spills over. But then she looks away. "You can. You'll find someone else. Another little gang of misfits to follow you around."

"I don't want anyone else."

"Well, yeah. You better not. But-- but you have to move on, just like I do. There are people waiting for us. You should think about that."

Cordelia burrows a little further down into the comforter. He wants to touch her. His hand hovers over her shoulder, and he thinks maybe if he tries, if he just wants it enough--

She opens her eyes. The little twist of her mouth is almost a smile. "I wish it was that easy."

Angel nods and pulls away. Cordelia turns her face against the pillow, out of sight.

Their only Christmas together, all of them. Cordelia was sprawled over the couch beside him, her legs dangling affectionately over his lap. Angel had his hands on her knees, rubbing, and every once in a while she sighed and smiled up at him. Her sweater was red: for the first time, the color made him think of joy and family, instead of blood and a different type of family. Fred came in from the kitchen, holding Connor in the crook of her skinny elbow, and sat down on the floor next to Wesley and Gunn.

Gunn pressed a series of buttons and, in his excitement, nearly tossed the controller in the air. "Did you see that? I just ripped your head completely off your body, and then threw it at you. Sweet."

"Can we please keep the mutilation talk to a minimum?" Cordelia said, without opening her eyes. "Honestly, it's our first night off in weeks."

"This game will be the downfall of society," Wesley sighed, staring forlornly down at his controller.

Angel raised his head to peer down at Connor, tucked away in his new blanket. "Fred, he isn't looking, is he? He's too young for this stuff."

"He's almost asleep. And unless he's some kind of super genius, I don't think he'll remember much of this, anyway. Not that he, uh, couldn't be a super genius."

Cordelia gave a short, snorting laugh and prodded Angel with her foot. "Hey, where's Lorne? I can't slip into my food coma until after the presents."

Lorne chose that moment to burst into the room, balancing a stack of presents which swayed dangerously from side to side. Wesley leapt to help him and, together, the pile reached the floor without too much disturbance. "Don't worry, mistletoe," Lorne said. "Santa's here. Everyone ready?"

And so it went. The presents were handed out, one for each person, although Connor had a suspiciously higher number than the rest. Angel rested his on his lap, examining the shoddy wrapping job, and noticed that it was from Cordelia. "I can see this wasn't professionally wrapped," he remarked.

"It would've cost me an extra three bucks. Get over it."

He gave her a smile, then began carefully tearing away the paper. Cordelia leaned over his shoulder, watching, and she seemed to be nearly trembling with excitement. Finally, the last strip pulled away, he realized he was holding a photo album. He stared at it, confused, then glanced up at Cordelia. "Thank you."

Cordelia slapped his hand away and turned open the cover. "Why would I buy you an empty album? Open it."

He began flipping through the pages. It was filled to the brim with photographs, each one in black-and-white: Fred and Wesley pouring over an open book; Lorne singing as he walked through the lobby; Gunn and Cordelia arguing over the placement of his ax in the cabinet. There was a group photo, of all of them, although Wesley was slightly cut off in the corner. There was even one of himself and Buffy, although it was one of Cordelia's prom photos: behind herself and an unknown boy, he was holding Buffy's hand as she smiled up at him.

The last ten pages were of him and Connor. The first one was of himself, holding Connor in his arms, staring down adoringly. Connor was reaching upward with his tiny hands.

Everyone in the room was silent. Angel put his hand on the page and turned to Cordelia. "Cordy, it's-- thank you."

"I figure, if you're gonna live forever, you're gonna need something to remember us all by," she explained. "Is the black-and-white okay? I was trying to be artsy."

He took her hand and held it. "It's beautiful," he murmured, his voice quieter than he expected. He realized it was difficult to speak, around the soft press of tears at the back of his throat. "It's perfect."

Cordelia tugged on her hand, averting her eyes. "Oh, stop it. Don't get all Kodak on me."

He cleared his throat, nodding, and released his hold on her. "Sorry, sorry. But thank you."

To his surprise, she leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas."

He stands in the doorway of the suite. For the first time in many days, Cordelia is no where to be found. He spent the night tracking a Rathmis demon, but in the end, he found nothing except the half-eaten corpse of a young girl and a puddle of the same purplish ichor from earlier in the week. He spends the first hour after dawn staring at all the maps on his walls, color-coded and scribbled on, and studying the piles of books on the floor.

He closes one of books on his desk. Surprisingly, it makes him feel better: the soft slam is soothing. He closes the others, too, and with a sigh picks them up and begins carrying them out into the hall.

Cordelia is leaning in the doorframe across the way. "You're doing the right thing," she says. "No more vengeance."

"I'm just moving some books," he replies.

She ignores him. "Did you even realize it's Christmas morning?"

He glances down at his watch. Sure enough, the date flashing across the screen is December 25th, 2005. "I guess it is."

She moves toward him. "I think it's time for me to go, Angel."

"What?"

"To move on," she explains. "I can't be here anymore. I used to love it, but now that I'm stuck here, all I can think about is how I can't wait to get out. There's nothing here for me now."

Despite himself, he feels the cold panic sink down on him. "No, you can't. I'm here. I need you, Cordy, just like I always have."

"You just think you do." Her eyes are shining. He starts to step toward her, but she lifts her hands, as if to keep him away. "You should go out with Nina," she says. "Or, I don't know, call Buffy. Go to Europe."

"Cordy, no. I can't--"

She breathes a short, sobbing little laugh. "It's time for you to stop chasing old ghosts," she says. "That includes me."

He puts his head in his hands. "You can't do this," he says, desperately. "Not again. Please."

Her mouth begins to tremble. "Promise me you'll start helping people again, that you'll stop this self-destruct mission. It can't be about me anymore. It can't be about any of us, not like that."

"It'll always be about you."

She steps toward him. "Promise me."

"How can you do this?" he says. "How can you just leave?"

Despite the tears running down her face, she smiles. He begins to see the others, standing behind her: Wesley and Gunn, even Fred, as she had been before, without a streak of blue on her. Wesley moves to Cordelia's side, sliding his arm through hers. "It'll get better, Angel," he says. "You'll see."

"Not you," Angel says. "Don't take someone else away from me."

Wesley doesn't even flinch. He glances down at Cordelia, then meets Angel's eyes solemnly. "Not everything is always about you."

Cordelia slides her arm from Wesley and moves until she is standing directly in front of Angel. He closes his eyes. "You'll make it here, big guy," she murmurs. "Just give it time."

And when he opens his eyes, she's gone.

He slides to the floor, his head on his knee, and stares down at the musty carpet beneath him. He thinks of how long he has been on this earth, how long he has suffered and fought, how many people he has lost. He thinks of Connor, asleep at home, waiting to spend his Christmas morning with the family Angel gave him. Buffy is probably asleep, too, and Nina. Each of them waiting for the growing dawn.

He doesn't have to stop. The Senior Partners are still out there, and if he keeps trying, maybe one day he'll figure it out. He'll connect the dots in the right way and, despite everything Cordelia said, he'll finally put and end to Wolfram and Hart. He'll destroy the things which destroyed his family and everything he ever really cared about.

Or, maybe, he won't. He can abandon all the work he has done, forget the Senior Partners, and start over. It'll be just like this: wandering the world alone, or perhaps not, and helping those who need it the most. And people will die, and he'll make mistakes, and he'll spend another handful of Christmas holidays with whatever family he creates or, maybe, doesn't.

He sits in the dark hallway of his old hotel, the only piece of his life still standing. Beyond the walls, he can hear the city reawaken, the lyrical sigh of carolers drifting in through the windows.

He isn't sure if he'll get up, today. He's got some things to think about.