For the Sweet Drabblethon -- Creature Comforts
Title: Creature Comforts
Characters/Pairings: Angel/Cordelia
Rating: PG
Summary: Angel's good at the killing-demons-and-being-broody thing. Not so much with the comfort.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Set in S1, sometime after 'Parting Gifts' but before 'War Zone'. Written for the Sweet Drabblethon and damnskippytoo's prompt of Cordy/Angel, vision, meal in bed, comfort, lame joke. Apologies upfront because a) I haven't written Angel fic in about five years, and b) it's not super shippy but is pretty much as mushy as they come. Hope you enjoy anyway! :D
----
It's too quiet in the Batcave when he gets home from another round of patrols.
His apartment, Angel self-corrects, firmly, his place, shaking off the Cordelia-isms that seem to slip into his mind more easily with each passing day. But it's weirdly quiet, strangely quiet, Angel considers as he slips off his duster and carefully folds it over the back of one kitchen chair, taking a silent step towards the living room.
"Hffgh."
"Cordelia?"
He rounds the corner and finds her sprawled on the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin and a half-eaten bag of frozen peas clamped to her forehead, the complete picture of misery.
"Hmmgh?"
"Those weren't words."
Cordelia huffs and burrows deeper under the blanket. "Listen buddy, you try having your brain split open by visions and we'll see how well you do with stupid words and all their stupid syllables ..."
Her voice trails off into a moan, sliding the frozen vegetables further over her eyes. "This sucks with a capital S." A pause. "And before you get your boxer-briefs in a knot, I sent Library Guy to deal with the vision. It was just some baby demon, blah, blah, same old; Wesley already called to say it went kersplat and everything's cool."
Wesley barely knows his way around an axe but Angel lets it drop, shrugs and anchors hands on hips, shaking his head slightly and allowing himself some amazement at her levity in the face of heaven-sent visions and demon-killing duty and sometimes-certain death. Whistler had said it; Doyle, too -- connecting with humanity was a necessary ingredient in all this, and Cordelia? Well, she was pretty much as human as they came.
"Get some rest." It comes out more tender than he means to.
Cordelia, still muttering, rolls over, the last of her words muffled by pillows, the room eventually filled by the familiar in-out breathing of sleep, Angel left to wonder how it ended up the two of them -- and Wesley, kinda -- against the world.
----
She wakes up to the smell of ... something. Something nice and aromatic and that reminds her just enough of childhood (when her parents still cared, at least) to make her a little homesick. Not that she'd ever admit it.
Struggling out of the tangle of blankets and mind still thick with sleep, Cordelia props herself up on the couch and rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand -- and stops, because Angel is about a metre away, holding a little tray and brow furrowed in uncertainty.
"You ..."
"Made soup. I mean, I didn't make it -- I heated it up -- but I thought people liked chicken soup, when they weren't feeling well."
Cordelia pulls a face. "Is there blood in it?"
Ignoring the jibe, Angel places the tray on her lap, taking a seat near her feet and almost beaming as Cordelia takes a hesitant sip.
"Well, it's not five-star cuisine."
He perches a little closer on the couch, and Cordelia surprises herself by not minding the feel of his leg pressed against hers. But Angel's like her big brother, right? Her big, broody brother who takes care of her, and is the only one she's got left, really, now that Doyle's gone and Wesley's just Wesley, so she wills that whole not-minding business out of her brain.
"And I thought, well, maybe something else that would, um, cheer you up --"
She shoots him a look, incredulous, from over her bowl, blowing gently on her next spoonful of soup. "New shoes?"
"Uh, not quite. Okay -- where did the vampire open his savings account?"
"You're serious. Vampire jokes? Hi, remember when I had that killer headache-seizure-y funtime I'm still recovering from? Really, really not in the mood, Angel."
Cordelia turns back to her soup, suddenly fascinated by the swirl of noodles through the broth, but still manages to catch Angel's face -- features falling; disappointment plain and stark.
"Sorry," he murmurs, starting to rise from the couch. "I just figured --"
And apparently it's a day of acting nutso because before Cordelia can even give it a second thought she grips Angel's hand with her own -- it's so cold; she forgets, sometimes, expects to feel a pulse hammering at his wrist or heat radiating from his palm -- and stops him. Angel's gaze shifts down to their entwined fingers, then back up to her face, confusion clear.
"Thank you." She grins, a little bashful. "Seriously Angel. I mean it."
His smile in reply mirrors hers, Cordelia figures, lips bowing upwards and eyes shining with pleasure, though he tries to hide it. "It's a blood bank. You know, where the vampire ...?"
"Don't quit your day job," she cracks, rolling her eyes and handing him back the bowl. "You can cut it on the comedy hour, but can I have more soup?"
He nods, still smiling, and takes the dish, heading back towards the kitchen. Cordelia settles back into the couch and closes her eyes, listening to Angel clatter around the stove -- "there's this really good one, too, about Count Dracula and how he's a pain in the neck" -- and feeling a warmth that she tells herself, without much conviction, has everything to do with the blankets, or the soup, and nothing about the man (okay, vampire) who made it for her.
Characters/Pairings: Angel/Cordelia
Rating: PG
Summary: Angel's good at the killing-demons-and-being-broody thing. Not so much with the comfort.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Set in S1, sometime after 'Parting Gifts' but before 'War Zone'. Written for the Sweet Drabblethon and damnskippytoo's prompt of Cordy/Angel, vision, meal in bed, comfort, lame joke. Apologies upfront because a) I haven't written Angel fic in about five years, and b) it's not super shippy but is pretty much as mushy as they come. Hope you enjoy anyway! :D
----
It's too quiet in the Batcave when he gets home from another round of patrols.
His apartment, Angel self-corrects, firmly, his place, shaking off the Cordelia-isms that seem to slip into his mind more easily with each passing day. But it's weirdly quiet, strangely quiet, Angel considers as he slips off his duster and carefully folds it over the back of one kitchen chair, taking a silent step towards the living room.
"Hffgh."
"Cordelia?"
He rounds the corner and finds her sprawled on the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin and a half-eaten bag of frozen peas clamped to her forehead, the complete picture of misery.
"Hmmgh?"
"Those weren't words."
Cordelia huffs and burrows deeper under the blanket. "Listen buddy, you try having your brain split open by visions and we'll see how well you do with stupid words and all their stupid syllables ..."
Her voice trails off into a moan, sliding the frozen vegetables further over her eyes. "This sucks with a capital S." A pause. "And before you get your boxer-briefs in a knot, I sent Library Guy to deal with the vision. It was just some baby demon, blah, blah, same old; Wesley already called to say it went kersplat and everything's cool."
Wesley barely knows his way around an axe but Angel lets it drop, shrugs and anchors hands on hips, shaking his head slightly and allowing himself some amazement at her levity in the face of heaven-sent visions and demon-killing duty and sometimes-certain death. Whistler had said it; Doyle, too -- connecting with humanity was a necessary ingredient in all this, and Cordelia? Well, she was pretty much as human as they came.
"Get some rest." It comes out more tender than he means to.
Cordelia, still muttering, rolls over, the last of her words muffled by pillows, the room eventually filled by the familiar in-out breathing of sleep, Angel left to wonder how it ended up the two of them -- and Wesley, kinda -- against the world.
----
She wakes up to the smell of ... something. Something nice and aromatic and that reminds her just enough of childhood (when her parents still cared, at least) to make her a little homesick. Not that she'd ever admit it.
Struggling out of the tangle of blankets and mind still thick with sleep, Cordelia props herself up on the couch and rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand -- and stops, because Angel is about a metre away, holding a little tray and brow furrowed in uncertainty.
"You ..."
"Made soup. I mean, I didn't make it -- I heated it up -- but I thought people liked chicken soup, when they weren't feeling well."
Cordelia pulls a face. "Is there blood in it?"
Ignoring the jibe, Angel places the tray on her lap, taking a seat near her feet and almost beaming as Cordelia takes a hesitant sip.
"Well, it's not five-star cuisine."
He perches a little closer on the couch, and Cordelia surprises herself by not minding the feel of his leg pressed against hers. But Angel's like her big brother, right? Her big, broody brother who takes care of her, and is the only one she's got left, really, now that Doyle's gone and Wesley's just Wesley, so she wills that whole not-minding business out of her brain.
"And I thought, well, maybe something else that would, um, cheer you up --"
She shoots him a look, incredulous, from over her bowl, blowing gently on her next spoonful of soup. "New shoes?"
"Uh, not quite. Okay -- where did the vampire open his savings account?"
"You're serious. Vampire jokes? Hi, remember when I had that killer headache-seizure-y funtime I'm still recovering from? Really, really not in the mood, Angel."
Cordelia turns back to her soup, suddenly fascinated by the swirl of noodles through the broth, but still manages to catch Angel's face -- features falling; disappointment plain and stark.
"Sorry," he murmurs, starting to rise from the couch. "I just figured --"
And apparently it's a day of acting nutso because before Cordelia can even give it a second thought she grips Angel's hand with her own -- it's so cold; she forgets, sometimes, expects to feel a pulse hammering at his wrist or heat radiating from his palm -- and stops him. Angel's gaze shifts down to their entwined fingers, then back up to her face, confusion clear.
"Thank you." She grins, a little bashful. "Seriously Angel. I mean it."
His smile in reply mirrors hers, Cordelia figures, lips bowing upwards and eyes shining with pleasure, though he tries to hide it. "It's a blood bank. You know, where the vampire ...?"
"Don't quit your day job," she cracks, rolling her eyes and handing him back the bowl. "You can cut it on the comedy hour, but can I have more soup?"
He nods, still smiling, and takes the dish, heading back towards the kitchen. Cordelia settles back into the couch and closes her eyes, listening to Angel clatter around the stove -- "there's this really good one, too, about Count Dracula and how he's a pain in the neck" -- and feeling a warmth that she tells herself, without much conviction, has everything to do with the blankets, or the soup, and nothing about the man (okay, vampire) who made it for her.