Fic: Visiting Privileges (Angel, Wes, Cordy) PG
Title: Visiting Privileges
Characters: Angel, Wes, Cordelia
Rating: PG
Timeline: S5 pre-You're Welcome
Note: So this? Was an idea I had a while back, and it got Jossed to hell in "You're Welcome". But, I was inspired to pick up the 1/2 page that was written and run with it.
Summary: Cordelia doesn't get much alone time.
***
The room is hidden away in the labyrinth of the fourth floor, which is the last floor that takes up the entire block before the floors begin to decrease in width and depth.
It looks nothing like a hospital room.
The walls are a dark rusty orange color. The floor is pale, blond hardwood. The curtains are a beige and orange print. There isn't a fluorescent light in sight.
Wesley took care of decorating it, because he and Cordelia used to watch "Changing Rooms" together--
"This is so much better than the American version," Cordelia commented. "I mean, these people have taste! And when they hate something? They're so cute in their British way of saying so."
"Cute? Really?" Wesley said, smiling a bit.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Not you, dumbass. Other British people."
--and he knows what she likes in a room. Lawrence Bowen's rooms are interesting and she always adored them, but with the caveat that she couldn't live in one. Graham Wynne's rooms, according to Cordelia, belong in a museum and not in someone's home. Anna Ryder Richardson should go back to decorating only children's rooms.
Linda Barker's rooms, however, always brought a certain light to Cordelia's eyes, one that was envious, sad, and adoring all at once. He entertained the notion of using Wolfram & Hart's resources to obtain Ms. Barker's services, but in the end decided against it.
Cordelia is not the same person he first met a few short years ago. He thinks that, now, she would far more appreciate his attempts at creating a Barker room than she would an actual Barker room.
***
The main, visitor entrance into Cordelia's room is made up of two doors. The outer door is a steel monstrosity that requires the entering of an eight-digit code to open. The inner door, on the other hand, is like the front door to a house. Windowed, wood, and curtained.
There are knick-knacks and personal touches all throughout the room, and Angel is responsible for them.
On the wall to Cordelia's left is a framed piece of yellow legal pad paper with a gray blob drawn on it. The doctors and nurses stare at it sometimes in Angel's presence and he ignores them. Next to it is her singed diploma from Sunnydale High School. This also elicits stares that he also ignores.
There's also a multi-windowed picture frame, filled with various pictures. Doyle's there, his Irish eyes twinkling and his lips quirked. There is a picture of Angel, Wesley and Cordelia taken at Caritas by Lorne. Simpler times. There are pictures of the others, too. All smiling down at Cordlia in her pretty, classy, and non-frilly bed.
But the Caritas picture takes center stage.
On the bedside table there's a mug that has been glued clumsily back together. It's homage to Dennis--
"What is this?" Angel asked, holding up the misshapen mug on Cordy's counter.
She peered into the room and grinned with indulgence and genuine delight. "Oh, that," she said archly. "That would be my resident ghost's attempt to fix something he broke."
Angel eyed the mug. "I think he needs more practice."
--who still inhabits Cordelia's old apartment and is almost as bad as his mother was about people moving in.
The room has been sprinkled with various bits and pieces of four years of friendships, all of which Angel found in the boxes that Fred packed up when Cordelia was first missing. Fred and Gunn weren't at all surprised by the sentimentality to be found in Cordy's closet.
Neither were Angel and Wesley, but they had traded a look filled with the weight of shared history because they each remembered a decidedly unsentimental Cordelia. One who cared little for others. One who sliced people to shreds with a sharp tongue for no reason whatsoever.
One who was theirs, and no one else's.
***
Not everyone can enter the room on the fourth floor. There is the code, of course. But even among those select few who have a code, there are times when visitation is not allowed. Times when visits are deferred to those who know Cordelia like no one else does.
Three in the afternoon until six in the evening is reserved for Wesley. It was always his and Cordelia's time together, alone in the outer offices while Angel busied himself in his private office at that first space they had.
It was Wesley's favorite time with her, because it took place after the initial round of bickering that his arrival would start between them. There was bickering, then Angel's appearance, and then discussion of cases and plans for said cases. But generally, none of the plans needed to be instituted immediately, so Cordelia and Wesley would lapse into a companionable silence broken only by random commentary from one or the other--
"God, would you look at this?" Cordelia held up a fashion magazine, the page held open to display an image of a starlet in a tight, green dress. "What was she thinking?"
Wesley tilted his head to the side. "The color quite suits her."
Cordelia snorted and slapped the magazine back down. "Maybe so. But that style? Not suited for her great big rear end. Geez."
A few minutes later, Wesley issued a sound of disgust. "Oh, really. As though anyone believes such nonsense."
"What's that?" Cordelia asked absently, her eyes lifting. She stared at the lithograph Wesley held up. "Okay, that's just gross. Is that demon--"
"Yes," Wesley confirmed with a moue of distaste. "But anyone who's studied Grol knows that Howber demons don't partake of such rituals. They're peaceful."
"What do you say we skip reading things that have disgusting pictures in them--" She closed her magazine. "--and head out for sushi?" She reached into the desk and held up a credit card. "Angel's treat?"
--that had eventually evolved into actual conversation as time passed. Well, time and events, because both of those things had served to change them.
During his allotted time, Wesley reads fashion magazines to her. Describes the pictures with a keen eye to detail that has been ingrained in him through training and circumstance. Despite visions and half-demon status, and a myriad of other things, Cordelia will always appreciate fashion. Just as she will always want to be aware of the latest Hollywood goings on. Wesley is positive of this.
He talks about the others, of course, but mostly he talks to her about Angel. Tells her of their vampire's latest crises of conscience, most recent brooding session. Spends a half hour one day commenting on Angel's new hairstyle, knowing that she would be the first to grin madly at the semi-loss of the updo. Smiles softly at her, says that their Angel is coming along nicely, and that she would be proud of him.
Proud. Despite the strangeness of what they've all agreed to. Despite what may come to pass because of the choice they've made. Despite that, when she does wake up, Wesley thinks that she will most likely turn large, brown, accusing eyes on Angel for making the choice.
***
Angel is the gatekeeper of Cordy's fourth floor room. He decides who gets access, and when they're allowed in. It's a schedule, normally, but certain days it changes for no discernable reason. At least, that's how it seems to the others when they randomly get locked out.
But it's not. Random, that is. Not in the least.
Neither Angel nor Wesley has to discuss it. It's just understood. If they're out on a case, on a mission, until just before dawn, then they go to the fourth floor. Angel makes the call as he's stalking through the marble floored halls of his building, and security flips a switch, pushes a button--or something more technologically complicated than Angel can fathom--and suddenly only two of the codes will work.
Wesley always beats him there, even if Angel gets into the building first. Which means that Wesley always gets to choose the movie they'll watch.
It used to be eggs. The after battle ritual. But things change over time. The kitchen at the Hyperion wasn't cozy, so Cordelia and Wesley would retreat into a side room while he cooked. Originally it had been a large pantry, but Cordelia set up a television with cable and a VCR in there. Along with a sofa. Angel would make the eggs, then bring in the dishes, and they would watch a movie. Eventually the eggs were left out of the equation entirely, and it was just the movie.
The various selections that line the small bookcase across from Cordelia are some of her favorites, as well as some that have recently come out that either Angel or Wesley purchases because they think she'll like them.
If Wesley decides on one of the newer selections, then they engage the Vision Impaired Track, because it describes what's going on in the movie. Angel and Wesley will watch those movies quietly, for the most part--
"...focusing in on a stemless R."
"That's not very helpful," Angel commented, frowning at the television screen.
"Hm?" Wesley murmured absently.
Angel pointed at the logo on the screen. "The description. It's for blind people, right?" Wesley nodded carefully. "Well, how will they know what an R looks like, much less a stemless R?"
Wesley set his popcorn aside. "I believe," he said slowly. "That these tracks are meant for people who have been able to see at some point, or who are only partially blind."
"Oh. Well. That makes sense, I guess."
--but only a few of the newer releases have that, however. So Angel and Wesley take turns supplying a running description of events. Sometimes they'll have to pause the movie. A lot of times, actually. It took them four hours to watch *Dirty Dancing*, mainly because Angel's narrative was stilted due to his utter dislike of the movie, and Wesley kept interrupting with his own take on it.
And when the movie is over, they tuck the blankets around her, and straighten up everything they've moved, and Wesley squeezes her hand lightly before leaving. And Angel brushes her hair from her face, kisses her forehead, and follows him out.
***
Two in the morning until four in the morning is Angel's time with Cordelia. On cases that had them researching or working until the wee hours of the morning, that strange range of two hours would find everyone weary and unfocused. Wesley always said it was because natural biorhythms are set to recharge at that time, and the human body believes it should be asleep then. Or something like that. Not being human, Angel never really put much thought into it.
But Cordelia and Angel would generally pair off about that time, her flipping listlessly through a book and forcing herself to pay attention, and Angel determined to not slow down in the search.
The medical staff says that Cordelia can hear Angel when he talks to her. Some days, he hopes that's the case. Other days he hopes it isn't.
But either way, he talks. He tells her he's finally come to terms with Wesley, and even if she probably has as much clue as Wesley does of what (never) transpired, it doesn't matter.
He tells her how awful Connor looked after killing Jasmine and how brightly beautiful he looked with his "family". He cries every once in a while and there's no shame in it because...it's Cordy--
She sat with him in his suite after Wes took Connor. For days she was just with him. When he cried silently she sometimes rubbed circles on his back, but that was all. And Angel wasn't even surprised that her sharp tongue was held in check because there was something different about Cordelia lately. Something simultaneously softer and harder in her that ran far deeper than Angel could fathom.
When he shook, Cordelia moved near him--next to him, behind him, in front of him, whichever was possible in whatever position he was in--and she would wrap her arms around him--and they were long arms with unexpected strength in them--and somehow it felt like she was holding him in his skin so that he didn't shake right out of it.
--and she's seen him at his worst. At all of his worsts, in fact. There's something comforting about that, something that makes Angel fall forward in his chair, rest his head next to her still hand, and simply be.
***
When Wes thinks back objectively over the last few years, he understands that he has possibly lifted Cordelia above and beyond reality because of where she now is. He and Angel watched Cordelia grow up and there is perhaps some manner of fraternal pride in having witnessed her maturation that colors Wes' hindsight.
What he finds strange is the sense of maternal expectation that he's inhabited Cordelia with along the way. He never would have guessed that there would ever be anything of that in her when he first met her, can hardly believe it's here now.
But here it is, and it pushes him to spend hours explaining Wes and Lilah, and all the misty whorls of gray that were part and parcel of the experience, to Cordelia's still form.
He imagines Cordelia's facial expressions as he does so, superimposes them over the serene emptiness that is constantly present, and there are times when he is so overcome by the familiarity of the imagined disdainful sneer on her face that he has to stop his tale because he is laughingcrying too hard to speak.
Wes tells Cordelia every detail there is to tell, every second spent with and without Lilah that relates to the situation, and it's the first time he's spoken about any of it, much less all of it.
And because he is explaining the subtleties that exist within that whorl of gray, it seems quite natural for him to then move onto the topic of Wolfram and Hart, to talk about being in the belly of the beast, and when he imagines the horrifically incredulous look that would most likely be on Cordelia's face, he has his first moment of misgivings about what they've done. Well, not his first, per se, but the strongest sense of misgiving. Because he and Cordelia have spoken of this before--
Cordelia and Wes sat at the table in their temporary offices, Gunn having already left for the night, and they were both exhausted in more ways than physical. Wes desperately wished for a drink but he had taken painkillers earlier for yet another injury and he didn't want to mix the two. Cordelia was holding her head in her hands, still trying to massage away the effects of the vision she'd had earlier in the day.
"I miss him, Wes," she said quietly.
"So do I," Wes said just as quietly.
"You know, a part of me--a small, tiny part of me--is starting to wonder if he's got the right idea."
Wes sighed and closed his eyes briefly, considering their pain wracked forms and the hours it had taken to save an elderly woman from her newly sired grandson today. He idly wondered just how much of Wolfram and Hart's organization that Angel might have crippled in that same period of time, then resolutely pushed that thought aside.
"It's not the way," Wes told Cordelia, and she looked up, face drawn and pale, eyes underscored with faint bruising that indicated she was getting as little sleep of late as Wes himself was.
"No, it's not," she said decisively. "I just hope he figures it out before it destroys him."
"As do I."
--and Wes isn't entirely sure that everything has changed enough, really changed enough, that this is now the way to go about their mission.
Wes leaves Cordelia's room that night feeling like the weight of Lilah has been lifted from his shoulders, that her ghost has been exorcised in a way that Lilah's words and actions in the file room couldn't achieve.
"Thank you, Cordelia," Wes breathes.
***
It's taken months for Angel to get to this point, to be able to sit at Cordelia's bedside and tell her just how angry and hurt he was by the things she did that she didn't really do. It's confusing and he thinks she'd probably be snickering at his stumbling confusion of pronouns when he goes over it all, but he goes into all of it.
Her rejection of him in the courtyard after the botched memory regaining spell, her running to Connor, her sleeping with Connor, and all the other terrible things done by the being that wore Cordelia's form like it was Her own.
And then he falls silent, one hand absently entangled with one of Cordelia's, and he apologizes. For not noticing that something was wrong until it was too late, for letting her down in every conceivable way, for everything that was his fault, for his culpability in bringing her here to this bed with the tubes and the machines.
Her eyes don't so much as flicker, but Angel knows it's okay, knows that she forgives him. Cordelia understands the messes that come up in the midst of the mission, understands that what they do can seep into their lives like poison and cripple them at times--
"I hope you realize it wasn't only about the clothes," Cordelia said as Angel walked up behind her in the courtyard.
"I know," Angel acknowledged and sat next to her on the bench. He fingered the armful of material she was still clutching to her chest. "But they are really nice clothes."
She grinned at him, wide and bright and happy. "Oh, yeah."
"It was about proving I was sorry, about having to pay a price," Angel said with a shrug, and Cordelia nodded emphatically. "And about getting really nice clothes," he added, and she nodded even more emphatically and brought a handful of silk to her cheek to rub it against her skin.
"Things are going to happen, Angel," she said after a while. "We're all going to screw up and be asses somewhere along the line, and it's going to suck. We've just got to remember to make it right with each other."
--and he feels better for having made it as right as he can. Then he squeezes Cordy's hand and tells her that he forgives her. He does it even though she wasn't the one who did any of those things, because he knows that somewhere inside of her she blames herself, she bears the guilt, and she needs to know that it's okay.
"But, you should feel free to wake up and make it right yourself," he says thickly.
***
It's another all nighter and Wes and Angel are in Cordelia's room, but this time they don't watch a movie. Instead they talk about the early days and they include Cordelia in the conversation and argue over whose side she would take if she were awake.
Angel can't remember the last time it was so easy to be in a room with Wes, the last time it felt comfortable to speak to him, look at him, and he smiles for no reason whatsoever. Wes smiles back at him, the troubled miasma of memories no longer swimming in his eyes quite so obviously.
And Angel wonders how it is that the three of them--the most mismatched trio, with three different sets of flaws, and colored with three different shades of stubborn--are simple, uncomplicated, when it's only them three. He marvels at how everything can make sense when the three of them are together and have let things go and have made things right.
Things aren't where they should be right now, even if they are better, and Angel understands that there's only so much he and Wes can do on their own, with Cordelia present but not accounted for.
"We need you, Cordelia," Angel murmurs, not looking away from Wes.
"Very much so," Wes adds.
***
.End
Characters: Angel, Wes, Cordelia
Rating: PG
Timeline: S5 pre-You're Welcome
Note: So this? Was an idea I had a while back, and it got Jossed to hell in "You're Welcome". But, I was inspired to pick up the 1/2 page that was written and run with it.
Summary: Cordelia doesn't get much alone time.
***
The room is hidden away in the labyrinth of the fourth floor, which is the last floor that takes up the entire block before the floors begin to decrease in width and depth.
It looks nothing like a hospital room.
The walls are a dark rusty orange color. The floor is pale, blond hardwood. The curtains are a beige and orange print. There isn't a fluorescent light in sight.
Wesley took care of decorating it, because he and Cordelia used to watch "Changing Rooms" together--
"This is so much better than the American version," Cordelia commented. "I mean, these people have taste! And when they hate something? They're so cute in their British way of saying so."
"Cute? Really?" Wesley said, smiling a bit.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Not you, dumbass. Other British people."
--and he knows what she likes in a room. Lawrence Bowen's rooms are interesting and she always adored them, but with the caveat that she couldn't live in one. Graham Wynne's rooms, according to Cordelia, belong in a museum and not in someone's home. Anna Ryder Richardson should go back to decorating only children's rooms.
Linda Barker's rooms, however, always brought a certain light to Cordelia's eyes, one that was envious, sad, and adoring all at once. He entertained the notion of using Wolfram & Hart's resources to obtain Ms. Barker's services, but in the end decided against it.
Cordelia is not the same person he first met a few short years ago. He thinks that, now, she would far more appreciate his attempts at creating a Barker room than she would an actual Barker room.
***
The main, visitor entrance into Cordelia's room is made up of two doors. The outer door is a steel monstrosity that requires the entering of an eight-digit code to open. The inner door, on the other hand, is like the front door to a house. Windowed, wood, and curtained.
There are knick-knacks and personal touches all throughout the room, and Angel is responsible for them.
On the wall to Cordelia's left is a framed piece of yellow legal pad paper with a gray blob drawn on it. The doctors and nurses stare at it sometimes in Angel's presence and he ignores them. Next to it is her singed diploma from Sunnydale High School. This also elicits stares that he also ignores.
There's also a multi-windowed picture frame, filled with various pictures. Doyle's there, his Irish eyes twinkling and his lips quirked. There is a picture of Angel, Wesley and Cordelia taken at Caritas by Lorne. Simpler times. There are pictures of the others, too. All smiling down at Cordlia in her pretty, classy, and non-frilly bed.
But the Caritas picture takes center stage.
On the bedside table there's a mug that has been glued clumsily back together. It's homage to Dennis--
"What is this?" Angel asked, holding up the misshapen mug on Cordy's counter.
She peered into the room and grinned with indulgence and genuine delight. "Oh, that," she said archly. "That would be my resident ghost's attempt to fix something he broke."
Angel eyed the mug. "I think he needs more practice."
--who still inhabits Cordelia's old apartment and is almost as bad as his mother was about people moving in.
The room has been sprinkled with various bits and pieces of four years of friendships, all of which Angel found in the boxes that Fred packed up when Cordelia was first missing. Fred and Gunn weren't at all surprised by the sentimentality to be found in Cordy's closet.
Neither were Angel and Wesley, but they had traded a look filled with the weight of shared history because they each remembered a decidedly unsentimental Cordelia. One who cared little for others. One who sliced people to shreds with a sharp tongue for no reason whatsoever.
One who was theirs, and no one else's.
***
Not everyone can enter the room on the fourth floor. There is the code, of course. But even among those select few who have a code, there are times when visitation is not allowed. Times when visits are deferred to those who know Cordelia like no one else does.
Three in the afternoon until six in the evening is reserved for Wesley. It was always his and Cordelia's time together, alone in the outer offices while Angel busied himself in his private office at that first space they had.
It was Wesley's favorite time with her, because it took place after the initial round of bickering that his arrival would start between them. There was bickering, then Angel's appearance, and then discussion of cases and plans for said cases. But generally, none of the plans needed to be instituted immediately, so Cordelia and Wesley would lapse into a companionable silence broken only by random commentary from one or the other--
"God, would you look at this?" Cordelia held up a fashion magazine, the page held open to display an image of a starlet in a tight, green dress. "What was she thinking?"
Wesley tilted his head to the side. "The color quite suits her."
Cordelia snorted and slapped the magazine back down. "Maybe so. But that style? Not suited for her great big rear end. Geez."
A few minutes later, Wesley issued a sound of disgust. "Oh, really. As though anyone believes such nonsense."
"What's that?" Cordelia asked absently, her eyes lifting. She stared at the lithograph Wesley held up. "Okay, that's just gross. Is that demon--"
"Yes," Wesley confirmed with a moue of distaste. "But anyone who's studied Grol knows that Howber demons don't partake of such rituals. They're peaceful."
"What do you say we skip reading things that have disgusting pictures in them--" She closed her magazine. "--and head out for sushi?" She reached into the desk and held up a credit card. "Angel's treat?"
--that had eventually evolved into actual conversation as time passed. Well, time and events, because both of those things had served to change them.
During his allotted time, Wesley reads fashion magazines to her. Describes the pictures with a keen eye to detail that has been ingrained in him through training and circumstance. Despite visions and half-demon status, and a myriad of other things, Cordelia will always appreciate fashion. Just as she will always want to be aware of the latest Hollywood goings on. Wesley is positive of this.
He talks about the others, of course, but mostly he talks to her about Angel. Tells her of their vampire's latest crises of conscience, most recent brooding session. Spends a half hour one day commenting on Angel's new hairstyle, knowing that she would be the first to grin madly at the semi-loss of the updo. Smiles softly at her, says that their Angel is coming along nicely, and that she would be proud of him.
Proud. Despite the strangeness of what they've all agreed to. Despite what may come to pass because of the choice they've made. Despite that, when she does wake up, Wesley thinks that she will most likely turn large, brown, accusing eyes on Angel for making the choice.
***
Angel is the gatekeeper of Cordy's fourth floor room. He decides who gets access, and when they're allowed in. It's a schedule, normally, but certain days it changes for no discernable reason. At least, that's how it seems to the others when they randomly get locked out.
But it's not. Random, that is. Not in the least.
Neither Angel nor Wesley has to discuss it. It's just understood. If they're out on a case, on a mission, until just before dawn, then they go to the fourth floor. Angel makes the call as he's stalking through the marble floored halls of his building, and security flips a switch, pushes a button--or something more technologically complicated than Angel can fathom--and suddenly only two of the codes will work.
Wesley always beats him there, even if Angel gets into the building first. Which means that Wesley always gets to choose the movie they'll watch.
It used to be eggs. The after battle ritual. But things change over time. The kitchen at the Hyperion wasn't cozy, so Cordelia and Wesley would retreat into a side room while he cooked. Originally it had been a large pantry, but Cordelia set up a television with cable and a VCR in there. Along with a sofa. Angel would make the eggs, then bring in the dishes, and they would watch a movie. Eventually the eggs were left out of the equation entirely, and it was just the movie.
The various selections that line the small bookcase across from Cordelia are some of her favorites, as well as some that have recently come out that either Angel or Wesley purchases because they think she'll like them.
If Wesley decides on one of the newer selections, then they engage the Vision Impaired Track, because it describes what's going on in the movie. Angel and Wesley will watch those movies quietly, for the most part--
"...focusing in on a stemless R."
"That's not very helpful," Angel commented, frowning at the television screen.
"Hm?" Wesley murmured absently.
Angel pointed at the logo on the screen. "The description. It's for blind people, right?" Wesley nodded carefully. "Well, how will they know what an R looks like, much less a stemless R?"
Wesley set his popcorn aside. "I believe," he said slowly. "That these tracks are meant for people who have been able to see at some point, or who are only partially blind."
"Oh. Well. That makes sense, I guess."
--but only a few of the newer releases have that, however. So Angel and Wesley take turns supplying a running description of events. Sometimes they'll have to pause the movie. A lot of times, actually. It took them four hours to watch *Dirty Dancing*, mainly because Angel's narrative was stilted due to his utter dislike of the movie, and Wesley kept interrupting with his own take on it.
And when the movie is over, they tuck the blankets around her, and straighten up everything they've moved, and Wesley squeezes her hand lightly before leaving. And Angel brushes her hair from her face, kisses her forehead, and follows him out.
***
Two in the morning until four in the morning is Angel's time with Cordelia. On cases that had them researching or working until the wee hours of the morning, that strange range of two hours would find everyone weary and unfocused. Wesley always said it was because natural biorhythms are set to recharge at that time, and the human body believes it should be asleep then. Or something like that. Not being human, Angel never really put much thought into it.
But Cordelia and Angel would generally pair off about that time, her flipping listlessly through a book and forcing herself to pay attention, and Angel determined to not slow down in the search.
The medical staff says that Cordelia can hear Angel when he talks to her. Some days, he hopes that's the case. Other days he hopes it isn't.
But either way, he talks. He tells her he's finally come to terms with Wesley, and even if she probably has as much clue as Wesley does of what (never) transpired, it doesn't matter.
He tells her how awful Connor looked after killing Jasmine and how brightly beautiful he looked with his "family". He cries every once in a while and there's no shame in it because...it's Cordy--
She sat with him in his suite after Wes took Connor. For days she was just with him. When he cried silently she sometimes rubbed circles on his back, but that was all. And Angel wasn't even surprised that her sharp tongue was held in check because there was something different about Cordelia lately. Something simultaneously softer and harder in her that ran far deeper than Angel could fathom.
When he shook, Cordelia moved near him--next to him, behind him, in front of him, whichever was possible in whatever position he was in--and she would wrap her arms around him--and they were long arms with unexpected strength in them--and somehow it felt like she was holding him in his skin so that he didn't shake right out of it.
--and she's seen him at his worst. At all of his worsts, in fact. There's something comforting about that, something that makes Angel fall forward in his chair, rest his head next to her still hand, and simply be.
***
When Wes thinks back objectively over the last few years, he understands that he has possibly lifted Cordelia above and beyond reality because of where she now is. He and Angel watched Cordelia grow up and there is perhaps some manner of fraternal pride in having witnessed her maturation that colors Wes' hindsight.
What he finds strange is the sense of maternal expectation that he's inhabited Cordelia with along the way. He never would have guessed that there would ever be anything of that in her when he first met her, can hardly believe it's here now.
But here it is, and it pushes him to spend hours explaining Wes and Lilah, and all the misty whorls of gray that were part and parcel of the experience, to Cordelia's still form.
He imagines Cordelia's facial expressions as he does so, superimposes them over the serene emptiness that is constantly present, and there are times when he is so overcome by the familiarity of the imagined disdainful sneer on her face that he has to stop his tale because he is laughingcrying too hard to speak.
Wes tells Cordelia every detail there is to tell, every second spent with and without Lilah that relates to the situation, and it's the first time he's spoken about any of it, much less all of it.
And because he is explaining the subtleties that exist within that whorl of gray, it seems quite natural for him to then move onto the topic of Wolfram and Hart, to talk about being in the belly of the beast, and when he imagines the horrifically incredulous look that would most likely be on Cordelia's face, he has his first moment of misgivings about what they've done. Well, not his first, per se, but the strongest sense of misgiving. Because he and Cordelia have spoken of this before--
Cordelia and Wes sat at the table in their temporary offices, Gunn having already left for the night, and they were both exhausted in more ways than physical. Wes desperately wished for a drink but he had taken painkillers earlier for yet another injury and he didn't want to mix the two. Cordelia was holding her head in her hands, still trying to massage away the effects of the vision she'd had earlier in the day.
"I miss him, Wes," she said quietly.
"So do I," Wes said just as quietly.
"You know, a part of me--a small, tiny part of me--is starting to wonder if he's got the right idea."
Wes sighed and closed his eyes briefly, considering their pain wracked forms and the hours it had taken to save an elderly woman from her newly sired grandson today. He idly wondered just how much of Wolfram and Hart's organization that Angel might have crippled in that same period of time, then resolutely pushed that thought aside.
"It's not the way," Wes told Cordelia, and she looked up, face drawn and pale, eyes underscored with faint bruising that indicated she was getting as little sleep of late as Wes himself was.
"No, it's not," she said decisively. "I just hope he figures it out before it destroys him."
"As do I."
--and Wes isn't entirely sure that everything has changed enough, really changed enough, that this is now the way to go about their mission.
Wes leaves Cordelia's room that night feeling like the weight of Lilah has been lifted from his shoulders, that her ghost has been exorcised in a way that Lilah's words and actions in the file room couldn't achieve.
"Thank you, Cordelia," Wes breathes.
***
It's taken months for Angel to get to this point, to be able to sit at Cordelia's bedside and tell her just how angry and hurt he was by the things she did that she didn't really do. It's confusing and he thinks she'd probably be snickering at his stumbling confusion of pronouns when he goes over it all, but he goes into all of it.
Her rejection of him in the courtyard after the botched memory regaining spell, her running to Connor, her sleeping with Connor, and all the other terrible things done by the being that wore Cordelia's form like it was Her own.
And then he falls silent, one hand absently entangled with one of Cordelia's, and he apologizes. For not noticing that something was wrong until it was too late, for letting her down in every conceivable way, for everything that was his fault, for his culpability in bringing her here to this bed with the tubes and the machines.
Her eyes don't so much as flicker, but Angel knows it's okay, knows that she forgives him. Cordelia understands the messes that come up in the midst of the mission, understands that what they do can seep into their lives like poison and cripple them at times--
"I hope you realize it wasn't only about the clothes," Cordelia said as Angel walked up behind her in the courtyard.
"I know," Angel acknowledged and sat next to her on the bench. He fingered the armful of material she was still clutching to her chest. "But they are really nice clothes."
She grinned at him, wide and bright and happy. "Oh, yeah."
"It was about proving I was sorry, about having to pay a price," Angel said with a shrug, and Cordelia nodded emphatically. "And about getting really nice clothes," he added, and she nodded even more emphatically and brought a handful of silk to her cheek to rub it against her skin.
"Things are going to happen, Angel," she said after a while. "We're all going to screw up and be asses somewhere along the line, and it's going to suck. We've just got to remember to make it right with each other."
--and he feels better for having made it as right as he can. Then he squeezes Cordy's hand and tells her that he forgives her. He does it even though she wasn't the one who did any of those things, because he knows that somewhere inside of her she blames herself, she bears the guilt, and she needs to know that it's okay.
"But, you should feel free to wake up and make it right yourself," he says thickly.
***
It's another all nighter and Wes and Angel are in Cordelia's room, but this time they don't watch a movie. Instead they talk about the early days and they include Cordelia in the conversation and argue over whose side she would take if she were awake.
Angel can't remember the last time it was so easy to be in a room with Wes, the last time it felt comfortable to speak to him, look at him, and he smiles for no reason whatsoever. Wes smiles back at him, the troubled miasma of memories no longer swimming in his eyes quite so obviously.
And Angel wonders how it is that the three of them--the most mismatched trio, with three different sets of flaws, and colored with three different shades of stubborn--are simple, uncomplicated, when it's only them three. He marvels at how everything can make sense when the three of them are together and have let things go and have made things right.
Things aren't where they should be right now, even if they are better, and Angel understands that there's only so much he and Wes can do on their own, with Cordelia present but not accounted for.
"We need you, Cordelia," Angel murmurs, not looking away from Wes.
"Very much so," Wes adds.
***
.End