Hybrids: Los Angeles
Title: Hybrids: Los Angeles
Author: kanedax
Recipient: intl_princess
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Rating: PG-15 for language
Summary: Angel can’t save the world every time.
Characters/Pairings: Angel/Cordelia, The Host, OMVs (Original Male Vampires)
Notes: A continuation of Hybrids, a story written for intl_princess for apocalyptothon. It takes place in AtS season two, between Thin Dead Line and Reprise. I don’t own these characters, they belong to Joss Whedon, blah blah blah.
Previous Chapter (Hybrids)
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Jamie's head jerked up so hard that the back of his skull slammed into the slimy concrete wall behind him. He grunted in pain, rubbing the back of his head with one hand while the other caught his Uzi before it slid off his lap.
"Resting my eyes," Jamie said to Craig, who was approaching to take over Jamie's shift.
"Yeah, right," said Craig, slinging his AK-47 to his back and tapping a cigarette from its pack.
"Like I'm the only one who nods off on guard duty," said Jamie, his knees cracking as he came to his feet. "You got a spare?"
Craig snorted laughter, his face briefly illuminated in the dank darkness of the sewer. "Hell, no," he said, shaking out the match and tossing it into a nearby puddle. "These fuckers are stale enough as is. Few weeks from now, there won't be any smokes left in the world, I figure. Gotta hoard em while you can."
"Sure there'll be smokes," said Jamie. "It's all the humans that're dead, not the tobacco."
"Tobacco grows in the sun, numbnuts."
"Grows in the sun, sure," said Jamie with a shrug. "Doesn't mean it has to be pulled in the sun. I guarantee there's some entrepreneurial vamp in Georgia figuring out a way to do some moonlight harvesting as we speak."
"Georgia," said Craig. "All the way on the other side of the country. You know what the roads look like around here. They ain't gonna be better in Atlanta. How're they gonna get the smokes here?"
"We'll get the roads cleaned up soon enough," said Jamie. "Once we wake up and realize we own this country now, we'll turn it around. Get it the way we want it. The way it should be."
"If we don't starve to death first..."
To that Jamie had no response. He had heard of of some bleeding-heart pacifist vamps living on pig's blood. Cow's blood. Unclean blood. But he just couldn't picture going long without a decent suck of human. Type A Positive sounded like fucking tenderloin to him right now.
But with the human race on its last legs, that supply was dwindling fast.
"So what's the word?" he asked instead.
"What word?"
"You know, the meeting?" said Jamie. "The one that I had to miss because I was sitting out here doing my job?"
"Sleepin', more like..." Craig muttered.
"The raid?"
"Dude, we ain't supposed to be talkin' about the raid," said Craig, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. "Especially out here on the border."
"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Jamie.
"There might be spies," said Craig mysteriously. "Scouts, like. Ninja vamps, or whatever."
"Are you on crack?" Jamie said with a shake of his head. "Look, if we're gonna be goin' after the Vipers tonight..."
"Such a great name, by the way," said Craig, blowing smoke through his nose. "Why can't we be the Vipers, or something kick-ass like that?"
"I like the Trailblazers," said Jamie. "It's sophisticated. Telling. We're blazing trails in our soon-to-be domination of the planet."
"Whatever..."
"If we're going after the Vipers tonight, then why would we care about being heard? The border between our territory and theirs is up on Wilshire. We're way over on the other side. The only vamps we have to worry about at this vent are Doomtaskers, and they won't care about what we're doing to the Vipers."
"I spose you're right," said Craig. "Any Viper who'd give two shits'd have to work their way through three other territories to get here."
"Exactly," said Jamie, pointing his Uzi idly. "So what's the plan? We moving tonight?"
"Nope," said Craig with a smirk. "Tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow... What?" Jamie gaped. "Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Two pm, yup."
"Are they insane? Daylight?"
"They won't be expecting it," Craig chuckled. "And Crystal found a stash of Hazmat suits off Pico and La Cienega. We can just waltz right in and pick em off one by one."
"Damn," Jamie said, a grin spreading. "Teach those fuckers holding Cedar-Sinai to hold back the blood bank from the rest of us. We get to eat!"
"Gonna be large," said Craig, shaking his head. "Crystal, man. Whoda thunk?"
"No shit," said Jamie. "She's an explorer, no doubt. The very model of a Trailblazer."
"Alright, well, now that I've broken protocol by tellin' you all that, you'd better get out of here," said Craig, flipping his rifle back into his hands. "Get some rest. We're gonna need it tomorrow."
"Oh, hell, yeah," said Jamie. "Man, I'm giddy."
"Get goin'," said Craig, motioning back with the barrel, but paused when he heard a splashing down the tunnel. "Or maybe not quite yet."
"What do you think?" Jamie asked, his voice dropping as both he and Craig pointed their weapons into the tunnel, darkness lit only by shafts of sunlight from intermittently-placed rain gutters. "Demon?"
"Sure hope so," Craig whispered back. Jamie heard the click from his side as Craig released the safety from his semi-automatic. "This'll sure work a lot better if it is. Grab a bottle, though, just to be safe."
Jamie nodded, his head never turning as he knelt down, feeling around behind him until his fingers gripped a glass bottle of Holy Water.
"Careful with that shit," Craig whispered.
"Course I will," Jamie replied, handling the bottle like dynamite as a shape began to form ahead of them. Definitely human of some sort, which eliminated about half of the demons currently haunting the surface and sewers of Los Angeles. And as the figure approached, it noticed a narrow beam of light streaking down the middle of the tunnel, formed from a hole in a manhole cover. It twisted out of the way of the sunlight, and both Jamie and Craig nodded in understanding.
"Password," said Craig to the figure.
"I don't know a password," he replied. "I'm just trying to pass through."
"Yeah, right," said Jamie. "This is Trailblazer territory, friend. If you're not one of us, that makes you forfeit."
"I'm only trying to see a friend," the vampire replied. His face was still in shadow, but there was enough light behind him to see him run his hand through his dark spiky hair. "This is the fastest way there, and I can't go up to the surface until sundown. Now I don't want any trouble from you boys, so you'll let me pass through and we'll call it fair."
"Your big shiny sword says otherwise," said Craig, motioning to the glistening steel in the vamp's other hand. "Now if you don't want a face full of Holy and six hundred rounds a minute in your gut, you'll turn around and find another way through. Bullets can't kill us, but I guaran-damn-tee that they'll hurt like a motherfucker."
"See, I can't go for that," said the vamp with a hissing intake of air. "Guns cause noise, and that'll be too much trouble for all of us. And I probably misspoke earlier..."
"Oh shit," Jamie breathed as the vampire's face was finally revealed and he knew that his immortal life was coming to an end. "Oh shit oh shit Craig oh shit it's him."
"What I meant," said Angel, raising his sword to his shoulder, "is that you don't want any trouble from me."
"Whatever," said Craig with a snarl, his face shifting as he raised his rifle. "Fuckin' waste him!"
---------
One hour and two dozen Trailblazers later, Angel walked down the darkened hallway of the condominium complex. The tip of his sword's blade dragged along the carpet along with his left foot, which was causing him to limp slightly.
Vamp was right, Angel thought as he clutched his bleeding left thigh. Bullets can't kill me, but damn this hurts.
The Trailblazers had gotten in a few lucky shots, to be sure. They seemed to be ready for a fight, unlike the so-called Doomtaskers that Angel had cleaned out on the way. One Blazer had plugged him in the leg, another in the right shoulder. He had been splashed on his right hand with Holy Water and was bleeding from his forehead. Probably from the double-edged axe he had ducked, but he couldn't be sure.
Angel had been debating taking some of their weapons with him. Considering it had only been a week since the plague had hit they had looked like a well-oiled machine. The realistic part of Angel, said that any piece of that military-issued equipment would help him in the future. Hell, that small voice that oftened sound like Angelus loved the idea of walking around town loaded to bear. But the classicist in him, the one that loved the sound of metal on metal, the wooden stake piercing the breastbone, didn't want to touch any weapon that he was unfamiliar with. It was dangerous to put a weapon in your hand without training first, and neither Angel, Angelus, nor Liam of old had ever felt comfortable with a musket.
Besides, actually reaching that level, crossing that line where gunpowder and machine oil were necessary, would be admitting that things had gotten bad. Things would never be the same. And he just wasn't ready to admit that yet.
To admit it would mean...
Forget it, he thought. Straighten up. You have a job to do, and you didn't slice through a small army to give up now.
But, oh, how easy it was to just admit defeat as he approached the door. After all, what were the odds?
Already feeling fresh dribbles of blood as he released his thigh, Angel knocked with his bloody left hand. His right was still feeling tender from the Water, and he really didn't want to think about slamming it too hard onto anything.
There would be no answer, of course. After all,
(she's dead)
she wouldn't answer right away. She's an officer. A very defensive one, at that.
"Kate?" Angel called out. "Kate, are you there? It's me, Angel."
And with everything that's happened, there's no way she'd open up to a stranger.
"Kate, could you please invite me in?" Angel continued. "I just need to make sure you're fine."
Hell, she could have left town. With her dad passed on, her department giving her problems, she really had no reason to stay. Maybe she thought it was just a local
(she's dead)
virus, and she got out before she caught.
"Kate?"
Damn it, he thought, just do your hero thing and get it over with.
"Kate, I'm kicking down the door," that small glimmer of hope called out. "You don't have to invite me in, I just want to see if you're okay.
(she's dead)
I promise I'll pay for the door."
Idiot. Just do it.
He stepped back, hoping that his left leg would give him enough strength, and pistoned his right leg out. The wooden frame exploded as the deadbolt and chain blasted out, and the door flew open on one remaining hinge. He took a step inside without an invitation,
(she's dead she's dead if Cordelia’s dead then Kate’s definitely dead)
knowing that Kate wasn't here, couldn't be here, she had to have left town, and this apartment didn't belong to her anymore.
(wake up she's dead just like the others like Cordy and Wes and Buffy and they're all dead)
Angel looked around the living room, looking for any signs of movement, any signs that her belongs had been packed up and brought with her, ignoring the bedroom, ignoring the bathroom, ignoring the smell of decay that was already flirting with his nostrils, after all, the entire town smelled like this there were millions of bodies
(like Kate's)
sitting in their houses, their apartments, their cars, rotting and stinking and she couldn't be dead because she was all that was left, everyone else was dead and he couldn't have failed all of them he just couldn't--
But there she was. Her body, still dressed from a day at work, sprawled face-down in the hall between the living room and the bathroom. She was obviously not breathing, obviously dead, and Angel couldn't flip her over to look at her face, couldn't stand to look at one more swollen, purple face.
But he did it anyway. She wouldn't want this to be her final resting place.
So, as he did for Cordelia Chase, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and Charles Gunn, Angel prepared Kate Lockley for burial.
---------
Angel was a coward. Although no one would ever agree with this sentiment, he believed it himself. After all, how else could he ignore his best friend in her hour of need if not for sheer cowardice?
When the virus began to spread, when the signs were just signalling minor plague instead of the end of the human race, Angel went to Wesley's apartment first. Obviously, he wasn't there. How could he, when there was so much to be done, so much to research?
So Angel found the listing for the new Angel Investigations in the phone book. There he found Wesley. He had already passed, leaning forward in his chair, resting on a pile of research. One particular codex was warped and discolored, and Angel had the horrible suspicion that Wesley had vomited onto it before finally breathing his last breath.
And of course Angel was a coward. So Charles was next. When the gauge turned from minor plague to MAJOR PLAGUE, Gunn would have left Angel Investigations to help those who he felt needed it the most. He returned to Gunn's old neighborhood. Angel's trip to the Badlands proved to be an adventure in itself, as the roads were blocked to all but foot traffic, stalled cars, idle cars piled five or six deep at some intersections. If that weren't enough, Los Angeles itself was quickly falling into total anarchy. Gunn's section of inner city LA was no different, with block after block of torched houses and crashed vehicles lighting the night sky and as many bodies dead of vampire bites and gunfire as from the virus.
Angel wasn't sure he'd ever be able to find his friend in this madness. But, unfortunately, he was easy to find. Arriving at the headquarters for Gunn's posse, Angel found a sight too gruesome to forget.
Unlike most buildings in the area, the warehouse was unburned. The vamps wanted to leave a clearer message. Corpses, naked and desecrated, lined the outer walls of the building, hung from the roof by their ankles. Lit by the surrounding fires, Angel discovered that many of them were, of course, killed by vampires: some necks coated in blood, others with their jugulars completely torn from their throats. The others were victims of the plague, found by the vampires and strung up in order to increase the total body count. Words were scrawled on many of them in blood. This is our world now one read. Death to humans read another. Whose laffing now? read a third.
Angel eventually found Charles Gunn amongst the hanging dead. His face and neck showed the tell-tale signs of the virus. Angel couldn't decide if he should be grateful Gunn had died of the sickness instead of being drained, or if Gunn would be angry for dying in a bed somewhere.
Angel liked to believe that Gunn had gone out fighting. Died on the street, battling with his last breath.
And those vampires. Those disgusting, psychotic...
Angel fought back his rage. He knew that it was useless right now. The vamps weren't going anywhere. There was somewhere else he needed to be. Someone else he needed to see.
But he was a coward.
So he went hunting.
Angel spent the rest of the night hunting and killing vampires in Gunn's old neighborhood. As he felt dawn approach, he returned to the hotel, believing that it was one of the safest places left in the city. That night, surely, he would pay his visit.
Instead, he returned that night to continue his hunt in the Badlands. Thirty vamps seemed the number for that night, but he couldn't be sure. He had lost count after a while, allowing himself to fall into the red haze of battle, for once grateful that Angelus could show his face, allowing Angel hide away from the pain.
But sunrise came once again, and Angel finally did what needed to be done.
---------
"Can I come in?"
Cordelia Chase stared at him wearily from across the threshold. In the moonlight she looked like hell warmed over, with a heavy woolen bathrobe around her body, fuzzy slippers on her feet, and heavy black bags under her eyes. The skin under her jawline was a faint purple color, and her face glistened sickly from what Angel could only guess were night sweats.
"You don't need an invitation to come in," she replied, leaning against the doorframe for support. Her voice was husky and cracking from hours, maybe days of coughing and hacking. "You've been invited before."
"I know." Angel wanted to reach out and help her stand, but after everything they had been through before the virus hit, he still wasn't sure if she would let him or if she'd slam the door in his face, end of the world or not. Cordelia looked at him in silence, and Angel could see that debate raging in her eyes.
"You hurt me, you know," she said finally. "You hurt us."
"I know," Angel repeated.
"A lot."
"I know. And I'm sorry."
"Come in if you're coming in," she said, stepping back. "It's chilly out. Leave the door open and I'll catch a cold."
Angel couldn't help but chuckle slightly at Cordelia's morbid humor, but the smile faded quickly as she doubled over in a booming cough. "How are you doing?" he asked, regretting the question as soon as it came out of his lips. The small puddle of mucus on the floor was all the answer he needed.
"Have you seen Wes and Gunn?" she asked, pressing her hands against the wall as she pushed her way into the living room.
"Maybe you should lie down," he said, finally willing himself to put a hand on her arm as she tottered on her feet. "Get some rest."
"I've been resting for three days," said Cordelia, working her way to the couch and plopping down onto the cushions. "Have you seen Wes and Gunn?"
"Can I get you anything? Juice? Soup? Your gas stove should still work."
"Stop avoiding the question."
"I saw them."
"And?"
Angel paused, trying to find the easiest way to tell her. Of course, there was no easy way to tell her.
In the end, he didn't need to say anything. Cordelia saw it in his face, and when her eyes dropped to her lap her eyes were sad, but dry.
"I knew it," she said. "I knew they had to be. They... They didn't come here, they would have come here to see me, I was sick first and Wesley sent me home when we all thought it was just the flu and I should never have left them alone."
Angel nodded, at a complete loss as to what to say.
"Poor Virginia," Cordelia said, the tears now beginning to flow. "You... You took care of them, right?"
"I did."
Cordelia nodded. "Good," she said. "And you'll take care of me? When this disease kills me, too?"
"You're going to be fine," Angel lied, sitting down on the couch beside her. "You're still alive. You're sick, but you're not..."
"Don't kid a kidder, kid," Cordelia said with a sniff. "The PTB don't want me to die. They don't want their link to disappear. So they're fighting it. Whatever power it is that gave Doyle the visions, the power he passed to me, it's fighting for me."
"That's good..."
"But it's not enough," she continued. "The link to the PTB is powerful, sure. It's mystical, definitely. But it's not enough. I'm still human, and I can feel the virus winning. Taking over. I can feel it--"
She was cut off again with a series of alarmingly powerful coughs. Angel reached over and put his hand on her back until she settled down. Eventually she sat back up, and Angel heard a click in her throat when she swallowed down whatever saliva she had coughed up.
"I think I might need to lie down after all," Cordelia said with a weak smile.
---------
The next nine hours, the last nine hours of Cordelia Chase's life, were the longest and shortest of Angel's long life.
Three hours after Angel had arrived, the two were in Cordelia's bedroom. Cordelia was tucked in bed, napping lightly under every blanket in the house. Most of her remaining hours would be spent kicking them off and pulling them back up as her body temperature fluxuated wildly. Angel was dutifully sitting in a chair beside her. She had given him a pile of reading material, most of which consisted of back issues of Cosmopolitan. Even if he hadn’t felt slightly nauseous at the articles, Angel could think of nothing he would less want to do. Instead he spent the hours simply watching her, watching her breathing, dreading the moment when she would simply stop.
"Have you heard from Buffy?" Angel jerked out of his reverie when Cordelia spoke, apparently coming out of sleep so gently that he never noticed the shift.
"I haven't tried," he replied. "I've been so busy that I've barely thought of her."
"Liar."
Angel sighed. He had thought of Buffy. Of course he had. But he also knew that she was hours away, and that he could do nothing to help her, as much as he wanted to.
Besides, if he had a choice he'd rather be here than in Sunnydale, and this sudden realization, this understanding that his feelings for Buffy and for Cordelia had changed so much in the last year and a half, left him numb.
She's probably dead, anyway, the cold realist in him interjected. Another corpse for the pile. Buffy and Dawnie and Joyce and everyone.
"You can call her if you want," Cordelia continued. "I won't mind."
"I don't want to leave you," Angel said, meaning it.
"Phone's just over there, dummy," she said, motioning to her vanity. "If I die while you're five feet away I'll throw a pillow at your head."
Angel knew it was a joke, but it hit too close to the truth for him to even crack a smile. He reluctantly stood and walked across to the phone. As he picked up the handset, the bedroom door creak open behind him.
"Thank you, Phantom Dennis," he heard Cordelia say. Turning around, Angel saw a tray float in through the door, a steaming pot of tea perched upon it, and rest on Cordelia's bedstand.
You have a lot more company now, Dennis, Angel thought helplessly, feeling a chill up his spine with the thought, and forced himself to turn back to the phone. He put the receiver to his ear, but heard nothing but silence.
"Line's dead," he said, hanging up. "Looks like we're powerless and phoneless."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Yeah," Angel said, flopping back down in the chair.
"She's fine, you know," said Cordelia, taking Angel's hand.
"Have another vision?"
"I don't need to," she replied. "Buffy's tough. Annoying, whiny, and scary single-minded, but she's tough. The TV was saying that not everyone's getting sick, and it would be so just my luck if she lived and I died."
---------
"It doesn't have to be this way."
"Hmm?" Cordelia lifted her head from the pillow. It was three hours later, and she was looking worse and worse. Angel, with the assistance of Phantom Dennis, had thrown together a bowl of chicken soup and a plate of crackers. Cordy had only been able to eat one spoonful and one half of a saltine before her throat pained her too much to swallow any more. Her eyes now had a sunken look, and the stains around her jawline were growing darker as the sun lifted higher in the sky outside. Her hair, normally her biggest vanity, was matted down. The covers were currently kicked away, and her nightgown was slick with cold sweat.
Angel swallowed. "We can take you somewhere," he said slowly. "Somewhere where you can be safe. Somewhere where no one can get to you and where you... where you can't get to anyone. Can't hurt anyone."
"Angel," Cordelia said, her eyes narrowing. "Angel, what are you talking about?"
"I could find an Orb of Thesulah," he continued. "They're easy enough to find. You could still keep your soul."
"No," Cordelia said sharply. "Angel, you can't seriously be offering--"
"I offered it to Darla," said Angel. "She turned it down, she wanted to die the way she was supposed to, to live her second chance the way it was meant to be lived. But you... You shouldn't die like this, Cordy, you don't deserve to die like this, you don't have to--"
"Angel, stop!"
"Cordy..." Angel insisted as Cordelia erupted into another bout of coughs.
"No," she rasped, knocking his comforting hand away. "No, Angel. Don't be an idiot."
"I don't want to lose you."
Cordelia stared him down, and then allowed a small smile to cross her face. "That's sweet, Angel, but that's your soul talking. The one you've been bitching and moaning about for the last century."
"I've had a lot of sins to bear," Angel shrugged. "You won't have that."
"Angel," Cordelia continued, "You want to be human, right? You want to fulfill the Shanshu? Become the Champion, live again?"
"Yes," Angel replied cautiously.
"And that means you want to be a mortal. To die a mortal, even if it means dying of a heart attack the day you come back to life. Or of disease. Like Darla."
"It does..."
"Then let me have that, too," Cordelia said, taking his hand. "I don't want to be above the human race. Let me die with the whole stupid bunch of them."
"I don't want to be alone," Angel said. "Cordy, I can't lose you again. I don't know what I'm going to do if--"
"That's more like it," Cordelia chuckled. "That's one of the rough things about having a soul. You want to help others, and you want to make yourself feel better, and you don't really care about the consequences. Angel, if you turn me into a vampire, even one with a soul, you'll know that you killed me. I'll know that you killed me. You'll regret it, I'll regret it. It'll be a whole regretapalooza."
Angel sighed, falling back in the chair. He had dealt with loss since getting his soul back, of course. But nothing of this magnitude. Of course he was emotional, of course he wanted to make rash decisions, even if it meant ignoring the consequences later.
"I'm the Champion," he said. "Saving people's my thing. I need to... I need to save someone tonight. I can't just let everyone die, especially someone that I love."
And there it was. The words came out before Angel even knew they were going to be said, and he could almost see them hanging between the two of them, waiting for someone to acknowledge their existence.
Cordelia's face lit up, almost erasing the ravages of the disease, still so new and so potent that no one had even had time to give it a name. In that one moment, although Angel knew it was nothing but a pipe dream, Cordelia looked like she could get out of bed and live another one hundred years.
"I love you, too," she said. "Funny how deathbeds make you figure stuff like that out, huh?"
Once again, she was cut off with another fit of coughs, these worse than the others. "Well," she said, looking at her hand as she pulled it away from her mouth. "That just killed the fantasy, didn't it?"
Angel looked at her hand, and was only somewhat shocked to see that she had coughed up blood this time.
"I'm not going to make it, Angel," she said. "I'm going to die, and it sucks through a Silly Straw, and I don't want you to try to save me. Besides, I don't know how long I could survive without my tanning addiction kicking in."
"What can I do, then?" Angel asked. "Tell me what I can do for you."
Cordelia's brow furrowed in thought. "You're not sick, right?"
"I'm not."
"You said vampires aren't getting sick?"
"I haven't seen one yet," he said. Cordelia nodded, and pushed herself to the far side of the bed.
"Then snuggle with the sickie," she said. "That's what you can do for me."
Angel nodded, removing his shoes and climbing onto the bed, slowly but without reservation. Cordelia pressed herself to his side, and he didn't mind the sickly sweat one bit.
Later they kissed, and if they felt a spark pass between them, it surely wasn't the visions transferring to another host.
And if, even later, their lovemaking took strength that Cordelia could have used to fight the disease, she didn't mind. It would have only delayed the inevitable, anyway. This was something they wanted, something they needed before she left, and they felt fine doing it.
But if Angelus was hoping for that moment of true happiness, he would be greatly disappointed. Angel and Cordelia loved each other, consummated their love that day, but happiness was impossible with the cloud of death hanging over them both.
The cloud descended. After their lovemaking, and a final hour of talking and holding, Cordelia Chase fell asleep.
And never awoke.
---------
"'Mandy' again?"
"It's what I know."
"You've been around for almost three hundred years. You do know other songs."
"I haven't had time to think of any others."
"Hm," The Host leaned against the bar and scanned Caritas's packed tables. "Ever since this excrement hit the proverbial fan, half of my clients have been singing Eric Carmen and the other half have been doing R.E.M. Either 'Everybody Hurts' or 'It's the End of the World As We Know It', depending on their view. I could use a little Manilow."
"Aaaaall byyyy myyyyseeeeelf," a four-armed, plated demon was currently crooning on stage, confirming the Host's assessment.
"But maybe something peppier?" the Host asked. "'Copacobana'? 'Daybreak'?"
"Don't wanna be aaaaall byyyy myyyyyseeeelf!" the demon continued, screeching as he climbed the ladder.
"Oh, Lord have mercy," the Host said, flinching. "The boy has spirit, I'll give him that. Most of them do. But if one in thirty had Eric's pipes I wouldn't have to drink so much."
"I'll sing what I need to sing," Angel told the green demon. "I'll do what I need to do."
"You just don't have your heart in it, sugarcakes," said the Host, taking a sip of his drink and shuddering.
"I don't feel like singing," Angel admitted.
"You know," the Host said, looking at the small pink drink, "the Apocalypse is a horrible, horrible thing. So many dead, so many good voices lost."
"Who could sing after all of this?"
"But I'll miss Ramone most of all," the Host continued with a sigh. "The man could make a Sea Breeze that would send you to Judgment Day with a skip in your step."
"Just give me the microphone so you can tell me where I need to go, what I need to kill."
The Host turned back to Angel and shook his head. "An attitude like that will get you nowhere, sweetie," he said, setting his drink down on the bar. "I have a waiting list a mile long, and I don't think many of these fine young demons would approve of you butting in line just to find out which one of them meets your sharp pointy sword."
"I've lost everyone," Angel said, his patience wearing thin. "Wes, Gunn, Kate. I lost Cordy. I told her I loved her, she told me she loved me, and then she died."
"Tragic, really," said the Host, patting Angel's hand. "There should be a play."
"I've lost more than any of these people," Angel continued.
"You lost the world," said the demon. "You had your prophecy, you had your opportunity to have a second chance, and you blew it. That's what this all boils down to, isn't it?"
"Does it matter anymore?"
"It might," said the Host. "Listen here, Tall Dark and Brooding. Apocalypses almost happen all the time, and they just don't almost happen in LA or the Hellmouth. Eventually it was going to happen somewhere in the world, and the odds were that you wouldn't be there when it did. Besides, have you ever considered what could happen if you become human now? You'd die with the rest of them. And I know you don't want that, or else you would have fallen on your stake or driven to San Diego for some beautiful sunshine days ago. I say good riddance to your prophecy. You still have other work to do, and you need to be here to do it."
"How do you know?" Angel asked. "I haven't sung."
"I heard you practicing on the way in," said the Host. "That's all I needed. I've doled out hundreds, maybe thousands of pieces of sage-like wisdom in the last week, and you're one of the few that have rung out like Sunday church bells. But I still think you should step up there. Singing can be very therapeutic. We keep so much bottled up inside, and singing has a way of releasing those feelings that we wouldn't let out otherwise. There's this demon, name of Sweet, who--"
"So where do I need to be?" Angel asked. "What do I need to do?"
"You need to stay right here," said the Host. "There's still big bad evil brewing in this town, and you're usually the one to fight it, aren't you?"
"Like what?"
"Like I don't know," said the demon, adjusting his bright turquoise jacket. "I'm learning some new things about being an empath. One of them is that when there are fewer minds and souls out there it becomes harder to find the links. It's muddier than it was before."
"Muddier..." Angel said with a sigh.
"But you could piece something together," said the Host. "You usually do, with or without my advice."
"I usually have Cordelia," Angel said, and the thought of her loss once again stabbed him.
"You were just fine before without a link to the Powers," said the Host. "You'll figure something out. Besides, you won't be alone."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there will be others," said the Host. "I'm reading five of them. Three from one direction, two from another, all with you on their mind as a destination."
"Who?" Angel said, sitting up. "Who are they?"
"I don't know," said the Host. "Like I said, it's muddy. But there's a girl."
"Buffy!" Angel exclaimed.
"Maybe?" the Host shrugged. "All I know is that the Powers are focusing on her. She's pivotal. But I just don't know how. There's a lot of evil swirling around both groups, and for all I know they're all coming here to put a stake in you."
"It has to be Buffy," said Angel, hope springing forth for the first time. "It has to be."
"I don't know when, I don't know who, I don't know how or where. All I know is that you stay here and they'll find you eventually. Here endeth the prophecy." With that, the Host slugged down the rest of his drink and returned his attention to the stage, where the plated demon was just finishing up his ballad to tepid applause.
"Thanks, Host," said Angel.
"Please, call me Lorne," the green horned demon replied with a wave of his hand. "Are you sure you don't want to go up and sing?"
---------
CONGRATULATIONS! WE DID IT!
The advertisement, freshly posted on the bus shelter, caught Angel's eye as he wandered down the dark streets of Los Angeles. On it was a picture of a Sluggoth demon, a bright smile on its face and a hard hat perched on its head. He stood in front of what appeared to be an electric generator.
Times have been tough, the ad read. But its now time to achieve the destiny we so richly deserve. And with over one hundred branches worldwide, Wolfram & Hart will be there every step of the way, rebuilding this world the way you want it.
Angel flinched as reality slapped him across the face. This world would come back together again. Of course it would. The power would be restored, the roads would be cleared, the bodies disposed of. As Mussolini said, the trains would run on time. And Angel would bet any amount of now-worthless money that those one hundred cities with Wolfram & Hart branches would be the first to thrive.
And Washington? London? Berlin? Government would also find its way back, with demons and vampires in the foreground and Wolfram & Hart once again pulling all the strings.
Wolfram & Hart & You. Together for a brighter future.
Not if I have anything to say about it, Angel thought as he continued his walk back to the Hyperion. His limp had faded considerably since his fight with the Trailblazers three days ago. The visit to Caritas yesterday evening had slightly brightened his mood, which he had thought had reached midnight-level darkness. That helped numb the pain, and he knew it only helped with the healing process.
He had passed at least a dozen vampires on this particular walk around Los Angeles, and maybe twenty demons of various breeds. Staked four vamps and beheaded one demon. Only the troublemakers. Angel was quickly learning that, despite his hopes, humans were lost. They still existed; Angel could see their remnants, smell their residue. But they were the vast minority. This was the world of the demon now, and the best that he could do was play the policeman.
Besides, he had bigger fish to fry. Was Lindsey still alive? Lilah? How many employees of Wolfram & Hart were human? How many were given immunity to whatever had been released?
How many could Angel kill before they took him down?
There was no way that Angel could be the only one left in this city who hated Wolfram & Hart. They were one-hundred percent evil, and Angel had had enough experiences to know that the same couldn't be said about all demons. He could find some support in demons and vampires who wanted to live their lives without the firm breathing down their necks.
It would be hard, of course. Wolfram & Hart owned this town before the demons owned it. Now you'd have problems sneezing wrong without them hearing about it. Hell, he had already heard the rumors that Lorne might be strongarmed into closing Caritas. It may be neutral ground, but Wolfram & Hart were the types to believe that if you're not with them then you're against them.
Angel was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't recognize the faint glow in the Hyperion's windows, didn't hear the faint murmur of voices as he approached the front door.
He did, however, see the candle glowing on the table of the Hyperion Hotel's lobby when he entered. Did see the two bodies huddled around it, did hear their voices cut off as they turned to see him.
He did see Buffy Summers and her sister both stand at his arrival. Their faces were thinner than he remembered them, the bags under their eyes darker, and he supposed a week of hard travel and canned goods would do that to anyone.
"Well, lookie who we have here," a third voice slurred from outside of the candle's glow. "Thought it'd be too lucky for you to get staked before we got here." Angel turned to see Spike leaning against one of the lobby's support beams, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.
"Angel," Buffy said faintly.
"If I had known you'd be here so soon I would have put on coffee," Angel said with a smirk.
Buffy ran towards him, throwing herself into his embrace, and as he felt her tears on his neck and his own on his face Angel couldn't help but think of the song he had peformed at Caritas.
"Looks like we made it."
Author: kanedax
Recipient: intl_princess
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Rating: PG-15 for language
Summary: Angel can’t save the world every time.
Characters/Pairings: Angel/Cordelia, The Host, OMVs (Original Male Vampires)
Notes: A continuation of Hybrids, a story written for intl_princess for apocalyptothon. It takes place in AtS season two, between Thin Dead Line and Reprise. I don’t own these characters, they belong to Joss Whedon, blah blah blah.
Previous Chapter (Hybrids)
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Jamie's head jerked up so hard that the back of his skull slammed into the slimy concrete wall behind him. He grunted in pain, rubbing the back of his head with one hand while the other caught his Uzi before it slid off his lap.
"Resting my eyes," Jamie said to Craig, who was approaching to take over Jamie's shift.
"Yeah, right," said Craig, slinging his AK-47 to his back and tapping a cigarette from its pack.
"Like I'm the only one who nods off on guard duty," said Jamie, his knees cracking as he came to his feet. "You got a spare?"
Craig snorted laughter, his face briefly illuminated in the dank darkness of the sewer. "Hell, no," he said, shaking out the match and tossing it into a nearby puddle. "These fuckers are stale enough as is. Few weeks from now, there won't be any smokes left in the world, I figure. Gotta hoard em while you can."
"Sure there'll be smokes," said Jamie. "It's all the humans that're dead, not the tobacco."
"Tobacco grows in the sun, numbnuts."
"Grows in the sun, sure," said Jamie with a shrug. "Doesn't mean it has to be pulled in the sun. I guarantee there's some entrepreneurial vamp in Georgia figuring out a way to do some moonlight harvesting as we speak."
"Georgia," said Craig. "All the way on the other side of the country. You know what the roads look like around here. They ain't gonna be better in Atlanta. How're they gonna get the smokes here?"
"We'll get the roads cleaned up soon enough," said Jamie. "Once we wake up and realize we own this country now, we'll turn it around. Get it the way we want it. The way it should be."
"If we don't starve to death first..."
To that Jamie had no response. He had heard of of some bleeding-heart pacifist vamps living on pig's blood. Cow's blood. Unclean blood. But he just couldn't picture going long without a decent suck of human. Type A Positive sounded like fucking tenderloin to him right now.
But with the human race on its last legs, that supply was dwindling fast.
"So what's the word?" he asked instead.
"What word?"
"You know, the meeting?" said Jamie. "The one that I had to miss because I was sitting out here doing my job?"
"Sleepin', more like..." Craig muttered.
"The raid?"
"Dude, we ain't supposed to be talkin' about the raid," said Craig, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. "Especially out here on the border."
"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Jamie.
"There might be spies," said Craig mysteriously. "Scouts, like. Ninja vamps, or whatever."
"Are you on crack?" Jamie said with a shake of his head. "Look, if we're gonna be goin' after the Vipers tonight..."
"Such a great name, by the way," said Craig, blowing smoke through his nose. "Why can't we be the Vipers, or something kick-ass like that?"
"I like the Trailblazers," said Jamie. "It's sophisticated. Telling. We're blazing trails in our soon-to-be domination of the planet."
"Whatever..."
"If we're going after the Vipers tonight, then why would we care about being heard? The border between our territory and theirs is up on Wilshire. We're way over on the other side. The only vamps we have to worry about at this vent are Doomtaskers, and they won't care about what we're doing to the Vipers."
"I spose you're right," said Craig. "Any Viper who'd give two shits'd have to work their way through three other territories to get here."
"Exactly," said Jamie, pointing his Uzi idly. "So what's the plan? We moving tonight?"
"Nope," said Craig with a smirk. "Tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow... What?" Jamie gaped. "Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Two pm, yup."
"Are they insane? Daylight?"
"They won't be expecting it," Craig chuckled. "And Crystal found a stash of Hazmat suits off Pico and La Cienega. We can just waltz right in and pick em off one by one."
"Damn," Jamie said, a grin spreading. "Teach those fuckers holding Cedar-Sinai to hold back the blood bank from the rest of us. We get to eat!"
"Gonna be large," said Craig, shaking his head. "Crystal, man. Whoda thunk?"
"No shit," said Jamie. "She's an explorer, no doubt. The very model of a Trailblazer."
"Alright, well, now that I've broken protocol by tellin' you all that, you'd better get out of here," said Craig, flipping his rifle back into his hands. "Get some rest. We're gonna need it tomorrow."
"Oh, hell, yeah," said Jamie. "Man, I'm giddy."
"Get goin'," said Craig, motioning back with the barrel, but paused when he heard a splashing down the tunnel. "Or maybe not quite yet."
"What do you think?" Jamie asked, his voice dropping as both he and Craig pointed their weapons into the tunnel, darkness lit only by shafts of sunlight from intermittently-placed rain gutters. "Demon?"
"Sure hope so," Craig whispered back. Jamie heard the click from his side as Craig released the safety from his semi-automatic. "This'll sure work a lot better if it is. Grab a bottle, though, just to be safe."
Jamie nodded, his head never turning as he knelt down, feeling around behind him until his fingers gripped a glass bottle of Holy Water.
"Careful with that shit," Craig whispered.
"Course I will," Jamie replied, handling the bottle like dynamite as a shape began to form ahead of them. Definitely human of some sort, which eliminated about half of the demons currently haunting the surface and sewers of Los Angeles. And as the figure approached, it noticed a narrow beam of light streaking down the middle of the tunnel, formed from a hole in a manhole cover. It twisted out of the way of the sunlight, and both Jamie and Craig nodded in understanding.
"Password," said Craig to the figure.
"I don't know a password," he replied. "I'm just trying to pass through."
"Yeah, right," said Jamie. "This is Trailblazer territory, friend. If you're not one of us, that makes you forfeit."
"I'm only trying to see a friend," the vampire replied. His face was still in shadow, but there was enough light behind him to see him run his hand through his dark spiky hair. "This is the fastest way there, and I can't go up to the surface until sundown. Now I don't want any trouble from you boys, so you'll let me pass through and we'll call it fair."
"Your big shiny sword says otherwise," said Craig, motioning to the glistening steel in the vamp's other hand. "Now if you don't want a face full of Holy and six hundred rounds a minute in your gut, you'll turn around and find another way through. Bullets can't kill us, but I guaran-damn-tee that they'll hurt like a motherfucker."
"See, I can't go for that," said the vamp with a hissing intake of air. "Guns cause noise, and that'll be too much trouble for all of us. And I probably misspoke earlier..."
"Oh shit," Jamie breathed as the vampire's face was finally revealed and he knew that his immortal life was coming to an end. "Oh shit oh shit Craig oh shit it's him."
"What I meant," said Angel, raising his sword to his shoulder, "is that you don't want any trouble from me."
"Whatever," said Craig with a snarl, his face shifting as he raised his rifle. "Fuckin' waste him!"
---------
One hour and two dozen Trailblazers later, Angel walked down the darkened hallway of the condominium complex. The tip of his sword's blade dragged along the carpet along with his left foot, which was causing him to limp slightly.
Vamp was right, Angel thought as he clutched his bleeding left thigh. Bullets can't kill me, but damn this hurts.
The Trailblazers had gotten in a few lucky shots, to be sure. They seemed to be ready for a fight, unlike the so-called Doomtaskers that Angel had cleaned out on the way. One Blazer had plugged him in the leg, another in the right shoulder. He had been splashed on his right hand with Holy Water and was bleeding from his forehead. Probably from the double-edged axe he had ducked, but he couldn't be sure.
Angel had been debating taking some of their weapons with him. Considering it had only been a week since the plague had hit they had looked like a well-oiled machine. The realistic part of Angel, said that any piece of that military-issued equipment would help him in the future. Hell, that small voice that oftened sound like Angelus loved the idea of walking around town loaded to bear. But the classicist in him, the one that loved the sound of metal on metal, the wooden stake piercing the breastbone, didn't want to touch any weapon that he was unfamiliar with. It was dangerous to put a weapon in your hand without training first, and neither Angel, Angelus, nor Liam of old had ever felt comfortable with a musket.
Besides, actually reaching that level, crossing that line where gunpowder and machine oil were necessary, would be admitting that things had gotten bad. Things would never be the same. And he just wasn't ready to admit that yet.
To admit it would mean...
Forget it, he thought. Straighten up. You have a job to do, and you didn't slice through a small army to give up now.
But, oh, how easy it was to just admit defeat as he approached the door. After all, what were the odds?
Already feeling fresh dribbles of blood as he released his thigh, Angel knocked with his bloody left hand. His right was still feeling tender from the Water, and he really didn't want to think about slamming it too hard onto anything.
There would be no answer, of course. After all,
(she's dead)
she wouldn't answer right away. She's an officer. A very defensive one, at that.
"Kate?" Angel called out. "Kate, are you there? It's me, Angel."
And with everything that's happened, there's no way she'd open up to a stranger.
"Kate, could you please invite me in?" Angel continued. "I just need to make sure you're fine."
Hell, she could have left town. With her dad passed on, her department giving her problems, she really had no reason to stay. Maybe she thought it was just a local
(she's dead)
virus, and she got out before she caught.
"Kate?"
Damn it, he thought, just do your hero thing and get it over with.
"Kate, I'm kicking down the door," that small glimmer of hope called out. "You don't have to invite me in, I just want to see if you're okay.
(she's dead)
I promise I'll pay for the door."
Idiot. Just do it.
He stepped back, hoping that his left leg would give him enough strength, and pistoned his right leg out. The wooden frame exploded as the deadbolt and chain blasted out, and the door flew open on one remaining hinge. He took a step inside without an invitation,
(she's dead she's dead if Cordelia’s dead then Kate’s definitely dead)
knowing that Kate wasn't here, couldn't be here, she had to have left town, and this apartment didn't belong to her anymore.
(wake up she's dead just like the others like Cordy and Wes and Buffy and they're all dead)
Angel looked around the living room, looking for any signs of movement, any signs that her belongs had been packed up and brought with her, ignoring the bedroom, ignoring the bathroom, ignoring the smell of decay that was already flirting with his nostrils, after all, the entire town smelled like this there were millions of bodies
(like Kate's)
sitting in their houses, their apartments, their cars, rotting and stinking and she couldn't be dead because she was all that was left, everyone else was dead and he couldn't have failed all of them he just couldn't--
But there she was. Her body, still dressed from a day at work, sprawled face-down in the hall between the living room and the bathroom. She was obviously not breathing, obviously dead, and Angel couldn't flip her over to look at her face, couldn't stand to look at one more swollen, purple face.
But he did it anyway. She wouldn't want this to be her final resting place.
So, as he did for Cordelia Chase, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and Charles Gunn, Angel prepared Kate Lockley for burial.
---------
Angel was a coward. Although no one would ever agree with this sentiment, he believed it himself. After all, how else could he ignore his best friend in her hour of need if not for sheer cowardice?
When the virus began to spread, when the signs were just signalling minor plague instead of the end of the human race, Angel went to Wesley's apartment first. Obviously, he wasn't there. How could he, when there was so much to be done, so much to research?
So Angel found the listing for the new Angel Investigations in the phone book. There he found Wesley. He had already passed, leaning forward in his chair, resting on a pile of research. One particular codex was warped and discolored, and Angel had the horrible suspicion that Wesley had vomited onto it before finally breathing his last breath.
And of course Angel was a coward. So Charles was next. When the gauge turned from minor plague to MAJOR PLAGUE, Gunn would have left Angel Investigations to help those who he felt needed it the most. He returned to Gunn's old neighborhood. Angel's trip to the Badlands proved to be an adventure in itself, as the roads were blocked to all but foot traffic, stalled cars, idle cars piled five or six deep at some intersections. If that weren't enough, Los Angeles itself was quickly falling into total anarchy. Gunn's section of inner city LA was no different, with block after block of torched houses and crashed vehicles lighting the night sky and as many bodies dead of vampire bites and gunfire as from the virus.
Angel wasn't sure he'd ever be able to find his friend in this madness. But, unfortunately, he was easy to find. Arriving at the headquarters for Gunn's posse, Angel found a sight too gruesome to forget.
Unlike most buildings in the area, the warehouse was unburned. The vamps wanted to leave a clearer message. Corpses, naked and desecrated, lined the outer walls of the building, hung from the roof by their ankles. Lit by the surrounding fires, Angel discovered that many of them were, of course, killed by vampires: some necks coated in blood, others with their jugulars completely torn from their throats. The others were victims of the plague, found by the vampires and strung up in order to increase the total body count. Words were scrawled on many of them in blood. This is our world now one read. Death to humans read another. Whose laffing now? read a third.
Angel eventually found Charles Gunn amongst the hanging dead. His face and neck showed the tell-tale signs of the virus. Angel couldn't decide if he should be grateful Gunn had died of the sickness instead of being drained, or if Gunn would be angry for dying in a bed somewhere.
Angel liked to believe that Gunn had gone out fighting. Died on the street, battling with his last breath.
And those vampires. Those disgusting, psychotic...
Angel fought back his rage. He knew that it was useless right now. The vamps weren't going anywhere. There was somewhere else he needed to be. Someone else he needed to see.
But he was a coward.
So he went hunting.
Angel spent the rest of the night hunting and killing vampires in Gunn's old neighborhood. As he felt dawn approach, he returned to the hotel, believing that it was one of the safest places left in the city. That night, surely, he would pay his visit.
Instead, he returned that night to continue his hunt in the Badlands. Thirty vamps seemed the number for that night, but he couldn't be sure. He had lost count after a while, allowing himself to fall into the red haze of battle, for once grateful that Angelus could show his face, allowing Angel hide away from the pain.
But sunrise came once again, and Angel finally did what needed to be done.
---------
"Can I come in?"
Cordelia Chase stared at him wearily from across the threshold. In the moonlight she looked like hell warmed over, with a heavy woolen bathrobe around her body, fuzzy slippers on her feet, and heavy black bags under her eyes. The skin under her jawline was a faint purple color, and her face glistened sickly from what Angel could only guess were night sweats.
"You don't need an invitation to come in," she replied, leaning against the doorframe for support. Her voice was husky and cracking from hours, maybe days of coughing and hacking. "You've been invited before."
"I know." Angel wanted to reach out and help her stand, but after everything they had been through before the virus hit, he still wasn't sure if she would let him or if she'd slam the door in his face, end of the world or not. Cordelia looked at him in silence, and Angel could see that debate raging in her eyes.
"You hurt me, you know," she said finally. "You hurt us."
"I know," Angel repeated.
"A lot."
"I know. And I'm sorry."
"Come in if you're coming in," she said, stepping back. "It's chilly out. Leave the door open and I'll catch a cold."
Angel couldn't help but chuckle slightly at Cordelia's morbid humor, but the smile faded quickly as she doubled over in a booming cough. "How are you doing?" he asked, regretting the question as soon as it came out of his lips. The small puddle of mucus on the floor was all the answer he needed.
"Have you seen Wes and Gunn?" she asked, pressing her hands against the wall as she pushed her way into the living room.
"Maybe you should lie down," he said, finally willing himself to put a hand on her arm as she tottered on her feet. "Get some rest."
"I've been resting for three days," said Cordelia, working her way to the couch and plopping down onto the cushions. "Have you seen Wes and Gunn?"
"Can I get you anything? Juice? Soup? Your gas stove should still work."
"Stop avoiding the question."
"I saw them."
"And?"
Angel paused, trying to find the easiest way to tell her. Of course, there was no easy way to tell her.
In the end, he didn't need to say anything. Cordelia saw it in his face, and when her eyes dropped to her lap her eyes were sad, but dry.
"I knew it," she said. "I knew they had to be. They... They didn't come here, they would have come here to see me, I was sick first and Wesley sent me home when we all thought it was just the flu and I should never have left them alone."
Angel nodded, at a complete loss as to what to say.
"Poor Virginia," Cordelia said, the tears now beginning to flow. "You... You took care of them, right?"
"I did."
Cordelia nodded. "Good," she said. "And you'll take care of me? When this disease kills me, too?"
"You're going to be fine," Angel lied, sitting down on the couch beside her. "You're still alive. You're sick, but you're not..."
"Don't kid a kidder, kid," Cordelia said with a sniff. "The PTB don't want me to die. They don't want their link to disappear. So they're fighting it. Whatever power it is that gave Doyle the visions, the power he passed to me, it's fighting for me."
"That's good..."
"But it's not enough," she continued. "The link to the PTB is powerful, sure. It's mystical, definitely. But it's not enough. I'm still human, and I can feel the virus winning. Taking over. I can feel it--"
She was cut off again with a series of alarmingly powerful coughs. Angel reached over and put his hand on her back until she settled down. Eventually she sat back up, and Angel heard a click in her throat when she swallowed down whatever saliva she had coughed up.
"I think I might need to lie down after all," Cordelia said with a weak smile.
---------
The next nine hours, the last nine hours of Cordelia Chase's life, were the longest and shortest of Angel's long life.
Three hours after Angel had arrived, the two were in Cordelia's bedroom. Cordelia was tucked in bed, napping lightly under every blanket in the house. Most of her remaining hours would be spent kicking them off and pulling them back up as her body temperature fluxuated wildly. Angel was dutifully sitting in a chair beside her. She had given him a pile of reading material, most of which consisted of back issues of Cosmopolitan. Even if he hadn’t felt slightly nauseous at the articles, Angel could think of nothing he would less want to do. Instead he spent the hours simply watching her, watching her breathing, dreading the moment when she would simply stop.
"Have you heard from Buffy?" Angel jerked out of his reverie when Cordelia spoke, apparently coming out of sleep so gently that he never noticed the shift.
"I haven't tried," he replied. "I've been so busy that I've barely thought of her."
"Liar."
Angel sighed. He had thought of Buffy. Of course he had. But he also knew that she was hours away, and that he could do nothing to help her, as much as he wanted to.
Besides, if he had a choice he'd rather be here than in Sunnydale, and this sudden realization, this understanding that his feelings for Buffy and for Cordelia had changed so much in the last year and a half, left him numb.
She's probably dead, anyway, the cold realist in him interjected. Another corpse for the pile. Buffy and Dawnie and Joyce and everyone.
"You can call her if you want," Cordelia continued. "I won't mind."
"I don't want to leave you," Angel said, meaning it.
"Phone's just over there, dummy," she said, motioning to her vanity. "If I die while you're five feet away I'll throw a pillow at your head."
Angel knew it was a joke, but it hit too close to the truth for him to even crack a smile. He reluctantly stood and walked across to the phone. As he picked up the handset, the bedroom door creak open behind him.
"Thank you, Phantom Dennis," he heard Cordelia say. Turning around, Angel saw a tray float in through the door, a steaming pot of tea perched upon it, and rest on Cordelia's bedstand.
You have a lot more company now, Dennis, Angel thought helplessly, feeling a chill up his spine with the thought, and forced himself to turn back to the phone. He put the receiver to his ear, but heard nothing but silence.
"Line's dead," he said, hanging up. "Looks like we're powerless and phoneless."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Yeah," Angel said, flopping back down in the chair.
"She's fine, you know," said Cordelia, taking Angel's hand.
"Have another vision?"
"I don't need to," she replied. "Buffy's tough. Annoying, whiny, and scary single-minded, but she's tough. The TV was saying that not everyone's getting sick, and it would be so just my luck if she lived and I died."
---------
"It doesn't have to be this way."
"Hmm?" Cordelia lifted her head from the pillow. It was three hours later, and she was looking worse and worse. Angel, with the assistance of Phantom Dennis, had thrown together a bowl of chicken soup and a plate of crackers. Cordy had only been able to eat one spoonful and one half of a saltine before her throat pained her too much to swallow any more. Her eyes now had a sunken look, and the stains around her jawline were growing darker as the sun lifted higher in the sky outside. Her hair, normally her biggest vanity, was matted down. The covers were currently kicked away, and her nightgown was slick with cold sweat.
Angel swallowed. "We can take you somewhere," he said slowly. "Somewhere where you can be safe. Somewhere where no one can get to you and where you... where you can't get to anyone. Can't hurt anyone."
"Angel," Cordelia said, her eyes narrowing. "Angel, what are you talking about?"
"I could find an Orb of Thesulah," he continued. "They're easy enough to find. You could still keep your soul."
"No," Cordelia said sharply. "Angel, you can't seriously be offering--"
"I offered it to Darla," said Angel. "She turned it down, she wanted to die the way she was supposed to, to live her second chance the way it was meant to be lived. But you... You shouldn't die like this, Cordy, you don't deserve to die like this, you don't have to--"
"Angel, stop!"
"Cordy..." Angel insisted as Cordelia erupted into another bout of coughs.
"No," she rasped, knocking his comforting hand away. "No, Angel. Don't be an idiot."
"I don't want to lose you."
Cordelia stared him down, and then allowed a small smile to cross her face. "That's sweet, Angel, but that's your soul talking. The one you've been bitching and moaning about for the last century."
"I've had a lot of sins to bear," Angel shrugged. "You won't have that."
"Angel," Cordelia continued, "You want to be human, right? You want to fulfill the Shanshu? Become the Champion, live again?"
"Yes," Angel replied cautiously.
"And that means you want to be a mortal. To die a mortal, even if it means dying of a heart attack the day you come back to life. Or of disease. Like Darla."
"It does..."
"Then let me have that, too," Cordelia said, taking his hand. "I don't want to be above the human race. Let me die with the whole stupid bunch of them."
"I don't want to be alone," Angel said. "Cordy, I can't lose you again. I don't know what I'm going to do if--"
"That's more like it," Cordelia chuckled. "That's one of the rough things about having a soul. You want to help others, and you want to make yourself feel better, and you don't really care about the consequences. Angel, if you turn me into a vampire, even one with a soul, you'll know that you killed me. I'll know that you killed me. You'll regret it, I'll regret it. It'll be a whole regretapalooza."
Angel sighed, falling back in the chair. He had dealt with loss since getting his soul back, of course. But nothing of this magnitude. Of course he was emotional, of course he wanted to make rash decisions, even if it meant ignoring the consequences later.
"I'm the Champion," he said. "Saving people's my thing. I need to... I need to save someone tonight. I can't just let everyone die, especially someone that I love."
And there it was. The words came out before Angel even knew they were going to be said, and he could almost see them hanging between the two of them, waiting for someone to acknowledge their existence.
Cordelia's face lit up, almost erasing the ravages of the disease, still so new and so potent that no one had even had time to give it a name. In that one moment, although Angel knew it was nothing but a pipe dream, Cordelia looked like she could get out of bed and live another one hundred years.
"I love you, too," she said. "Funny how deathbeds make you figure stuff like that out, huh?"
Once again, she was cut off with another fit of coughs, these worse than the others. "Well," she said, looking at her hand as she pulled it away from her mouth. "That just killed the fantasy, didn't it?"
Angel looked at her hand, and was only somewhat shocked to see that she had coughed up blood this time.
"I'm not going to make it, Angel," she said. "I'm going to die, and it sucks through a Silly Straw, and I don't want you to try to save me. Besides, I don't know how long I could survive without my tanning addiction kicking in."
"What can I do, then?" Angel asked. "Tell me what I can do for you."
Cordelia's brow furrowed in thought. "You're not sick, right?"
"I'm not."
"You said vampires aren't getting sick?"
"I haven't seen one yet," he said. Cordelia nodded, and pushed herself to the far side of the bed.
"Then snuggle with the sickie," she said. "That's what you can do for me."
Angel nodded, removing his shoes and climbing onto the bed, slowly but without reservation. Cordelia pressed herself to his side, and he didn't mind the sickly sweat one bit.
Later they kissed, and if they felt a spark pass between them, it surely wasn't the visions transferring to another host.
And if, even later, their lovemaking took strength that Cordelia could have used to fight the disease, she didn't mind. It would have only delayed the inevitable, anyway. This was something they wanted, something they needed before she left, and they felt fine doing it.
But if Angelus was hoping for that moment of true happiness, he would be greatly disappointed. Angel and Cordelia loved each other, consummated their love that day, but happiness was impossible with the cloud of death hanging over them both.
The cloud descended. After their lovemaking, and a final hour of talking and holding, Cordelia Chase fell asleep.
And never awoke.
---------
"'Mandy' again?"
"It's what I know."
"You've been around for almost three hundred years. You do know other songs."
"I haven't had time to think of any others."
"Hm," The Host leaned against the bar and scanned Caritas's packed tables. "Ever since this excrement hit the proverbial fan, half of my clients have been singing Eric Carmen and the other half have been doing R.E.M. Either 'Everybody Hurts' or 'It's the End of the World As We Know It', depending on their view. I could use a little Manilow."
"Aaaaall byyyy myyyyseeeeelf," a four-armed, plated demon was currently crooning on stage, confirming the Host's assessment.
"But maybe something peppier?" the Host asked. "'Copacobana'? 'Daybreak'?"
"Don't wanna be aaaaall byyyy myyyyyseeeelf!" the demon continued, screeching as he climbed the ladder.
"Oh, Lord have mercy," the Host said, flinching. "The boy has spirit, I'll give him that. Most of them do. But if one in thirty had Eric's pipes I wouldn't have to drink so much."
"I'll sing what I need to sing," Angel told the green demon. "I'll do what I need to do."
"You just don't have your heart in it, sugarcakes," said the Host, taking a sip of his drink and shuddering.
"I don't feel like singing," Angel admitted.
"You know," the Host said, looking at the small pink drink, "the Apocalypse is a horrible, horrible thing. So many dead, so many good voices lost."
"Who could sing after all of this?"
"But I'll miss Ramone most of all," the Host continued with a sigh. "The man could make a Sea Breeze that would send you to Judgment Day with a skip in your step."
"Just give me the microphone so you can tell me where I need to go, what I need to kill."
The Host turned back to Angel and shook his head. "An attitude like that will get you nowhere, sweetie," he said, setting his drink down on the bar. "I have a waiting list a mile long, and I don't think many of these fine young demons would approve of you butting in line just to find out which one of them meets your sharp pointy sword."
"I've lost everyone," Angel said, his patience wearing thin. "Wes, Gunn, Kate. I lost Cordy. I told her I loved her, she told me she loved me, and then she died."
"Tragic, really," said the Host, patting Angel's hand. "There should be a play."
"I've lost more than any of these people," Angel continued.
"You lost the world," said the demon. "You had your prophecy, you had your opportunity to have a second chance, and you blew it. That's what this all boils down to, isn't it?"
"Does it matter anymore?"
"It might," said the Host. "Listen here, Tall Dark and Brooding. Apocalypses almost happen all the time, and they just don't almost happen in LA or the Hellmouth. Eventually it was going to happen somewhere in the world, and the odds were that you wouldn't be there when it did. Besides, have you ever considered what could happen if you become human now? You'd die with the rest of them. And I know you don't want that, or else you would have fallen on your stake or driven to San Diego for some beautiful sunshine days ago. I say good riddance to your prophecy. You still have other work to do, and you need to be here to do it."
"How do you know?" Angel asked. "I haven't sung."
"I heard you practicing on the way in," said the Host. "That's all I needed. I've doled out hundreds, maybe thousands of pieces of sage-like wisdom in the last week, and you're one of the few that have rung out like Sunday church bells. But I still think you should step up there. Singing can be very therapeutic. We keep so much bottled up inside, and singing has a way of releasing those feelings that we wouldn't let out otherwise. There's this demon, name of Sweet, who--"
"So where do I need to be?" Angel asked. "What do I need to do?"
"You need to stay right here," said the Host. "There's still big bad evil brewing in this town, and you're usually the one to fight it, aren't you?"
"Like what?"
"Like I don't know," said the demon, adjusting his bright turquoise jacket. "I'm learning some new things about being an empath. One of them is that when there are fewer minds and souls out there it becomes harder to find the links. It's muddier than it was before."
"Muddier..." Angel said with a sigh.
"But you could piece something together," said the Host. "You usually do, with or without my advice."
"I usually have Cordelia," Angel said, and the thought of her loss once again stabbed him.
"You were just fine before without a link to the Powers," said the Host. "You'll figure something out. Besides, you won't be alone."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there will be others," said the Host. "I'm reading five of them. Three from one direction, two from another, all with you on their mind as a destination."
"Who?" Angel said, sitting up. "Who are they?"
"I don't know," said the Host. "Like I said, it's muddy. But there's a girl."
"Buffy!" Angel exclaimed.
"Maybe?" the Host shrugged. "All I know is that the Powers are focusing on her. She's pivotal. But I just don't know how. There's a lot of evil swirling around both groups, and for all I know they're all coming here to put a stake in you."
"It has to be Buffy," said Angel, hope springing forth for the first time. "It has to be."
"I don't know when, I don't know who, I don't know how or where. All I know is that you stay here and they'll find you eventually. Here endeth the prophecy." With that, the Host slugged down the rest of his drink and returned his attention to the stage, where the plated demon was just finishing up his ballad to tepid applause.
"Thanks, Host," said Angel.
"Please, call me Lorne," the green horned demon replied with a wave of his hand. "Are you sure you don't want to go up and sing?"
---------
CONGRATULATIONS! WE DID IT!
The advertisement, freshly posted on the bus shelter, caught Angel's eye as he wandered down the dark streets of Los Angeles. On it was a picture of a Sluggoth demon, a bright smile on its face and a hard hat perched on its head. He stood in front of what appeared to be an electric generator.
Times have been tough, the ad read. But its now time to achieve the destiny we so richly deserve. And with over one hundred branches worldwide, Wolfram & Hart will be there every step of the way, rebuilding this world the way you want it.
Angel flinched as reality slapped him across the face. This world would come back together again. Of course it would. The power would be restored, the roads would be cleared, the bodies disposed of. As Mussolini said, the trains would run on time. And Angel would bet any amount of now-worthless money that those one hundred cities with Wolfram & Hart branches would be the first to thrive.
And Washington? London? Berlin? Government would also find its way back, with demons and vampires in the foreground and Wolfram & Hart once again pulling all the strings.
Wolfram & Hart & You. Together for a brighter future.
Not if I have anything to say about it, Angel thought as he continued his walk back to the Hyperion. His limp had faded considerably since his fight with the Trailblazers three days ago. The visit to Caritas yesterday evening had slightly brightened his mood, which he had thought had reached midnight-level darkness. That helped numb the pain, and he knew it only helped with the healing process.
He had passed at least a dozen vampires on this particular walk around Los Angeles, and maybe twenty demons of various breeds. Staked four vamps and beheaded one demon. Only the troublemakers. Angel was quickly learning that, despite his hopes, humans were lost. They still existed; Angel could see their remnants, smell their residue. But they were the vast minority. This was the world of the demon now, and the best that he could do was play the policeman.
Besides, he had bigger fish to fry. Was Lindsey still alive? Lilah? How many employees of Wolfram & Hart were human? How many were given immunity to whatever had been released?
How many could Angel kill before they took him down?
There was no way that Angel could be the only one left in this city who hated Wolfram & Hart. They were one-hundred percent evil, and Angel had had enough experiences to know that the same couldn't be said about all demons. He could find some support in demons and vampires who wanted to live their lives without the firm breathing down their necks.
It would be hard, of course. Wolfram & Hart owned this town before the demons owned it. Now you'd have problems sneezing wrong without them hearing about it. Hell, he had already heard the rumors that Lorne might be strongarmed into closing Caritas. It may be neutral ground, but Wolfram & Hart were the types to believe that if you're not with them then you're against them.
Angel was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't recognize the faint glow in the Hyperion's windows, didn't hear the faint murmur of voices as he approached the front door.
He did, however, see the candle glowing on the table of the Hyperion Hotel's lobby when he entered. Did see the two bodies huddled around it, did hear their voices cut off as they turned to see him.
He did see Buffy Summers and her sister both stand at his arrival. Their faces were thinner than he remembered them, the bags under their eyes darker, and he supposed a week of hard travel and canned goods would do that to anyone.
"Well, lookie who we have here," a third voice slurred from outside of the candle's glow. "Thought it'd be too lucky for you to get staked before we got here." Angel turned to see Spike leaning against one of the lobby's support beams, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.
"Angel," Buffy said faintly.
"If I had known you'd be here so soon I would have put on coffee," Angel said with a smirk.
Buffy ran towards him, throwing herself into his embrace, and as he felt her tears on his neck and his own on his face Angel couldn't help but think of the song he had peformed at Caritas.
"Looks like we made it."