Title: Auspices
Author: Helen
Posted: 06/04/05
Rating: PG-15 so far -Overall a definite NC-17
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Category: Angst
Content: C/A
Summary: Cordelia didn’t ascend and the FG search for Angel. The problem is they have to find him.
Spoilers: AU S4 from scratch.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: Go team, Angel’s Archive, anywhere else, please ask first.
Notes: I’ve had a hankering to do a fic featuring 1950’s Angel ever since watching ‘As You Are Now…’ So, now I’m giving in to the urge. I hope you like it.
Thanks/Dedication: Thanks to Cali for the super fast beta. Ficpic created by SpikesSire
Feedback: Yup, feeding is good, or my muse will sulk. Also, PLEASE feel free to include criticism, too, if you feel the urge so long as it’s constructive.
Prologue
Her hair had grown out in the months since Angel had been tossed into a watery grave by Conner, his son. Staring back at the solemn reflection in the mirror, Cordelia watched impassively as the brush rose and fell in an ordered, controlled rhythm; the tan bristles sifting through shoulder-length mahogany stands.
The taut slope of her cheeks, firmed full lips and stark eyes spoke volumes about the changes in her life. She was no longer the sun-goddess or wanna-be starlet and mourned neither. She was Cordelia Chase of Angel Investigation and they helped the helpless, particularly when the helpless was one of their own.
Then as usual her thoughts turned to Angel. He’d never said, but she knew he preferred her hair its natural dark brown rather than the blond she’d impulsively dyed it. In the mirror her lips twisted and a film blurred her vision from remembering all the times she’d scoffed at him for having a thing for blondes.
She just hoped he knew they wouldn’t give up on him; wouldn’t leave him to suffer alone in the dark. He’d had enough of that already.
The hand holding the brush trembled on its downward swipe. Angel’s suffering was all her fault. The hand stilled and a mask of pain dropped over pale features. Inside the ever-present pressure of guilt tightened another notch. She’d pulled him away from the safety of the hotel and then not turned up until it was too late. Telling herself she’d tried her best didn’t lessen the suffocating remorse.
Going over and over that night didn’t change a thing either. But neither did it stop her from analysing every second. Maybe if Skip hadn’t turned up; delaying her with his talk about ascending to be one of the PTB’s, she would have got there in time and stopped Conner. Who knows and what did it matter when he had. Maybe she would have gone, too, if it hadn’t been for the vision knocking her sideways with images of Angel being sealed inside a metal tomb, and then sunk into cold green water.
The vision had felt different; more like the old style rather than the post-demon kind, but she hadn’t cared about the shooting pains crackling across her skull. After that Skip hadn’t had a chance of persuading her to leave. Racing towards the beach she’d got there to find it dark, empty and deserted. Rushing over the cold dunes and towards the washing white-frothed waves, she’d screamed his name, but there was no sign of Angel anywhere. She could still remember the burn in her throat from yelling his name over and over.
In the mirror Fred’s face peeked around the door. “Wes rang to say he’s been delayed and we should meet him there.”
Doe brown eyes worriedly scanned the taut, strained face of her friend. Cordelia had lost so much weight during that first awful month, until she forcefully pulled herself together and started eating properly again. Now she was back to full strength and even more hauntingly beautiful.
“I’m ready,” said Cordelia and turned away from the mirror. The days of lingering to check she looked picture perfect were long gone. The extra responsibility of leading their fragmented team had finished what working the mission had only started. Angel, seeking his own redemption, had unknowingly started her on this path and she was damned if he wasn’t going to reach the end of it with her.
Dressed warmly for searching the coast in a creaking old boat, she swept past the younger girl on her way to the old hotels counter, and said, “Let’s go,” to a restless Charles Gunn who instantly joined her in making a beeline for the front entrance. With Angel missing and Wes still in semi seclusion it had been up to Cordelia to step into both of their shoes.
Ever since that night she, Fred, Gunn and even Wes had spent every spare moment searching the coast in a battered old boat one of Wesley’s contacts had located for them. They’d been grateful for his help. Sixteen weeks and two days later though and they still hadn’t found him.
***
“Lift it, lift…easy. Stop!” Yelled Wesley reaching up on his toes to grip the edges of the dripping man-sized metal box as it swung dangerously over their heads.
They all held their breath and the winches clanked as Gunn yanked the lever to stop the motor. Dotted around the weathered deck of the old fishing boat, the three of them where held in the grip of a tension so sharp they trembled with it. They’d found Angel, or at least, his prison. Whether any semblance of Angel remained was what they had to find out.
Out of Cordelia’s hearing and tucked away in their room Fred and Gunn had whispered about the effects on a vampire of being caged underwater. Those debates came back to haunt them now.
The salty wind chaffed at the skin of her exposed face and Cordelia barely noticed. She’d dreamed and prayed for this moment for what seemed an age. Now, she couldn’t get enough spit in her mouth to speak, and avoided looking at the others in case their faces mirrored her own dread mingled with painful hope. Eyes glued to the metal coffin she refused to guess what they’d find inside.
They’d found him hadn’t they? He was going to be okay, she had to believe that.
Needing a distraction, she climbed on a stack of wooden boxes and rested clammy hands on the freezing sides. Raising her voice to be heard, it held a tellingly croak, “Its okay, I’ve got it steadied now. You can lower it down, Gunn.”
When it was finally lowered safely to the deck Wesley went to fetch the blowtorch, leaving the others to crouch and stare into the fogged glass. Hope and trepidation was replaced by impatience and bitter disappointment. Roughly, Cordelia wiped a hand over the thick pane, but it remained obscured. After the monumental build-up, beginning when the metal detector had first begun pinging itself into oblivion, it was too much and she felt like screaming.
Frustration roiled and uselessly she thumped a clenched fist on it, doing nothing except hurting herself in the process. After the months he’d spent locked inside a few more minutes shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Common sense held little sway over her just then.
Ignoring the protesting throb in her hand, she bit out, “Damn it, we need to get this thing off, now.”
Sharing a look at the obvious agitation with the large figure hunkered down beside her, Fred brushed a soothing hand down Cordelia’s jacketed arm and wisely said nothing. Charles Gunn, dressed in his usual camouflage pants and baggy shirt, bent down further to peer at the welded edges, saying, “We will, just give Wes a few minutes and then Angel’s as free as a bird.”
***
Blinding in the pitch black of night, sizzling sparks flew in all direction for what seemed an eternity before Wesley sat back and pulled back the goggles. He didn’t have to ask for help in lifting the lid. As soon as he was done the rest of the gang surged forward and silently taking a corner each they prised the heavy metal lid up. It gave with a protesting creak and slid to the deck with a crash.
There was a second of stunned silence.
“Oh Lord,” whispered Fred and swallowed a painful lump, unable to say more.
“Told ya, you should have let me whip that kid,” growled Gunn, turning his head and swallowing back bile.
Cordelia was dealing with her own up-rush of acid. Her mouth wobbled and stretched in a spasm of grief while tears stung, competing with the salty spray of the ocean. Reaching in she lay a hand against the achingly familiar leather duster and welcomed the blur that distorted his face. “I can hardly recognise him,” she said hoarsely. “If it wasn’t for the hair…”
“And the clothes,” interjected Fred trying to be helpful. “We know it’s him because of the clothes.”
Always pale, the flesh they could see was grey, dry and had shrunk so much it clung to cheekbones, jaw and brow. The face inside the dark casket was a mere caricature of the normally darkly handsome one, and while the powerful frame they were used to following into battle was still there; it didn’t take a genius to guess the flesh would be similarly wasted.
Wesley hadn’t expected to be so affected. Unlike the others he hadn’t flinched from making some educated guesses and yet now, despite their dangerous differences, he was appalled. It was a struggle to sound impassive. “There’s no doubt who he is and there was bound to be damage. We knew that.”
Gunn took exception to the tone, “Maybe, but there’s losing a little weight and then there’s-“
“Shusssh,” thumping his arm, Fred glared at her lover aghast, and rolled a pointed look towards a frozen Cordelia.
She needn’t have bothered and Gunn’s sheepish grimace went unnoticed, too. Kneeling beside the containers top to be closest to Angel’s head, Cordelia wanted to shake him awake so badly it hurt. She didn’t though because even in the darkness barely touched by the boats lights she could see that wasn’t going to be any good trying.
Something was choking her and it took a few gulps to swallow back the prickly ball of anguish. She hated seeing him look so…fragile. Sitting there numb, she wondered what was going on inside his head.
What must he have been thinking knowing his own son hated him so much? When had he given up on being rescued? When had it all become so much he’d let himself sink into an even deeper darkness with only his demon for company.
Gradually the silence, broken only by the lapping of the water against the boats hull, drew Cordy back from the dark well of her imagination. Looking up she saw the guys were looking at her. Their sympathy threatened her control and that she would not have. Forcing her legs to straighten from their crouch she said, “We’re wasting time. Wesley, can you take us back? We need to get Angel home, pronto.”
***
Gunn’s truck was a blessing in getting Angel back to the hotel. Using the makeshift stretcher they’d scrounged from the boat and between the four of them they managed to navigate the stairs and get him up into his room. There they transferred him onto the freshly made bed. Worryingly, he didn’t stir the whole time, not even when they undressed him down to his pants.
“Its great to have him home isn’t it? Sweaty with exertion and with her braid coming loose, Fred said what they were all thinking. “I just wish he’d wake up. He will won’t he?” she asked Wes with a quaver in her voice.
Cordelia was doing great as boss and Fred wished she had just a fraction of her strength, but she still felt vulnerable without Angel. Charles was strong and fast but he was still human and mortal. They all pitched in, but without Angel the tide was turning against them. All the buts where driving Fred back to crazydom and keeping her worries to herself was giving her a craving for permanent markers and blank walls.
“Well, it ain’t as if we can check to see if he’s still in the land of the living?” intoned Gunn as he ran a hand over his smooth scalp. Damn, he hated this. Give him a demon to kick ass and he was in his element, give him a victim to track down and he was Inspector Poirot. Thankfully only Fred knew he was an avid Agatha Christie fan. But sickness and grief scared the crap out of him.
Stretching his back from the weight, Wesley kept his expression neutral. Bitterness was long past when it came to these three. He wanted his reckoning to be with Angel, and a compus mentis one at that. Redemption was tricky that way.
He said simply, “He needs more blood and lots of it. We won’t know if there are any permanent affects until Angel does wake-up.”
“Don’t give me that, Wes. I know you, remember.” From across the dividing bed and hiding her icy apprehension, Cordelia stared him down, “There’s something festering in that super-sized brain of yours, spill it.”
Fred had begun hooking up the blood bag so it would steadily drip into Angel through a tube inserted into his mouth. Now she stilled and a quick glance at Charles revealed he didn’t like the topic either. They’d worried, fretted and searched for so long that the possibility that it all been in vain and they were going to lose him anyway was the last thing anyone wanted to hear.
Cordelia was braced for the worst and there was a light in her eyes that warned him not to try and pacify, or mislead her. Shrugging as if to say, you asked, Wesley conceded.
“Alright then I won’t spare you the worry. From what research I’ve been able to do there are some serious side-effects to starving a vampire.” Pausing, something akin to despair flickered over his stubbly features. “Increased psychosis and insanity are the hot favourites by all accounts.”
As if being locked up a cage and sunk to the bottom of the sea wasn’t a potential winner in the insanity-making stakes already. They all thought it; just didn’t say it.
The silence following that dire statement was deafening until Gunn piped up, “hell, I always said he had a screw loose” he joked, “Tell us something new.” Then a new thought occurred to him. “Can he hear us?” he asked with a wince.
“Doubtful,” smiled Fred.
Nobody took offence knowing banter was his way of letting off steam. Incredibly the tension did ease a notch; living with death and danger constantly hanging over your head tended to blunt sensitivities.
Cordy smiled, too, it was strained but it was still a smile. “We have him home. That’s all that matters for now. We’ll deal with the rest of it when he does wake up.” A single brow arched high and her tone left no room for doubts that he would.
***
Cordelia had insisted on being left alone with him.
Further down the hall, Fred was probably listening to music in the room she shared with Gunn, while he had gone to fetch some stuff from her apartment, clutching her hastily written list in his hand as he whistled his way out of the hotel. It had been a nice sound to hear and she couldn’t recall the last time he’d done it. In their own ways they’d all missed Angel. Tonight the pall of leaden doom layering the Hyperion had lifted, if not dissipated entirely.
Feeling introspective after the excitement and lying beside Angel on the bed with her head resting on a palm, she ran a finger along one dark brow. She knew who was firmly in-charge when he was awake, and now, watching and tracing that proud brow she wondered idly who was directing the dreams; Angel, Angelus or both?
A frown creased her forehead and she pushed the unpleasant thought away. Cordelia had long ago stopped trying to guess the mental torment Angelus inflicted on Angel in punishment for being locked away, impotent and a mere witness instead of the driving force of evil he’d revelled in being.
Instead she smiled softly and leaned so that her lips almost but not quite brushed his ear. “When you decide to wake-up don’t think your automatically the boss again, Angel. As a bizarre power trip it, being the boss has it moments and I’ve kind of gotten used to it. We’ll hold a vote, okay.”
Then thinking about it some more, she grinned, “Either that or I fight you for it. With the state you’re in and given my recent practice I’d win hands down.”
If she was hoping to get a rise from the notoriously stubborn and arrogant vampire she didn’t get one. Sighing, Cordy dropped the hand, “Fine be that way. I can talk you to death just fine without you butting in. Just don’t think I’ll let you lie there for long. We have work to do, pal.”
She wasn’t kidding. When word had got around that Angel was no longer around the demons of LA had organised a party. It was still in full swing now.
***
“Charles, did you get a shave? Hey…hey! Your beard is pricking me.” Shoving up with a hand on his chest, Fred met his wide grin with an accusing glare.
That was his girl, always dropping a double entendre. His eyes gleamed with wicked lights and Fred clicked, “Don’t say-“
Too late. “I like pricking you. It’s my aim in life.”
Brown eyes narrowed into slits, “Ugh, you are such a…a”
“Hot, fun and ever lovin’ man?” suggested Gunn when she couldn’t find the words. When she didn’t smile he gave up and rolled off both her and the bed with an annoyed grunt. “Fine I’ll go get a shave, but when I get back I expect you to be naked, ya hear.”
Normally Fred loved it when he teased her accent. Recently though she’d been too caught up with worrying about Angel, and Cordy. “If Angel doesn’t wake up Cordy’s going to be devastated.”
He was used to her mercurial changes of topic by now, especially to this one. It was only a variation to the ‘finding’ him one. “Wrong, Fred. Cordy’s stronger than that and besides…” walking naked back into the room to fetch his portable stereo Gunn finished, “…Angel is going to wake up. It’s just a matter of time.”
Turning on her side to watch that magnificent back-view disappear back into the en-suite, Fred wished she had his confidence. Why wasn’t Angel coming around?
Across the hall, Cordelia was wondering the same thing. Pacing Angel’s rooms she chewed around a nail, wracking her brain for something they should be doing that they weren’t already. After a week of a staple diet including four pints of blood a day he was looking better; a heckova lot less wasted and more back to his usual pale rather than the horrible slate grey.
So, why wasn’t he showing any signs of consciousness?
It was driving her nuts. Whirling to the bed, she threw up frustrated hands, “What is with you, what…? Lying about and doing nothing for all that time gave you a taste for it?”
No answer. “What a surprise.”
Shaking her head tiredly, Cordelia dropped beside him and contrarily laid her head on his naked chest. Before this had happened she wouldn’t have considered being so close and intimate. But nursing him, touching him and wiping up the spilled blood that stained his face, neck and upper chest had made sure self-consciousness took a backseat. When he did eventually wake she’d miss this freedom.
That was a problem for later though. First they had to rouse him. For every pint of blood she’d gotten in him, they’d wasted at least half. Most of the time she’d had to massage his throat to get any of the liquid down. “What are we doing wrong, Angel, what else do you need?” she whispered, absently skating a circle around his taut naval with a feather-light finger.
The question seemed to hover over them. Back to normal his skin was silky smooth and there wasn’t any fat on him at all, just heavy muscle; muscle that needed to get moving and haul his ass out of bed.
The bedside table held a lamp and a small annoyingly ticking clock. At a certain angle the soft amber light spilling out caught her wristwatch and reflected back into her face. Blinking, Cordelia squinted at the offending bracelet and then zeroed in on her wrist with its tracery of blue veins.
Fresh, living human blood. Vamp elixir. Moet ét Undead. It could work.
She rejected the idea almost as fast as it hit her. Bolting upright and shaking her head vehemently, she said, “Oh, no. Don’t even think it.”
That was easier said than done. The idea germinated in spite of the negative reaction. Standing up, Cordelia got back to pacing again, flicking the unconscious vampire wary glances as she did. The peasant skirt she was wearing was old and comfortable, as where the fluffy slippers that made no sound as she walked swiftly back and forth. That was a good thing because the riot going on in her head would have drowned out anything else.
Hugging herself nervous fingers tapped a tattoo on both bare arms as she walked and talked out-loud. “One, it probably won’t work because what the hell difference doesn’t it make, blood is blood. And two, he’d want to kill you for doing it.” His paranoia over drinking human blood was normally one of the most reassuring things about him.
Yeah well, he had to be awake to do that. It worked last time with Faith and her poisoned arrow.
She scowled at the memory, “That was Buffy’s supercharged blood, not mine.”
The next thought barely got to form. “No way! He doesn’t need her, he’s got me.” She refused to acknowledge that a large part of her absorbance to the idea was letting Buffy back into their lives, especially Angel’s.
So, that leaves you, Fred or Gunn. Do you think they’d be willing to donate? Ask them.
“Oh shut-up. Why am I even arguing with myself? It’s a dumb idea, so just forget it, already.”
Geeze, it’s just a little blood, and so what if he’s pissed, just think about the fun you’ll have shouting him down? “There is that.”
She hadn’t had a good fight since Angel had gone missing. Fred was too nice to argue with and Gunn was either too wily to rise to the bait, or a smart-ass. It had taken Lorne’s pointed comments before he took off for Vegas for her to realise why she got such a kick out of pushing Angel’s buttons. She was in love with the dumbass.
And she wanted him back; all the way back and not just a husk lying on a bed.
Cordelia’s mind raced as she worked the angles. If it didn’t work then they were back to square one and stuck with coma-vamp. If it did work then she could rationalise it. Besides, he might not know anyway.
Swayed by that she stilled and hands on hips debated it with him, “It’s not like I could tell yesterday’s totally tasteless microwave special from today’s. So, what’s the big deal, how would you know?”
The germ grew. It might work. All she had to do was give herself a little cut somewhere not obvious and hey presto, straight from the vein, so to speak anyway. Wasn’t it worth trying?
Chewing her lip, she was forced to admit. “Let’s face it. If this doesn’t work then you being a vegetable is the least of my problems.”
Emotion coupled with harsh reality decided her. Marching over to the bed again to pull open the small drawer in the table, Cordy rummaged inside for the sheathed knife she knew was there. Finding it and slamming the drawer shut again, she refused to look at the impervious face resting on the pillow.
This wasn’t invading his personal space and violating his ethics and their safety. This was…necessary.
Knife hovering over the soft skin of her arm and sucking in a deep fortifying breath, she muttered, “Only you could have a son diabolical enough to pull a stunt like that. Geeze, why is it his little revenge gig means I get to feed daddy?”
Somehow when she’d fantasised about what it would be like when Angel got back, she hadn’t figured this in the equation. More like gratuitous thanks for saving his ass, swiftly followed by a crushing hug and long talks over several expensive dinners in the restaurant of her choice. Maybe even a kiss?
“You are so going to have to wash your mouth out after this, Angel. There is no way I’m kissing that mouth and thinking about my own blood. Yuck!”
Done with the distracting complaints and squeezing her eyes shut, Cordelia slashed the knife over the arm and hissed at the eruption of pain. “Ow!! OwowowowowoW!!”
“God! Why does that hurt so much more when I do it myself? It should be the other way around.”
The knife clattered to the floor as she gripped the bleeding limb and then gingerly scooted over so to be close enough to tip the welling blood to Angel’s closed lips. It spattered over his mouth, chin and nose.
“Gross, it’s like feeding a really big baby, only unbelievably squickier.”
Grimacing at the mess, Cordy pressed a thumb on his bottom lip to prise it and his jaw open. Using the tube had been so much easier, but this was supposed to be fresh. Pressing down the wound to try and get a good seal between her arm and his lips, she watched his face closely, praying for a twitch or any sign this was going to work.
***
The scent of female was distracting, permeating everything with its warm allure. Whoever she was, she was human. Her voice kept pulling him up, snagging his attention to lift him up from the black morass holding him under. Soft and cajoling it soothed him, irate and demanding it made him want to grit his teeth and surge up so he could clamp a hand over the woman’s mouth. How dare she hound him? The sparks of temper she lit had Angel straining to open his eyes only to become drained of strength and fail.
Sinking back he would feel her hands stroking along his skin, the richest velvet that turned liquid just before the pit swallowed him once again. He welcomed it knowing that was precisely where he belonged. Here the hunger couldn’t reach to tear and twist into his guts; here he saw nothing or no-one that would bring back the urge to maim and devastate. Here he was safe and so was everyone else. Angel had no intention of fighting it.
The cold blood she forced on him was disgusting, worse than the stored blood he bought from the black market. If he could have he would have turned away and refused to drink it, but buried, too deep to move his arms, he had no choice but to let her fill the body he could barely feel anymore.
It didn’t matter. He was satisfied, secure in that knowledge that no matter what her reasons where the futile attempts to pull him back were failing. Until she did something even he, lost to the world as he was, couldn’t fail to recognise. Living blood, so warm it felt hot dripped into his mouth, soaking into the inert flesh and bringing with it the most excruciatingly exquisite hunger for more.
He began a slow rise from the depths. NooooOOOOOO!!
Cordelia gritted her teeth against the burn of pain and used her other hand to squeeze some more blood into Angel’s mouth. Geeze, how much was enough? Sweat beaded and dripped on her forehead and in the valley between her breasts underneath the loose tunic top. A few seconds more and that would have to do. She was starting to feel dizzy.
She missed the spasm curling his right hand. When he suddenly went from lax to rigid she was unprepared and startled by it, jerked away. Instantly strong hands gripped her arm hard and a strong, piercingly painful suction tore at her arm. God, it felt like her skin was being stripped off.
The scream that tore free couldn’t be helped and it got an instant reaction from him. Feral, furious brown eyes snapped open and focused on her damp face. Then the world went topsy-turvy and she couldn’t breathe when a hard hand pressed ruthlessly down on her mouth.
“Don’t scream,” he snarled. His voice was rusty, hoarse and scraped along her nerves. Cordelia stared up into Angel’s cold face and felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of warmth or even recognition in it. His next question confirmed that nebulous fear.
“Who the hell are you?”
Part 1