hptRating:PG
Posted: April 3, 2001
Notes: 1) Set a few weeks post-"Epiphany".
The small oblong box huddled on top of the minute bathroom wall cabinet.Angel reached up and grasped the hint of something blue in one large hand.
“To Life” was the name of the product. That didn’t make a heck of a lot of sense. To Life. Like a toast. To good health.
“Fast Results.”
“No Waiting.” No waiting for what?
“Over 99% accurate.”
“Two Pregnancy Tests.” A pregnancy test. Two of them. For finding out if you are pregnant. Right? Yeah.
Angel knew he wasn’t pregnant. He doubted if the brightly coloured cardboard box belonged to Wesley. Gunn had been at the office for a while, but... the quick elimination left only Cordelia.
Cordelia thought she might be pregnant. On the other hand the kit might be there for ‘just in case’ occasions.
Angel shook the container. There was a muffled rattle in response.
Cordelia might be pregnant? Who? There wasn’t anybody... was there? Angel no longer knew who was in Cordelia’s life ... not since he had been so actively not part of her existence. He couldn’t pretend to understand the Cordelia of this particular “now”.
Did she actually want to conceive a child? Into this life? Was she longing for someone to love so desperately, so unconditionally? Not Cordelia. Not Cordelia.
Angel shook the box again. Tentatively, he flipped open the package and tipped it up to slide the contents onto his palm. Angel discarded the unwrapped item and peered at a narrow piece of white plastic. Had it been used? Did the lines mean she was pregnant or not pregnant? Why couldn’t they just write “pregnant” or “not-pregnant” on the plastic?
Angel grabbed for the container, anxiously searching amongst the gaudy colours for some sort of guide. “2 lines = pregnant, 1 line = not pregnant.”
Pregnant. With child. Expecting. Swollen belly and at the end a squalling infant followed by a life-time of anxiety. Who? Did Cordelia really want that? Why hadn’t she told him? Why.... Come on Angel, you don’t really need to be told that. When were you even around to be told?
Maybe Cordelia didn’t want to have a child. It could have been an accident? Who? Angel couldn’t suppress the internal, eternal, “who?”, “who?”. Who did Cordelia care enough about to want to have their child? Who would have been so careless of Cordelia’s well-being to risk the meeting of sperm and egg?
Angel focused once more on the small lines. Definitely a positive. Angel sank onto the toilet seat. He took a calming breath. Relax. Violence might not be necessary. If the ... man ... responsible... cared for Cordelia, wanted to be a family, then ... he wanted to strangle him, disembowel him - slowly, make sure he suffered.
Why hadn’t she told him? How long was it since they had been on any level of intimacy that would encourage a casual “Oh, by the way Angel, blank-blip and I are expecting a baby. Do you want to go with ‘Uncle Angel’ or plain ‘Angel’?” Nor could he burst out of the tiny, stuffy bathroom and demand to know all the details. “Hey Cordelia, you’re pregnant? Who’s the father? Where can I find him?”
He would have to be natural, casual. No questions. A normal broody surliness with an occasional clumsy attempt at artless conversation. Angel Investigations might be officially re-united but the old, hard come by ease was gone, for now.
An insistent rap at the door abruptly interrupted Angel’s wallow.
“Just a minute,” Angel mumbled as he forced the indicator strips back into the packet and returned it to the hiding place.
Angel quickly ran the cold faucet, dragged his fingers through the water, shook the drips from his hands and opened the door.
“Sticky fingers,” he muttered apologetically and sidled past the frowning, impatient Cordelia.
What the hell did he know about child-bearing? He would have to find a book on pregnancy. What to expect, when to expect. Emergency child-birth. Nutrition. Vitamins. The best hospital. Home birth....oh god, no. Names.
Water flushed softly in the background. Cordelia emerged from the smallest room, returned to her desk and distinctly ignored Angel. He was now able to differentiate between ‘ignoring me because she is actually busy’ and ‘ignoring me because I am here and she isn’t busy but she wants me to know I am being ignored.’
Cordelia looked the same as she had done for the last two weeks. Pale, drawn, remote, somehow sad. Angel’s gut knotted. Not sad. She should be happy. Glowing. Wasn’t that the word that was used to describe pregnant women? Pregnant women glowed. Cordelia wasn’t radiant, she was more like one of those colourless women from an Old Master. With clothes on.
Oh, God, she didn’t want the baby... or she wanted the baby but not the father... or the father had rejected her. Shit. Back to the torture chambers and long, protracted, painful, scream laden demises. He had utilised an Iron Maiden on several satisfying Angelus occasions or, how about hot pokers? Yes, hot pokers. Red, glaring-red-hot iron, judiciously inserted. Several hours of searing, nameless agony.
“Coffee?”
“Huh?”
“Coffee. You remember. Hot, black, wet, strong...”
“Yes, please... no! Wait, I’ll get it.” Angel strode over to the coffee corner of the office.
“You’ll do it? Huh? Are you okay?”
“Of course. Why can’t I make you a coffee?”
“No reason. Just don’t overdo the new “Mr Nice Guy” Angel, I can only take so much sweetness at once.” Cordelia returned to her books.
Coffee. Caffeine. What had he heard about caffeine and a developing baby? Damn, why hadn’t he watched more lifestyle programs? Make the coffee, excuse yourself and head for the library. One cup, surely that would be okay.
Angel placed an overly milky, weak mug of coffee in front of Cordelia with a quiet “here you are” and took the opportunity to glance at the books Cordelia was studying. "Gray’s Anatomy" and "Basic First Aid". The upside down book of old black and white engravings was open at feet and toes. Basic First Aid demonstrated the management of a lower leg fracture.
Angel sighed and returned to his chair. Nothing remotely babyish about Cordelia’s study. He sipped at his hot, strong, caffeine riddled coffee.
“So.”
Cordelia’s eyes remained fixed on Gray and broken bones.
Angel cleared his throat and plunged headlong into a casual, nonchalant conversation opener. After all, he needed the practice.
“So. Anything exciting or...er, new, in your life right now?”
Cordelia raised her sleek head. If he had been of a gloomy disposition, Angel might have thought that Cordelia had lifted her head reluctantly. But he was in casual, positive mode and did not attach such a negative term to Cordelia’s movements.
Angel might have caught Cordelia’s attention but she wasn’t responding.
Angel smiled breezily at Cordelia.
“You are kidding, right?”
“Well, no, I....”
“A failing agency, impending bankruptcy - if I could afford to file, I would - freaking visions, no life and I’m working with two people, one of whom is so fragile at the moment a draught would break him in two and the other... well, I am having problems even ...no, I promised myself not to go there.” The eyes blazed. The unspoken was understood.
“I was just making conversation.” Angel limply excused his efforts.
The flame in the hazel eyes died. “I can do without.” Cordelia took a deep breath. “Go save someone. Preferably a someone who can afford to pay. Hang around Beverly Hills. Earn your keep.”
To Angel, Cordelia had sounded defeated, deflated. Angel bleakly accepted the comments, as though they were his due. A dismal sorrow nagged at his innards. “Yeah, actually, I might go out for a while.”
Cordelia sighed. She was alone.
Angel flicked through the pages of “A Guy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth”. He sat at a library table amidst well-read editions of “Aromatherapy For Pregnancy and Childbirth”, “Pregnancy For Dummies”, “Meditation During Pregnancy”, “Eating For Two”, “Dr Ruth’s Pregnancy Guide”, “Irish Names”, “1000 Questions About Your Pregnancy”, “A Dictionary of First Names” and “Baby & Me”. Some had been discarded, others lay open at, in Angel’s opinion, fairly readable sections. That is, they didn’t cause him to boggle in confusion, gag in horror or groan in disbelief. He marvelled at the grainy black and white photographs of a developing child and wondered how it was all going to fit safely inside Cordelia.“If she asks you if she looks big, the correct answer is not ‘yes’.” Angel mumbled a passage from the “Guy’s Guide”. What not to say. This seemed like the sort of stuff he would need to know. He bundled the “Guy’s Guide”, “Pregnancy for Dummies”, “1000 Questions” and the name books into his arms and headed for the desk.
As the door clicked open on Angel’s return to the Angel Investigation office (mark III), Cordelia glanced up from the computer screen. Angel could see her lips work their way into an infinitessimal acceptable social “hello” smile before she ducked her head once again towards the safety of the screen. Angel chastised himself for reading too much negativity into Cordelia’s actions.“A profitable trip?” she asked.
“Not in the financial sense.”
“There’s another?”
Angel wandered over to the coffee machine and placed a new jar on the shelf.
“I bought you some decaf coffee.”
“Decaf beans?”
“Granules. Health wise I thought we should maybe cut down on the straight caffeine hits. Better for you... healthy.”
Cordelia regarded him steadily for a moment. Angel was considering slinking away into a dark corner when she spoke.
“Angel, didn’t we agree - all of us - didn’t we agree not to go all guilt trippy on each other? Try and work through the bumps but not... Anyway, I’m trying to say, I know I haven’t been too ... pleasant... for the last few weeks but I’ve been going through some real crap, personally... no, don’t interrupt... and I’m... well, I’m sorry about some of my comments.”
Angel stared at his shoes.
“Okay?” Cordelia prompted.
“Oh. I’m not. I’m not doing what you just said. I promise. You’ve had a difficult few months and I want to make it up....”
“Angel... ‘make it up’, ‘guilt trippy’... the same thing. Stop. Now.”
Angel retreated to his chair. This wasn’t going to be smooth going. Couldn’t she come out and tell him about the baby? He shrugged within himself. In this cool temperate climate confidences weren’t likely.
“Jessica. What do you think of the name, Jessica?” Angel offered unexpectedly.
Cordelia carefully placed her mouse in it’s little house and meticulously straightened the keyboard before she replied.
“Why?” she asked with a gritty patience.
“I wondered. I met a Jessica - at the library - and I wondered what you thought of the name.” Angel considered Cordelia warily. There was no steam, no furrows. She looked as though she might respond.
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Have you ever made one of those make believe lists? You know, names you might want to use for your baby ... future children.” This was a naming strategy he had read about in one of the many volumes.
“Not since Junior High.”
“Oh. Junior High.” Angel balked slightly but made a quick recovery. “What was on your list in Junior High?”
“For Pete’s sake!” Cordelia briefly closed her eyes. “Okay, okay, I'll play. There was Madonna, Whitney, Lacey, Bradley (Pitt, that is), Harrison (Ford, obviously)... I was kind of influenced by pop culture.”
Angel grappled with the names in his head. Madonna?
“Um... Whitney is, er, nice.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t consider them nowadays! Tastes change as you get older. You should know.”
“Yeah, they do.”
Cordelia giggled.
Shit, an old Cordelia giggle. Angel revved up his nonchalance and studiously ignored remarking, by look or word, on the rare and unexpected giggle. It wasn’t extinct after all.
“My favourite combinations were Kelsey-Arielle Whitney and Bradley Kiefer Harrison! Urgh! And a few years ago...”
She leant forward, hands clasped and the beginning of a sparkle in her eyes.
“...I thought I might like the boy’s names for girls trend, but when it came to deciding on boy’s names, there wasn’t a lot left. Now I’d go for elegant feminine and cutting-edge masculine.”
“Like?” He nudged gently.
“Oh... Helen, Isabel, Malachi...”
“Sort of old-fashioned?”
“Yeah,” she sighed, “but it takes two. The daddy might object.”
Angel couldn’t imagine any man holding out against Cordelia’s wishes for too long. “You’d consult the father?”
“Well... yeah.” He could hear the ‘duh’ in her voice.
“What if you were a single mother - if the father didn’t stay around?”
“You don’t think I’d intentionally conceive a child with some fly-by-night ass-hole do you? Come on. Been there, done demon daddies.”
“He is going to support you?” Angel asked, almost eagerly.
“He? Is?” Cordelia leant back in her chair, her animation replaced by suspicion. “Angel, what is this all about?”
“I thought you might have told me,” he spoke confidentially to his hands. “I know it’s been rough, but I am here now and if I can help - whatever - back or foot massages, breathing exercises... and you know someone should be with you when you deliver! I can do that... I think... and walking it at night so you can sleep. Well you know I can do that, especially if there are no demons to be dealt with and you might not think I can be trusted around a baby but I can... in fact I once had to care for an infant....”
“Angel, enough,” she demanded quietly. Cordelia had stood during Angel’s rambling monologue and was now solidy entrenched, arms folded, in front of the still seated Angel.
“You think I am pregnant, having a baby?” The last word came out on an unexpected squeak.
“Yes.”
“Why? How? Who?” The expressive hands flew into the air.
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself - especially the ‘who’, ” he admitted.
“Angel, get a grip. Let me say this again. I.. have.. no.. life. Where did you get the idea?”
“The kit thingy with the little lines. In the bathroom.” Why did she still look confused? “On top of the cabinet,” he added helpfully.
“Isn’t mine.”
“Oh.” After an initial wince Angel sat quietly and began to digest the information. Cordelia wasn’t having a baby. He didn’t need to study natural child-birth or find out how to reduce the risk of tearing. Midnight walk-and-talk sessions with a colicky new-born wouldn’t be required. He wouldn’t have to plunge the murky depths of his memory for childish croons or lullabyes. No baby.
He sighed and shifted his gaze back to Cordelia’s face. At least his blunder hadn’t made her angry. Somehow she appeared calm, placid. He needed to know.
“Would you have told me... if you had been expecting? Would you have let me help?”
“Angel...” Cordelia half turned her body away.
“Would you?” he insisted.
“That’s difficult to say, after everything,” she shrugged. Several months of discord, chaos and confusion shrugged into two words. After everything.
“After everything,” he tried again, “would you have trusted me with your child? Will you trust me if it ever happens? Can you trust me again with anything?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I hope I could feel that way again... I want to feel that way again. That’s the best I can do right now.”
Cordelia returned to her own space, settling once more behind the barrier of the computer screen.
Angel nodded. He could manage ‘hope’ and ‘want’. Positive.
So, no baby. At least, he thought, it would give him time to convince Cordelia that a good, traditional Irish name could be either elegantly feminine or cutting-edge masculine.
Eily. Oh, not Eily. Um, no. Caoimhseach or Gráinne, Cormac or Daimíne.
Plenty of time.
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Disclaimer: The characters are Joss Whedon's, Mutant Enemy's and probably a heap of other people about
whom I know nothing.
I lay no claim to ownership of the characters, I simply like to ask them out to play now and then.