brief conversations

Posted: July 6, 2001
Rating: PG13 (Australian) (US). Angel and his damn swearing again!
Notes: (1) A piece that felt like a continuation of Pictures In Her Eyes and was sort of spurred on by a comment made by a poster at alt.tv.angel.
(2) Sorry about the style, I still have "Aftermath" Angel in my head :)
(3) I took a lot of liberties with The Egyptian, such as location and movie programme, but it is only a fleeting reference.

“Hey, it’ll be great! Olden day knights, armour, history stuff - come on, Wes!”
“No, I think not, Cordelia.”
“Cordy, I’ll...”
“Gunn? Lotsa action? Jousting, sword-fights, gallons of blood?”
“Nuh uh, I’ve got business.”
“Um, Cordy?”
“Geeze you guys, a bit of fun now and then!”
“Cordelia?”
“Yeah, Angel, I put the little piggy oh pos in the fridge.”
“A movie... I don’t mind a good movie.”
“You want me to beg?”
“Beg? Uh... no.”
“Okay! Go get your coat!”

I think she was pleased. It can be difficult to tell with Cordelia. She wasn’t angry, I knew that much.
Why did I decide to chance an evening in her company? I missed her. The old closeness, the pre-Darla, pre-nightmare closeness. Close, companionable, comfortable. I didn’t expect to get it back overnight. In many ways she had softened towards me, but... I missed her.
A night sitting beside her in a darkened room with a hundred other people wasn’t much of an opportunity for conversation. Did I say I missed her? Enough to leap at the chance of a few hours of closeness without conversation. Hey, we could talk on the walk there and back, right? A few blocks worth of amiable exchanges, a review of last night’s monster, gripes over the usual lack of cash flow, a vague reference to the visions and on the way home - either a cutting critique or a gushing parade of enthusiasm for the movie we had sat through. Together.
Last week she was gushing over Hugh Jackman. Again. Hell, she manages to bring him into the discussion when he wasn’t even in the damn movie! According to Cordelia this guy has the ultimate in chests so we - she - feels the need to compare his chest with the chest of the whoever we saw in whatever movie that night. But a week ago we saw Swordfish and - The Chest. If I had known who was in the movie I might have pleaded fatigue or faked a return of Angelus, anything not to have to listen to an exposition on the delights of the puny prick.
But it’s worth it, right? I keep telling myself it is worth all the Hugh irritation and ... and frustration. It’s all about team-building or, in our case, team re-building. Getting ourselves back to the tight group we once were. I’m working on it. Every Monday night I’m working on it.
We sit in the back row. Cordelia loves it up there and I like to have a wall at my back. Old habits.
The first night she put an empty seat between us so, she said, she had somewhere for her coat, bag and popcorn. I wasn’t getting the close up warmth I was hoping for. How can you build when the person you are trying to connect with is half a mile away? I sat there, glaring at the screen. I mean, hell, this was supposed to be about bonding, not frying my brain watching some kid playing at being a knight in a horribly inaccurate historical setting. Nike? What the...? I put up with it for another ten minutes, went to buy Cordy a drink she didn’t ask for and when I came back I accidentally sat in the seat on the other side of her.
Rubbing shoulders. Instant warmth. Instant bonding. Team-building, right?
That’s how it began. A tradition was born. Monday night movie, back row, popcorn and bonding.

“Are you scared of the dark, Cordelia?”
“Dark? Light from the screen... the little lighty strips on the stairs... you think it’s dark?”
“No, I don’t, but you’ve been squeezing my hand for the last half-hour.”
“Um, it’s a scary movie?”
“And last week?”
“Last week, oh... well, Hugh is kind of... cute.”
“Week before?”
“Shrek was funny... boy, you laughed - it’s good to... to... when it’s funny.”
“That’s scary, funny and cute. Handholding helps for all three?”
“Hey, isn’t it okay for friends to, to lock fingers now and then? Gee, if I’d known you were going to go ballistic about it...”
“Ballistic? I only asked. Don’t let me stop you.”
“You sure? It’s kind of nice sitting in the nearly dark holding on to someone... um, comfortable and, and, and friendly!.”
“Uh huh.”

I didn’t think much of it.
That is, in between thinking about her hand holding mine, I didn’t think much of it. Those times weren’t often, because usually I spent a lot of routine brood periods reliving the feel of her soft skin on mine, slender fingers twined between my own or curled over my palm, the steady flutter of her veined wrist against my dead one, the exquisite tiny pulses from her fingertips when they lay alongside and over and in me, the quick flash of pressure when she laughed or squirmed or squealed.
Did I mention the anticipation?
Cordelia always chose the moment to coil her fingers over mine. It was her choice, her moment, my agony. The first flap of her hand that heralded an escaping gurgle or groan. A hand that briefly tapped against my arm to share the moment and eventually settled over my fingers as they strained to simulate relaxation. I had to sit, wait.
Christ, just sitting there, hand on the arm-rest between us, waiting for her first squirm or squeal or giggle, damning the producer for not providing for my long-sought sustenance during the opening credits.
Otherwise, I didn’t think much of it.
And because I didn’t think much of it I reasoned it would be good to have more. So on the Saturday nights that we didn’t have any pre-booked demons to destroy, I asked her to walk the three blocks to the Egyptian Theatre and watch a real movie with me. Yeah, some of them were soppy and not so good but I could taste Buster Keaton’s silent world and Humphrey Bogart’s macho cynicism.
Getting my hand held twice a week? I thought nothing of it.
And the first time she latched onto my hand from the beginning of the movie all the way until we were about to walk through the front door of the Hyperion?
Nothing of note.

“You know that old song? It’s kind of a funny coincidence, I was only humming it to myself this morning.”
“What song, Angel? Are you going to sing it?”
“I don’t remember all the words, I could hum it.... da, da, da, da, duh, da, da, da, da..”
“Stayin’ Alive?”
“Um, no. Something about ‘sitting in the back row at the movies’... like we do, Cordy!”
“Oh... and holding hands?
“Yeah.”
“That’s so not us... the kissing and the hugging part!”
“Well, no, not the kissing and the hugging part... but holding hands...”
“Holding hands together? Forever?... No way is that us, Angel!”
“I guess not.”

Two nights a week. Not always, but fairly often. Barring demons and any current apocolypse or other intrusive work related incident. It was good, right? The bonding was going well and I thought she might start smiling more. She wasn’t. In fact, the smiling this past week was almost negligible, almost like she was a few months ago. I decided to ask her to a movie on Friday night, just to cheer her up, get rid of that peaky, lost little girl look.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy a night out, it’s a premiere but I can get us in if...”
“Angel, I can’t, not tonight.”
“Oh. Tomorrow?”
“No. You see, I’ve... there’s this friend and... I’m going out already.”
“A not-me friend?”
“Another friend, yeah.”
“What movie? I could come along as well, couldn't I?”
“It isn’t a movie Angel, it’s dinner.”
“I can fake it, I don't mind. Who is she?”
“But I do... Angel, I’m sorry, it’s a date... and no, before you ask, you don’t know him and you won’t be meeting him.”
“A... him?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t had one of those for a long time. Are you sure you want to...”
“I... he’s a nice guy. Normal.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“A coffee shop I stop by - he works there.”
“And he asked you out? Just like that? You said yes?”
“I’ve been saying good morning to him nearly every day, for almost a year.”
“So? What’s the rush?”
“Geeze, drop it Angel. Approval is a parental zone. I need to go on a date. Leave it.”
“Need to?”
“Yes, because going to the movies with you was beginning to feel special... like a fresh make-up and new dress and gotta smell nice occasion.”
“You always smell nice.”
“Angel...”
“And that’s good, right?”
“Wrong. You know it, I know it, Wes, Gunn, Fred, the damn hot dog guy knows it!”
“Cord, please... wrong, yeah.”

Struggling to win back a friend, it was wrong. Fuck, atonement guy doesn’t deserve friends, huh? Friends, wrong, because hell, don’t I just love to torment and kill friends on a bad day? I’m never content, I can’t be, not allowed to be. I always want more, can’t let a friend be, suck them dry until they can’t, won’t, give any more.
No wonder Cordelia looked pale. I sucked her dry.
I'm a vampire. It's what I do best.
I sat next to her in the dark while she held my hand. I breathed in her being and sucked her dry. Why would she want to go on with me for a friend? Some friend I am.
Do I want to see her happy? Sure.
Do I want her to date, meet new people? Yeah (see above).
Can I cope with her dating other guys? No way in hell.
What do I do? Make sure she is safe.
How? Keep an eye on her.
And? Fuck, if she smiles that beautiful dead-body-warming smile at another guy, I guess I crack inside.
Which? Makes it easier to let go and then I can get back to the first item. I want her to be happy.
Let go? How do you let a friend go? Let go the beautiful, lingering finger span of comfort found in the back row of a movie?
So I have an obsessive personality. Tell me something I don’t know.

Standing across the street, blocking out passing cars and scurrying people, staring into the lit window, watching her eat and drink with her date.
Date. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? A date. Letting a guy you don’t know buy you a meal you are too excited or nervous or scared to eat? Talk about what? The daily excitement of a coffee shop? Cordy’s latest vision and how to remove La Dunfrere demon brain mush from silk? What the fuck can he offer Cordelia, besides normal? Boredom, safe boredom.
She was standing up. She’d had enough, right? Smile nicely and leave, that’s the way. Huh, restroom break.
Do I want to see her happy? Sure.
Do I want her to date, meet new people? Yeah.
Stop the list at two points ... and leave it there, let her find her chance at happy.
Leave? Means go away, move on. Should be fairly easy if I can just slip into a self-induced coma.

“What the hell are you doing?”
“Cordelia? You snuck up... how’d you do that?”
“Damn it, Angel! Do you come to this street corner often to stare at people eating?”
“First time. You?”
“Leave.”
“I’m not going, Cordy.”
“Leave!”
“No.”
“Angel, I’m not going to stand and argue while my lobster gets cold... just go, get over it, go!”
“Get over what exactly? Movies, Monday nights, you, Cordelia?”
“I can’t do let’s be best buddies any more when all I want to do is... forget it. Just go.”
“Monday’s - is Monday still our night?”
“No, Angel, not any more. Reckless, hurt, unhappy, consequences, all spring to mind.”
“What do you want me to do? Wear a blindfold, earplugs - that still leaves scent - a nose clamp should take care of that... and touch or just fucking well sensing you, feeling your heart-beat... I guess I could sit in my room until you go home.”
“Angel...”
“What about taste? Tasting your scent on my tongue? No, nose clamp should take care of that unless of course I accidentally trip over you - those damn blindfolds - and my tongue falls on your skin... but hell, what am I thinking, I’m gonna be in my room all the time...”
“You are scary.”
“Yeah. Scary happens when I get scared myself. Cordy, please, I only want to be your friend, is that so difficult?”
“Yes, because for you it isn’t enough. Listen to yourself! You aren’t talking friends!”
“And you, Cordy? Do you want more?”
“Is a thirsty man happy with one sip of Coke?”

That should have been that. She should have turned around and walked back to her, by now, stone cold lobster and stone cold date. So why didn’t she? Why the hell did she stand there on the corner of the street looking at me as though I held the answer to happiness, life and the universe?
Was she waiting for the rest of the can of Coke? I could have done with a drink myself. A drink from those rosy lips of hers.
I’d sucked her dry and she wanted me to suck some more.
I’d taken and taken and she still wanted me to take more.
Standing there, waiting for me to take or to give?
I wasn’t sure how to give.
Christ, I wanted to give.
So I kissed her.

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.