mixt soules

Rating: MA15+ (Aus) and probably NC17 (US) - but only for a naughty word or two.
Posted: October 22, 2000
Spoilers: For my readers in Aus/NZ/UK/Europe...This series is based on spoilers I heard a few months ago for early season 2 AtS, particularly "Judgement".
Notes: With apologies to the residents of the tiny settlement of Ghooli in the eastern wheatbelt of Western Australia.

Part One

The long silver blade sleekly, swiftly disappeared into the pitted grey back of the Cactoo. Before the demon could do more than lift its head in surprise, Angel quickly disengaged the sword, swung the weapon effortlessly over his shoulder and swooshed it neatly through the stodgy mass that passed for a Cactoo neck. The matching lumpy head fell with a dull thud as the teetering body slumped to the ground.
“Wow, thanks guys,” whistled the small man with the gappy teeth. The current beneficiary of Cordelia’s visions was still leaning against the high wooden fence where, until recently, he had been cornered by the Cactoo.
Angel didn’t even glance at the man. He was staring at a piece of silverish metal protruding from under the Cactoo’s body. Wesley followed Angel’s gaze and dropped to his knees beside the dead torso. He quickly scooped up the medallion by its short chunky chain and pulled it from the corpse.
The whistling man was starting to squeal, a high pitched squeal of thwarted rage. Angel deftly lifted the broad-sword, plunged it forward and pinned the already changing shifter to the fence before it had a chance to attack, escape or burst their ear-drums.
“What on earth?” Wesley looked up from the smooth metal in his hands to see the ‘man’ dissolving to a brown, mucky, chunky slime.
Angel reached out and lifted the medallion from Wesley’s grasp.
“Shit,” whispered Angel as he carefully rolled the seamless disc between his palms. He could recall seeing Whistler with just such a piece of metal, opening instantly at his touch, exposing an intricately hinged message. “I’ve killed a delivery boy from the Powers.”

“I got the message wrong?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?” demanded Cordelia.
“I killed a demon who was acting for the Powers,” Angel explained slowly, battling to conceal the frustration and anger engendered by his guilt.
“But it was the one I saw in the vision?”
“Yes.”
“So I got the message wrong!”
“No.”
“Look...I saw a big hulking demon trying to pin this little guy against the wall...and they weren’t having a chat!” Cordelia was trying to deal with her own frustration and confusion.
“The man - he was actually a shape-shifter. I don’t know why...I don’t know, but the Cactoo must have been defending himself when I killed him. It was just too easy....I should have realised.”
“Then why didn’t the Powers make the message clearer? 'X' marks the bad guy. It doesn’t make sense! But, hey, we still killed an evil demon, right?” Cordelia asked with a tinge of uncertainty.
“The Cactoo was a messenger, Cordelia. He wasn’t in evil mode. Now we have the message but no idea who it is supposed to be for and I’ll guarantee it is slightly more important than a Halloween party invitation,” Angel said bitterly.
“He was carrying a message? I didn’t see any papers!”
“It’s sealed inside a metal plate. He had it around his neck,” said Wesley.
Wesley was sitting on the sofa, watching and listening to the verbal ping-pong. The combatants stood facing each other, arms akimbo at five paces. Both seemed determined to claim sole responsibility for the death of the Powers’ messenger. Wesley contributed his own opinion. “I was there too, Angel. I saw the same demon and what we thought was a man being assaulted. For all we know the Cactoo may have stolen the disc from the original messenger.”
Cordelia didn’t hear Wesley's theory, she was replaying the recent vision. A plate, a shiny disc. “A plate? Like a kind of swirly silver and gold tacky seventies pendant?” Cordelia waved a hand in a questioning circular motion over her chest.
“You saw it?” Angel asked, astounded. He took an impatient step towards Cordelia.
“I didn’t know it was important.....”
“You should know by now that everything is important! If you had told me I wouldn’t have been so quick to kill!” exploded Angel.
“I didn’t know - all I could see was a big scary looking monster attacking a human - and you were so darn anxious to get out the door I just gave you the abridged version. How do you know this messenger didn’t turn bad?”
“Because the shifter shifted. Shifters are always bad. It must have been trying to intercept the message, prevent it from being delivered. Well we sure helped him out!” Angel ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
“Isn’t there a name and address on the outside?” Cordelia asked hopefully.
“No,” said Angel sharply.
“Speaking of which, while you two carry on this fruitless blame apportioning post-mortem, I might do something useful such as attempt to find a way to open the medallion!” said Wesley, pulling the disc from his pocket. “Shall I? Hmmmm?” Wesley’s sarcasm was ignored. He turned his back on the arguing pair and headed for the relative peace of the kitchen alcove.
“From now on, Cordelia, you tell me everything you see - it isn’t up to you to decide what is or isn’t important. Understood?”
“Fine, at least you are acknowledging that this is my mistake now.”
“Not at all. I was at fault in accepting only the basic information. I should have pushed you for more.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake! I....”
“No! This has nothing to do with you, so don’t try to make it about yourself.”
“Nothing to do with me? Hello? Who is it again who gets the damn visions?” Cordelia was seething at Angel’s attempts to negate her accountability. Nothing to do with me? Who the hell did he think he was? When will he learn that I want to be responsible? That I can be responsible?
“You took the message. Granted. That’s the end of your involvement.”
Cordelia snapped. “Geeze you can be full of yourself sometimes Angel. It’s all about you - your pain, your guilt, your mistakes! Well, time to wake up Mr Doom and Gloom - there are other people out here with issues. I think....”
“I don’t give a fuck what you think, I.....” Angel caught the violent outburst on a gasp.
A sudden thick silence oozed between the two frozen figures.
Angel bit his lip and stared at the carpet.
Cordelia, ashen and open-mouthed, stared at Angel. Had Angel really said what she thought he had said? And to make it worse, with an obscene expletive? Not Angel. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. But he, so very much, had. She felt sick. This was Angel, they were supposed to be friends, but he didn’t care?
“Cordelia...”
“Then I won’t waste my breath.” Cordelia desperately wanted to be alone. Throwing up is best done alone. Cordelia desperately wanted to throw up. Expunge the shock.
“Cordelia, please, I didn’t...” The sound of the front door being wrenched open effectively silenced Angel. Dennis was showing his support for Cordelia.
“Dennis, thank you,” murmured Cordelia. Her voice, as well as her gaze, was significantly hardened for Angel. “Leave.” Cordelia added a stiff “now” for emphasis.
“I’m sorry, let me explain....”
“Tell someone who cares,” she said woodenly, “Out.”
Angel shook his head in exasperation before slowly walking out of the apartment. Dennis slammed the door to, almost clipping the heels of the retreating vampire.

Part Two

Angel sat behind the wheel of the Plymouth, staring grimly into the darkened street. He was angry. Angry that he had lost his temper; angry that he had sworn at Cordelia; angry that he hadn’t been in control; angry that Cordelia had visions; angry with the Powers; angry that he had killed...ugh, all of it.
Something large hit the padded seat behind him and the old car sank gently to one side. Wesley had climbed into the passenger seat, three large leathery books clasped to his chest.
“Well,” said Wesley calmly, glancing over at the stony profile, “Cordelia is rather upset.”
“She tell you?”
“Yes. Also,” he jabbed his thumb at the back seat, “she had packed a suitcase for you. No, I exaggerate. Cordelia and Dennis threw your clothes onto the floor. You are lucky they didn’t get tossed out the window. I packed what I could into a suitcase.You, um, don’t think an apology would have helped?”
“I tried. She didn’t want to listen.” Angel pushed the car door open. “This is ridiculous.”
“I wouldn’t recommend a visit right now, Angel,” Wesley said hastily, “They will probably fall over themselves trying to grab the closest stake.”
The car door banged shut. “Great,” said Angel with an incensed huff.
“Cordelia asked me to collect the rest of your belongings in the morning. I assume you will be wanting to bunk down at my flat?”
The Plymouth rumbled to an ill-natured start. Angel abruptly hauled the machine onto the road, a reeking backdrop of smoke rose from the screeching rear tyres.
Wesley had to yell over the noise. “You are welcome, I’m sure.”

Cordelia pushed her shoulders against the closed door and stared absently at a black silk shirt draped artistically over a lamp-shade. Wesley had missed that one.
Cordelia was definitely angry. Her temper had quickly overtaken the sinking nausea. He didn’t care? Had he ever cared for her opinion? Was she tolerated because of the visions? He couldn’t get the Powers to change that one! By his own word he didn’t care now. Cordelia wondered how easy it would be not to have any regard for a friends thoughts or feelings. She told herself she didn’t give a fig about Angel’s recent bout of guilt. He could work through this one by himself, she wouldn’t be there to bully him out of this particular guilt-broody episode. She didn’t care. See? Easy.
Angry tears pricked at Cordelia’s blazing eyes. Stuff him. After all this time. She’d show him, she was capable of being much more than a vision messenger come filing and phone-answering bimbo.
The shirt was plucked from the lamp and tossed onto the top of a small bundle of clothes on the sofa. For later collection.

“There is no mention of how to open one of these things if you aren’t the intended recipient.” Wesley sat at his minute table, spectacles slipping, peering at the silvery disc balanced against a forgotten cup of tea.
“She has to be the most arrogant, selfish, self-centred, irritating woman I have ever met....and I mean ever!”
“If I had access to Giles’ library I might be able to find some spell or other to get the jolly thing open,” murmured Wesley. He prodded at the bridge of his nose, found the wayward spectacles and pushed them back where they belonged. Wesley looked over at Angel, glowering out of the darkened window.
Wesley’s apartment was not large enough to accommodate a brooding vampire’s pacing. In fact it was hardly large enough to accommodate a stationary brooding vampire. Angel had propped himself against the window-sill and now half-leant, half-sat, chewing at his bottom lip as he glared menacingly at the clear view of the neon-lit brick wall opposite.
“Angel? Angel!”
Angel finally lifted his eyes and glanced across the narrow space to where Wesley sat, surrounded by his open books and papers.
“I’m sorry that you and Cordelia have had an argument, but really, the priority at the moment must be the delivery of this medallion.....by the way I discovered it is called a tacen, like token. Obviously it is of some importance to the Powers... as well as whoever made the attempt to intercept the message.”
Wesley waited for a response but Angel’s attention had once more been drawn to the alley-way. Wesley pushed the books away and sat back as far as possible in the stiff backed chair.
“Do you really believe what you just said about Cordelia? I don’t believe that you believe it. Although, I’ve never known Cordelia to lose her temper with you. May be you have been getting on each others nerves, sharing the apartment for so long.... and then, the stress of this Cactoo business...”
“I am not stressed,” Angel growled through gritted teeth.
“Yes, that is marvellous news.” Wesley pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll call Giles.”
The murmured one-sided conversation from the tiny kitchenette was barely noticed by Angel.
“Giles thinks he may have some useful information....if we can locate the right book. I’ll ride up to Sunnydale now.....”
Angel spun around from the window. “I’ll go.”
“But...wouldn’t it be best if I go to....”
“Wesley, I don’t have time for your games. I can handle Sunnydale.” Angel leant over the table, scooped up and quickly pocketed the tacen.
Wesley watched Angel quietly before replying. “Actually, I was rather wondering if Cordelia and I can handle LA.”
“You have Gunn if you need him.” Angel was already at the door.
“Oh, thank you. And if his, er....expertise... isn’t enough?”
“Call me.” Angel pulled the door to with an impatient bang.
Wesley wandered back to the table and began to tidy up the books and documents. He found Angel’s cell-phone nestled under several copied sheets from a volume of the Dramius.

Part Three

He sat and stared at the almost full cup of tea. A delicate border of yellow and blue leaves twined around the china cup. The fluid was dark and motionless. He stuck a finger tip into the liquid. It was cold. He licked his wet finger and screwed up his mouth at the tannic tang. Distastefully he spat into the cup. The tea rippled in revolt.
He turned his attention to the small pile of plain shortbread by the saucer. Thoughtfully, he picked up one of the crumbly pieces and cautiously put it onto his tongue. Soft and tasteless, but he swallowed.
He folded his arms and continued to wait.

Angel knocked at the wooden door of Giles’ house and stood impatiently. He had spent the last two hours driving from Los Angeles, his thoughts tumbling from Cactoo to tacen to friends and as hurriedly rushing away, only to tumble back to Cactoo, tacen and friends. Angel found no comfort or resolution in his thoughts, only confusion, grief, anger and despair. As yet, he wasn’t sure which emotions matched which category.
The door moved slowly inwards. Giles’ pale face peered through the narrow opening.
“Do you have it?” Giles asked abruptly, no greeting offered.
“Of course.” Angel stood expectantly, but the door didn’t open any further. “Can I come in?”
“Well, no....if you don’t mind, I have a...um, a friend staying. I don’t want her to, well...to see you.”
A friend? What on earth? Wesley had said Giles would help - no mention of a friend. Shit, he didn’t have time for sensibilities.
“Look, Giles, I don’t really care about.....” Angel caught himself up. Don’t go there again. Not that. “I just want to get this tacen open and delivered. Wesley said you had some information. Can you help or not?”
“Yes, yes, yes, of course I can....leave it with me.” Giles reached his hand through the narrow space.
“Leave it? I want to wait while you research. I can check through....”
“No! No, this friend...no. I’ll take a look tonight but you’ll have to call back in the morning.”
“What?” Angel shook his head. Giles had a female friend in the house and he lost all reasonable thought? Angel sniffed quietly at the air. Human and...not human. Giles had a demon girlfriend? Unlikely, but not beyond possibility. Angel removed the tacen from his pocket and placed it in Giles’ outstretched hand. “Okay Giles, but I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Yes, whatever,” Giles replied irritably. The hand closed over the silver disc and the door was pushed shut.
Angel slipped back into the dark shrubbery. The small uncurtained window gave him a glimpse inside of the stairway and book covered desk. Human and non-human. What if....the non-human was after the tacen? How would they know he was bringing it to Sunnydale? Had he and Wesley been followed from the alley where the Cactoo and shape-shifter had been killed? Their conversations over-heard? He hadn’t sensed any presence at Wesley’s apartment, but then, he had not been thinking clearly at the time.
Giles was halfway up the stairs when Angel noticed the silver tacen dangling from one hand. He was taking the tacen to the bedroom? The books were downstairs. Angel emerged from the shadows and looked up to the roof. A faint glow appeared on the tiles when the bedroom light was switched on.
Angel crouched, sprang and nimbly pulled himself up and over the guttering onto the roof.

Cordelia slept with the light on.
Except she wasn’t asleep. She would have been sleeping with the light on if she could only convince her tired brain to shut down, get some rest. But it went on and on, round and round, back and forth over the same series of events, phrases and nuances.
The light was a comfort. The light kept kept away the awful fiends that lived under her bed and sometimes came out to play when she was too distracted to stay in control. Not often. Only after soul-destroying forays with demon pregnancies, unfaithful boyfriends and childhood anxieties. In between, she had learnt to deal, to hide in herself, to combat the loneliness and insecurity with bravado and bitchiness. Maybe that was the problem. Cordelia had dropped many of her armorial habits recently. Did some people think less of her? Was she being too nice?
“Your involvement ends there.” Or was it, ”That’s the end of your involvement.”
Cordelia wasn’t sure of the exact words now. Huh. She did more than have visions - she helped to kill demons and kept the books and paid the bills and...Angel probably didn’t see it the same way. Left to himself he would be happy, in a non-happy sense, sitting in the dark in that hotel he wanted to move into and only hear from Cordelia when she had a vision to phone through. End of involvement. Spend more time at acting classes, work on making a decent living, why not? Too bad, she was involved, whether Angel liked it or not. From tomorrow she intended to be even more involved. Cordelia was tired of flailing aimlessly at ducking demon heads with a battle axe or a mace. Huh. Tomorrow. She wasn’t going to be a message-taking nobody any longer.
Tomorrow, in the morning, she would start to put her life back together...her way.
Cordelia tried to sleep with the light on.

Giles lay on his side on the bed, legs drawn up, arms uncomfortably behind his back. His head reeled and pounded. The gag pushing his tongue halfway down his throat didn’t help the awful nausea that was making waves in his stomach. Fear kept the waves at bay, fear of suffocation and drowning in the unknown depths of his own spewing vomit. His wrists and ankles felt heavy and cold. An improvement, he thought, on the earlier searing heat from the ties that bound his body.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs; running and something else rustling; the overhead light flashed on, burning into his aching eyes; heavy breathing at his back and a weight was pushed into his dead hands; a hiss of relief and suddenly, the crashing and splintering of glass and wood.

Part Four

Not many brawls can be described in terms of grace and majesty. Certainly some skill is involved and a degree of luck and timing. Surprise and brawn are also a considerable advantage.
Angel crashed through the window into Giles’ bedroom, creating surprise and utilising brawn, skill and luck. Grace and majesty were nowhere to be seen.
The shape-shifter rose unsteadily from Giles’ bed, eyes glazed as it tried to focus on the spreading shards of glass and the large black-clothed body which had suddenly, and noisily, entered the room.
Shape-shifters are basically slimy cowards, hiding behind confusion and a borrowed - or stolen - facade. This faux-Giles was as standard as they come. The hiss of relief quickly altered pitch to become the high squeal of anger and fear, typical to this group of shifters.
Before the demon had a chance to resume its own slippery form, Angel grabbed the shifter by Giles’ wool-blend collar and the seat of his serviceable flannel trousers, slamming the head into a solid piece of wall. The wall didn’t crumple but the shape-shifter’s Giles-like skull audibly cracked against the plaster. The open tacen fell from a limp hand to the floor.
“Giles, do you have a sword up here?”
Giles, his back to the conflict, bobbed his head back towards the closet near Angel. The shiny, well-honed blade was quickly uncovered and driven into the debilitated demon’s heart. The slime immediately began to pool on the carpet.
“Sorry about the, um...mess.” Angel pocketed the tacen and wiped the sword carefully against the tattered curtain before leaning over the real-life, groaning Giles. “What’s it to be? Hospital or carpet cleaners?”

“Damn!” muttered Giles, “Myra!”
“Who’s Myra?” asked Angel, taking his eye from the road to briefly quiz Giles.
“No - who are they!” Giles carefully shifted his position in the car seat, easing his aching, leaden legs. “They are due to rise - or more properly - condensate, this evening.” The voice was dry and rasping.
“Anything I can do?”
“Could you? I...well, I promised Buffy she could have the weekend off to, um to...” Giles wilted under Angel’s considering gaze. “Well, she has the weekend off. If I don’t catch the Myra condensating they are much more....ow,” he paused for a cutting cough, “dangerous to deal with. Easier in pre-puddle form.”
“Giles, just give me the when, where and how before we get to the hospital.”
“Right, yes. The drug store on McKenzie Avenue. Be there before one a.m. You need a mop.”
“A mop?”
“Yes, as the condensation begins...mop it up.” Giles paused for a swig from the bottle of water clutched in one swollen hand. “If you let the drops form a pool the Myra will begin a chemical reac...”
“Hey, we don't have time for chemistry lessons.”
“From puddle to blood-curdling demon within a few minutes,” Giles concluded.
“Giles? Who thinks up this stuff?”
“I have no idea. Sometimes I think whoever wrote these prophecies was high on poppy seeds.”
“Do I wring out the mop?”
“No! Take three or four. When one is sodden use another. Burn them in the furnace when you are done. Be careful.”
“I thought you said it would be easy ?”
“Yes, yes... I meant using the mops....housemaid’s elbow....excruciating!” he coughed as the Plymouth pulled up to the emergency entrance of Sunnydale General.

Cordelia padded down the dim stairway in her sensible flat runners and sweat suit.
There were things to do and lives to change. Mainly her own. No more “make me a coffee” or “pass me that vision”! The first item on her life re-construction list was to become a well-rounded part of the team. Part ‘a’ of item one stipulated becoming more proficient at demon-slayage. Cordelia intended to immediately tackle the next step up from her current status of flaying wildly with the battle-ax while juggling a can of Mace.
Cordelia was on her way to see Gunn.
The door at the end of the narrow passageway stood slightly open. From within, Cordelia could hear the echoing clang of steel on steel and the icy swish through the air of sharpened blades. Swords, she thought, perfect!

Wesley sat waiting for the phone to ring. Expecting a call from Sunnydale with an update from Giles or Angel on the tacen, Wesley had risen earlier than usual. Impatience mounting, at nine o’clock he had called Giles’ number, but there was no pick up, no answering machine, nothing. He had dialled Giles’ number every fifteen minutes since. Cordelia’s number had been equally unresponsive. Wesley began to worry.

“No, no, no, Cordelia! Look, like this...” Gunn demonstrated the correct defensive move once more. “You need to stop me from breaking through...not open your arms like you were pleased to see me!”
“Sorry, let’s try again,” she urged, “I can do this.”
“You sure this is a good birthday surprise for Angel? Wouldn’t the guy get more kicks out of a new black shirt?” The four members of Gunn’s group, watching the lesson from their stance along the bunker wall, loyally snickered in appreciation.
“Charles, I know what I’m doing. You saw how pathetic I was trying to kick-ass a few weeks ago! This will be a ...nice... surprise for him. Come on, let’s go.”
“Yeah, what were you doing out at that warehouse anyway. What’s with that? You should stick to answering the phone. Like Angel said, you are the message girl!”
“Geesh...so I’m looking to work my way up the ladder, where’s the problem? Move that ass!”
Cordelia, goaded, launched into an attack with her neatly buttoned rapier. Gunn, now on the defensive, pushed Cordelia’s blade away with his home-made broad sword and moved forward to thrust under the girl’s guard. Cordelia crumpled. The rapier clattered to the concrete floor as she fell forward onto the heavier blade in Gunn’s grip.

Cordelia’s arm was neatly bandaged and the brief scare was over. Time to vent tempers.
“What the fuck do you mean...that kamikaze dive back there was a message?” Gunn pushed the young man packing up the first aid bag out of the way and leaned into Cordelia’s face.
“Hey - I don’t like that word!” Cordelia said coldly as she rearranged the cut sleeve of her sweat shirt. “Look....I get messages sent to me from a higher source, tastefully accompanied by blinding headaches! I pass the messages on to Angel and we deal with whatever the threat might be.”
“How come Angel didn’t tell me?” he asked querously.
“Ask him.” Cordelia stood slowly, endeavouring to conceal the shakes that had begun in her knees. “I have to call Wesley about this.....but I’ll be back tomorrow for some more...”
“Uh uh. No way. You are one big liability. I ain’t going to be the one to have to explain to Angel how come his little message girl got skewered!”
Cordelia, intent only on the vision and contacting Wesley, left.

Cordelia and Wesley were back in the alley where Angel had killed the Cactoo.
“Behind a big green rubbish dumper...there! That one!”
“Are you sure? They all look the same to...” Wesley’s voice trailed off as Cordelia emerged triumphantly from behind the grimy dumper. “It’s there, but I can’t reach.”
Wesley shoved at the overflowing dumper with a grunt worthy of Wimbledon on a summer’s day. He reached behind into the gap and came out with a shiny silver tacen in his hand.
“I told you! It’s another message disc!”
“Another one?” he asked himself, his frown deepening, “I suppose it is possible that the Cactoo we killed yesterday had two discs...and one was lost in the struggle...I hope so.”
“Of course! How could it be the same tacen? Angel has that in Sunny.....oh....you don’t! Wesley,” she insisted more sharply, “you don’t think it was stolen from Angel...that he...he...” Cordelia paled into silence.
“We can’t jump to conclusions but I haven't been able to contact Giles...or Angel, this morning. I didn't want to worry you...are you sure there was no more information in the vision?”
“Nothing. The tacen behind the dumper. Nothing else. No fear...just sort of, well, urgent! They would have sent me a vision wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they? Wesley! If Angel was in danger?” Cordelia shook Wesley’s arm, desperate for confirmation of her hopes.

In a cold, silent corner of the derelict Crawford Street mansion Angel lay huddled, curled into himself. His eyes were tight shut against the salty perspiration and beaded cold blood as the two merged and trickled lovingly over his pallid face.

Part Five

"Shheeh!” The sharp intake of breath fell softly in the cavernous room.
“Sorry,” said Giles, “I haven’t had to patch anyone up for a while.”
“Good....that no one has been badly hurt.”
“Who usually tends to you? Cordelia?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And how is she these days?”
“Mad.”
“Tha...pardon?”
“Mad ... at me. You haven’t heard from her?”
“Well, no. There hasn’t been any opportunity. As soon as I managed to get myself out of the clutches of those sadists at the hospital, I came here to collect the tacen. And, er, to find out how you went with the Myra, of course. There, that should do it!” Giles bundled together the remnants of the sheets he had ripped up for Angel’s extensive wounds. “What did go wrong with the Myra? Did you run out of mops?”
“I was a few minutes late.”
“Late? But I told you how important.....”
“I know, I know.” Angel slowly sat back into the old dusty couch. “I was distracted ... thinking ... anyway, by the time I arrived two Myra were alive and kicking. They were tough cookies. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, I didn’t have to deal with them! You were worried about the tacen?”
“No, just some LA stuff I need to sort out.”
“Oh, a mad Cordelia?”
Angel briefly nodded his bandaged head.

“Wesley, would you show me how to use this? I need some more practice in case we have to go to Sunnydale.” Cordelia grasped the hilt of Angel’s Chaldean sword.
“No. Ask Angel.” Wesley had his closet open and was stowing his crossbow, spare arrows and other odds and ends of weaponry into his canvas bag. The possibility of Angel needing assistance was playing on both Wesley and Cordelia’s minds.
“Yeah, right. He is the one we might have to rescue! Anyway, he isn’t talking to me.”
“I thought it was the other way around? You aren’t speaking to him!”
Cordelia lifted the heavy blade in one hand. The ancient steel clunked against the floor.
“Leave it,” Wesley reprimanded sharply and reached out his hand to relieve Cordelia of the sword. “Now, if you wanted to be able to recognise more of the demons you see in your visions - there I can be of assistance.”
“But you are research guy!” protested Cordelia, yielding the weapon reluctantly.
“You don’t think it makes sense for the messenger to be able to quickly identify the target?”
“Of course....and their taste in jewellery,” she said glumly, “Thanks for the reminder.”
“I wasn’t trying to stir up bad memories of the Cactoo...it’s, well, as I said, it makes sense! Look, let’s go over to your place and wait for word on Angel. Somehow, my little flat seems to be getting smaller. We can begin work on demon recognition to fill in the time.”
Cordelia sighed, gathered her bag and followed Wesley, lugging the just-in-case weapons hold-all, out into the decrepit hallway of the apartment building.
She stood, looking down the long gloomy length of the hall, as Wesley struggled with the reluctant lock on his apartment door. “Geeze, thanks guys, how about a little warning between friends?” Cordelia muttered under her breath. Louder and with urgency, she whispered to her companion, “Wesley, how about we start on the who’s who of demonology right now!”
“Huh?” He glanced up quickly. “Oh! Oh, I see. Right, well, this would be your typical Ghooli.”
“A ghoulie? As in a ghostie?”
The shadowy figure with the wart encased features sidled slowly towards them.
“Different spelling but similar tastes,” Wesley moved slightly to position himself in front of Cordelia. “Both Ghooli’s and ghouls like to eat dead bodies.”
“Yuck! Hey, get out of the way. I’ve got my Mace!”
“You can help by holding onto this for safekeeping.” Wesley removed the tacen from the pocket of his sportsjacket and gently tossed the disk back towards Cordelia. “While I....” Wesley bent and quickly removed his small cross bow from his bag.
The bow was aimed and the small arrow speedily fired towards the approaching demon. The point barely pierced the Ghooli’s thick warty hide. Wesley sighed in frustration and threw his cross-bow to the floor.
“Cordelia, keep back, this won’t be pretty,” Wesley warned. He lowered his head, spread his arms and rushed at the demon with a roar. The tackle, though technically well performed, had little effect on the Ghooli. Wesley was spun aside with one suppurating, encrusted hand. He crashed into the wall and stumbled groggily to his knees.
Cordelia, while shoving the tacen into her bag with one hand, rummaged for the Mace with the other.
The Ghooli had lost any interest it may have had in Wesley and shuffled closer to Cordelia.
Triumphantly, Cordelia raised the Mace can. “Have you considered wart-kill? Works wonders, I hear.”
Shutting her eyes tight, she pressed hard on the Mace nozzle. Enraged, the Ghooli flailed his pus-weeping hands wildly, blindly seeking his prey. Cordelia ducked out of the way and made a dive for the weapon bag. Hauling out the Chaldean sword with both hands, she shoved the blade under the waving arms and into the Ghooli’s soft belly. For a moment the demon swayed above her, arms dropped by its sides, impaled on the silvery blade. Then it fell forward, pinning Cordelia into the corner as she attempted to scrabble away on her hands and knees.
“Uggh, ugh! Wesley! Wesley! Get this wart-hog off me!”

“I’d say Cordelia has changed since she has been in Los Angeles with you.”
“No. She’s the same Cordelia...just...I understand her better, I think. Sometimes.” Angel warily shifted the weight from his aching side. “She shouldn’t get too involved, should she? Tell me what the vision says and I’ll take care of the evil. There’s no reason for her to be...to feel....”
“Responsible?” offered Giles.
“Yes! I’m responsible. It’s because of me that all this mayhem is happening around her. She can’t control that, I have to! And she tries to ease my guilt and she can’t....I’ve made her into something she didn’t want to be...”
“Angel!” Giles interrupted the gloomy monologue. “Angel, Cordelia was chosen for a reason.”
“Huh! Because Doyle thought she was a hottie?”
Giles sighed and shook his head. “Cordelia is a young woman who has found her vocation. Trying to take all the responsibility for yourself, however well intentioned, won’t help Cordelia learn to cope - to come to terms with her life as it is now.” Giles continued, ignoring an attempted interjection from Angel. “Life is made up of a series of risks, challenges, choices. All you can do is give her the skills she will need - the same way I have had to do for Buffy - for anyone we love.”
Angel remained still on the couch, frowning into the gathering dusk.
“Cordelia. She is important to you.” Giles made it a statement rather than a question.
“She is a friend.”
“A friend? You have a lot?”
“No, no I don’t. Cordelia is my friend.” Angel’s voice drifted into silence as his memory drifted into the dead past.
Friends forever. One another’s best. Two scrawny thirteen year olds. Ned and Liam. Sharing a secret blood oath for a life-long friendship. The bead of fresh blood against grubby skin, shining in the dull light of the hemp and dripping candle that snickered in the old cracked dish. He remembered the stench of the old smugglers cave on the Galway coast - fetid bird droppings, rotting seaweed, a dead rabbit and the reeking candle. High up on a dry, rocky ledge, the two boys muttered mysterious words with terrifying consequences. Friends forever. One another’s best. Until death, in death ... and true enough, they had been friends until Liam’s death, when the death of one friend brought the bloody death of the other.
“One another’s best,” he whispered to himself. With a shake, Angel brought himself back to the now.
“Buffy. How is she?”

Part Six

"Hmmm.
Angel raised his weary lids at the innocuous sound, but Giles was still head down, concentrating on the tacen’s message.
“Ah, mmm.”
Angel had dozed off an hour earlier; Myra-pummelled and Myra-pierced body aching; mind impatient; hastening dusk and his return to Los Angeles...
“Oh?”
...while Giles had sat opposite, serenely studying the open medallion. Whatever the message, it was now inducing minute expressions of query, satisfaction and dismay...
“Dear, dear.”
...quickening Angel’s curiosity.
“Giles? Giles!”
At last the watcher’s head jerked up in acknowledgment.
“Interesting?” asked Angel.
“Somewhat.” Giles flipped carefully to the bottom of the small bundle of manuscript. “There is a mention of Wesley here...at the end...er, here! My 'Los Angeles counterpart’.”
“Anything I need to tell him?”
“No, no need. He should have received his own tacen by now. There is one of those ‘c.c.’ things...duplicate sent to Wesley ...”
Angel pushed himself slowly and painfully forward to the edge of the couch. Whoever had sent the shape shifter after the Cactoo and then again to Giles’ place had gone to some effort to intercept the tacen. Wouldn’t they do the same to prevent Wesley from reading his own message? Had the Cactoo originally been wearing two medallions? Is that why the Cactoo had been in Los Angeles? Where was the other tacen? If Giles had already read the tacen would Wesley be in danger? Why had he argued with Cordelia? Was Giles right? Stop. Angel’s brain, already fuzzy, began to blur. He shook his head, trying to knock the blurry bits back into a coherent picture. Begin the thought process again.
“Giles, Wesley is being sent his own tacen?”
“Mmm? Yes, yes....oh, I see what you mean. The demon tried to stop me from reading the message...maybe...”
Angel wasn’t listening to Giles any longer. With an effort, he stood, stuggling painfully with the remnants of his tattered shirt.
“Go home. Call Wesley and Cordelia. Tell him...warn them.” Angel glanced purposefully towards the partially curtained window. “It’s almost dusk. Tell them I am on my way.

“Cordelia, you really must make an attempt to sort out your differences with Angel.” Wesley peered intently at the telephone on the table top. “When he returns,” he muttered encouragingly.
“Sure, sure,” soothed Cordelia. Wesley had brought the same subject up several times during the afternoon and, just as often, Cordelia had side-stepped the discussion.
“But, this message clearly makes it all the...”
“Wesley,” she interjected bluntly, “what else does that Chinese fortune cookie say?”
“Not much more than I have already told you... there’s the usual guff, waffling on in Powers-That-Be-ese. ‘By whomsoever’s hand, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.”
“Ugh - and why does it have to be another end of the world? Do I really need to be here? What if I am on some inaccessible location? Filming a remake of Scott of the Antarctic? Do they know how hard it is to break a contract these days?”
“I think we will all be required, Cordelia!”
“Yes, I know, I know,” she sighed, “just enjoying a grumble while I can.” Cordelia leant forward from the sofa and picked up the phone, hitting the re-dial button. After a moment the frown on her forehead deepened and the phone was replaced on the table.
“Cordelia, we’ll wait another half an hour and then....”
Wesley was brutally cut off once again, this time with a bright, change-the-subject smile. “Are you still planning on taking Virginia to dinner tonight?”
“Only if we hear from Angel, or Giles...and assuming all is well.”
The telephone hummed into life. Cordelia and Wesley pounced inelegantly at the small table.

The knock at Cordelia's door several hours later, was not unexpected.
“Where’s Wesley? He’s not at home. I...”
“Have a pleasant trip?” Cordelia asked sweetly.
“Cordelia, Wesley may be in danger. I don’t have time to...”
“Listen?” Cordelia turned away from the door, leaving Angel standing, waiting, in the hall.
“Wesley had a date with Virginia. Come to think of it ... danger ... you could be right.”
Angel gave up on a courteous invitation to enter. He followed Cordelia impatiently into the living room.
“There’s another medallion.”
“Yeah.”
“You know? Giles reached you?”
“Uh-huh. Plus I already had a pain-o-gram this morning on that very subject.”
“What was it? Do I need to be somewhere?”
“Taken care of. We only had to collect the other tacen.”
“But that’s why I have to speak to Wesley. Is the medallion open?”
“Yes.”
“Good, that’s good. He should be safe now.”
“Safe from?”
“Nothing.”
“Those nothing’s can be nasty!”
Cordelia's cool, almost mocking, tone dismayed Angel. His eyes slipped from the distant face in front of him. He was doing it again, it seemed so normal to block out her insistent probing, anyone’s insistent probing. Insistent. No, not insistent. Normal Cordelia curiosity. A patch of white half-hidden under the tee sleeve. A piece of gauze stuck to her arm. Why was the gauze there?
“Are you okay?” he nodded at Cordelia’s covered wound.
“Yeah, just a scratch.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
As easy as that. Blocking out questions, questions, questions. Giles might have been right, he needed to provide Cordelia with skills. Unfortunately it appeared that Cordelia had already picked up on his, less than desirable, shutting out skills.
“And you? Who did you have an argument with?”
Through the torn black silk, his fingers sought the slipping, too thick, bandages; hastily draped around his middle.
“Myra.”
“Rough first date, huh?”
“Very. Some demons, Myra...while Giles was in hospital. I was late and they were ... aggressive.”
“How is Giles? We didn’t get into social pleasantries on the phone.”
“The same as always. The shape-shifter knocked him around badly.”
“He hasn’t changed.”
“No.”
“Sit.”
“What?”
“Sit....I’ll redo those bandages? Looks like a hit-and-miss-patch-up.”
“I’m fine.” Agitated, he released his hold on the yellowing cloth, only to feel the dressing drift closer to his belt.
“They are falling off! You’ll have a bandaged ass in a minute.”
Angel wavered. The torn up sheets were uncomfortable. Cordelia was being even more uncomfortable.
“For once, just ... urgh! Sit!”
Angel sat. He sat and watched Cordelia’s back as she disappeared into the darkened kitchen. Lights went on as she collected her extensive first aid kit and bag of dressings. Cordelia obviously hadn’t forgiven him, but she was continuing to do what she considered her ‘duty’. Duty from a cool, prickly, distance.
Once more Angel struggled with the remains of his shirt. Why he bothered trying to avoid ripping the material further, he wasn’t sure. It was destined for the trash.
Cordelia returned with the first aid kit in her arms. The bag of bandages floated along beside her.
“Hey, Dennis.” Angel offered the ghost a diffident greeting as the bag dropped onto the sofa.
“Don’t bother talking to Dennis, you aren’t his favourite person right now. He’d rather listen to Madonna than you.”
“Look, if I can borrow the bandages, Wesley will...” he trailed off as Cordelia silently began the process of unravelling the torn bedsheets from his torso.
“Ouch!”
“You are being a baby. Stop flinching!”
“Sorry, it hurts...there.” Angel indicated the partially healed, but mostly gaping, wound in his side.
“Why does it hurt, huh? You are dead for crying out loud! How can a dead thing feel pain?”
Angel froze inside. She was angry, hurt and for all her natural bluntness he should expect some taunts, but, he thought, ‘a dead thing’?
“A dead...thing? Is that how you think of me?”
“Not precisely, but I’m redefining my life and the people in my life.”
“And I’m defined as the dead thing?”
“I guess... I was thinking aloud ... about pain... and vampire physiology!”
“Cordelia, I may be dead, or more un-dead, but I do feel - physically and emotionally.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I apologised once - do you expect me to keep apologising?” And apologising and grovelling and biting his tongue. No. No way.
“Nope.” Cordelia’s gaze flickered briefly to meet his own. He despaired at the cool prickles that remained prominent in her hazel eyes. He would take the brilliant smile that tore at his innards any day in preference to the perpetual bruising of her indifferent glance.
“What can I do to make it better?”
“You can’t. This is about me - this time I really am making an issue about me.” Cordelia bent to retrieve the discarded shirt. “You planning on mending this?”
“No.”
“And by the way... that tacen? It wasn’t for Wesley, it was for me.”

“You want us to work out of here?” Cordelia surveyed the huge musty open space of the Hyperion lobby.
“It’s got character.”
“Dust - it’s got dust!”
“Well, character with dust.”
Angel was occupied moving crates from under the reception counter. Cordelia leant on the counter to watch. The two had parted on ‘cordial but cool’ terms the previous night. Cordelia had found that the prickles, once exposed, were difficult to retract - even after Angel’s attempt at a peace offering. The abrupt announcement that the tacen had opened in Cordelia’s hands and not Wesley’s had led to Angel’s equally abrupt departure. This morning she had finally given in to the overpowering need to know that he was still there, that he was safe and to, somehow, make it better.
After several circles were drawn on the grubby woodwork while Angel quietly continued to shuffle the crates around the reception area, Cordelia made another overture.
“You asked me how I hurt my arm.”
“Sixteen hours ago.”
“Yeah. Well. Gunn cut me with his sword.”
A fragile crate crashed to the ground. “What?”
“Not deliberately. He was teaching me how to use a sword when I had my vision - about the tacen.”
“What the hell? Gunn was teaching you? You went to a virtual stranger?” Angel side stepped the broken wood and strode the few steps to the counter. “Why couldn’t you ask me?”
Cordelia sighed and stood her ground. Angel was displaying a piece of temper, again.
“For one, you were in Sunnydale. Two - well, we weren’t precisely best buddies and three - heck! In all this time you’ve never offered to teach me anything!”
“You’re talking about this weekend! And exactly how many times did you ask before we argued?”
“That’s not the point...well, it wasn’t the point when I was making my list of points.”
“Okay,” muttered Angel, rubbing his palms against his pants to remove the grime. He rounded the reception counter and pointed to his bundle of weapons in the middle of the lobby floor. “You want to learn to use weapons... pick up one of those rods.”
Cordelia considered Angel’s expression before following his request. Request? Damn, it was a demand. He was seriously annoyed. She wondered who he was annoyed with the most...Cordelia or Angel.
“Kendo, right? I’ve seen some of Gunn’s crew using these.” Cordelia tossed a rod to Angel and collected another for herself.
“You’ll be doing your lessons with me and by the way,” he added snakily, “there’s my punching bag if you need to work out any, um, excess aggression.”
“Oooh, neat! Can I write your name on the bag? Angel-hit-me-harder-cos-I-deserve-it?”
Angel swung the rod he had been balancing to one hand and with the other he reached out and clasped Cordelia’s wrist.
“You said this wasn’t about me. So why do you keep twisting the blade?”
“Because I can... boy, that is really low and mean... but I am trying to be honest.” Cordelia pulled her arm away from the loose grip. She took a few steps away while she collected her thoughts. “Friends should be able to disagree but keep on being friends, right? And friends should be able to share their thoughts... and fears, right?” Cordelia waited for Angel’s response. With relief she saw him nod his head. “Okay so part of me is still hurting and... but I’ll quit with the bitchy remarks. I’m not getting the gratification I used to sometimes from sniping at school.”
“Er, excuse me? School?”
“Yes, yes - not only school...pre-office kaboom,” she admitted.
Angel raised his brows.
“Geesh what do you want? My name is Cordelia Chase and I am a bitch?”
He was smiling, a real smile. “Do they do a twelve-step for that?”
“Why don’t we find out? And while I am it I’ll see if there is one for stoic, introverted, guilt-seeking vampires.”
“My name is Angel and I brood?” Angel leant on his kendo rod.
“Keep going... you’ll need to enrol in more than one program!” Cordelia weighed her own rod in her hands and took another look at Angel propped, flamingo like, on one leg. What an opportunity. He was off-guard, likely considering the next exchange of insults. Gripping the rod firmly in both hands, Cordelia lunged her stick across the broad chest.
With a loud “oof”, Angel tumbled to the floor, the wood in his own grip cracking into two.
Cordelia looked down in triumph at Angel, her expression changing to concern when she saw the broken wood clutched to his stomach. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, sure, just go easy on the sharp wooden bits would you?” He tossed the remnants of the rod across the floor.
Cordelia grimaced and held out her hand to assist Angel to his feet.
Angel remained on the ground, gloomily eyeing the extended palm.
“What, you don’t think I’m strong enough?”
“I know you are... but, first...”
“You want it or not?” persisted Cordelia.
“Uh-huh, but if I do... can we be friends again, like we used to?”
“No, not like we used to be.” The helping hand was gone. Cordelia bent to pick up her own discarded kendo rod. For a moment she had felt so close, as though she could share everything with him, but she didn't want to go back to being treated as a fair weather friend.
Angel scrambled to his feet. “Listen to me. I didn’t handle the... the situation well, but friendship works both ways and I am trying to work through this.”
“I know - that’s why I don’t want to go back to how it used to be - you stopped sharing, you started demanding... it was ‘I’m the Boss, do as I say’ and that is not a friendship.”
“No, it isn’t.” Angel stalled, running his hand through his upright hair. “Cordelia, the last really good friend I had... Ned, he died.”
“Oh. You?”
Angel nodded.
“We are basically friends, aren’t we? With some wrinkles now and then? I guess I am already on the Angelus hit list. But if I am going to do something, I like to do it well ... so, if we are to be friends - properly - then I won’t put up with any protective, distancing crap. If you have a problem, you'd better know I'll be there until it is sorted - and beyond... and I'll expect the same from you.”
Cordelia extended her hand once more.
“Friends?”
Angel glanced down at Cordelia's hand before wrapping it comfortably in his own.
“One another’s best.”

The End

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Disclaimer: The characters are Joss', 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.