******************
Title: Breathless
Author: ebonbird@hotmail.com
Summary: Wesley's late coming home with the Philly steaks.

Tracks:  It's War – Cardigans, Angel (Suffered Angel Remix) – 
Darling Violetta, Love Will Tear Us Part (Acoustic) – The Swans,
The State I'm In, Belle & Sebastian, One Good Reason – 
Cousteau, Under The Milky Way – The Church, Heaven Coming 
Down - The Tea Party, The Messenger – The Tea Party, 
Raindrop – The Reindeer Section, Fire In The Head – The Tea 
Party


Started: May 30, 2001

November 26, 2001

******************



First, comes steam – then the effortless advance; gaseous water 
cooling and contracting around the shade that is Angel.  Leaving 
the bathroom, he makes no sound.  His dark gray shirt frames 
his chest and stomach, drapes his shoulders and arms, grazes 
the backs of his hands.  Steam swirls over his cold fine skin, 
condenses and dissipates and the song pulling him forward is so 
Dru. Jangling guitars.  Driving rhythms. Swooning cellos.

//come crush me now//

Cordelia sways from side to side.  Her wrists kiss at the pinpoint 
ting of a triangle sketched in the air.  Thrusting violins twirl her 
through a waltz.  She glides from foot to foot, her arms undulate - 
thrown out, and up, and around her shoulders and torso.  Her 
dark hair swings, screening her face in wavelets and curls.

The chanteuse entices with a voice pitched midrange. 

//Come on, it's war, come on//

Angel's pale hand trails up the center seam of his shirt, buttoning 
it closed and the woman continues to croon.  

Cordelia's thin, tanned ankles turn.  Her hips and shoulders 
follow.  Her stomach is tight, then fulsome and loose as she 
waltzes herself through half a measure.  Stepping around 
crumpled newssheet, treading on paper filthy with color, she 
leaves a riptide of pastels on the floor - umber, cerise, purple. 
bronze.  Claret.  

And that sweet girlish voice singing that she was hurt and ready 
for fire.

But Angel would approach with his hands, brave the heat rising 
off Cordelia's skin.  Wait for the moment her hands swung 
beyond the sunlight. Clasp her hands and lead her away from 
the window, around the coffee-table and couch . . .

The apple perfume of her shampoo wafts like gauze, light and 
distinct, over the barb-wire snarl of sodium laurel sulfate and 
carageenan residue in her hair.  She's sweating a little, under 
her arms despite the deodorant she's slicked there. There her 
skin sparkles, minutely and only to his eyes.   

His eyes fill because Cordelia's hair is shiny and tangled and full.  
Beautiful and practical handholds beyond dreams. It cascades 
over her shoulders and bare arms.  Her top is orange and fitted.  
Her brightly patterned skirt is full.  Angel thinks of Gypsy girls 
blazing trails of scattered blood, torn flesh and cloth, as they flee 
before him into thickening forests.

*  

"Anyahasseo" Wesley calls over the bell tinkling at the deli door.

"Next time, get more food.  You are much too skinny, skinny 
man," responds the proprietor.  Her gray-threaded, skull-shaped 
hairdo follows the curve of her head so closely it's like someone 
painted it on, scraped if off, and painted it back on. Her eyes are 
tired, but the automatic smile that pushes wrinkles around her 
mouth enlivens them.

Smiling a little stiffly, Wesley exits the deli.  He could continue 
walking on Sunset until he reaches Pacific Palisades but he 
turns on Embury toward home.  Wesley carries the bag of Philly 
Steaks a little in front of himself, holding his hand beneath the 
bag because removing grease stains from fabric is not his forte. 
The plastic bag contains three wrapped sandwiches - one for 
Cordelia, one for him, and one for them to fight over.  

The smell of grilled onions and beef soaking into yeasty French 
rolls teases him through the paper and plastic.  Setting his 
shoulders and straightening his back, he sighs and walks straight 
down the center of the sidewalk.  In the summertime, tank tops 
abound.  Artfully arranged hair, exact accessories and 
appropriate footgear adorn cookie-cutter people, for all that their 
accoutrements mark them as different types. 

Wesley looked up the neighborhood in a travel guide when he 
learned the location of Cordy's apartment. There was a rather 
long section about Silverlake in the Lonely Planet.  The travel 
guide described it as trendy but laidback.  In the early evening, 
when the pace of the day has begun to slow and the heat is 
radiating off the sidewalks and back into the air, Wesley sees 
that those who walk the sidewalks are carefully dressed but carry 
themselves as if they wore 'this old thing?'

Even Angel, no native Angeleno he, has more than a bit of that.  
Black on black outfits, and painstakingly arranged hair that Angel 
himself can never ever see, no matter how much time he spends 
in the wc.

In a sense, Angel is his own mortician, preparing himself for a 
funeral that took place long ago.

*

Cordelia sways with her back to Angel.  Her bark brown hair 
hangs across her back, ending in bronze glazed mahogany.  As 
she sways, her hair parts over her shoulder, revealing a 
quadrangle of tanned flesh.  The muscles beneath her skin play 
golden against one another and she holds her hand in front of 
her – loose at the wrist - swaying from foot to foot.  

Before Angel drove her mad and killed her, Drusilla never 
danced.  Afterwards, afterwards she jigged like a fey thing, 
rolling her hips and shoulders to shattered harmonies and 
strained melodies that he could never hear, but only feel as a 
rhythm thrumming beneath his fingers when he held her down 
and broke her again and again.  

The shifting quadrangle of flesh on Cordelia's back prickles from 
smooth girl-flesh to goose flesh.  Cordelia sweeps to the right 
and his fingertips catch a weft of teak-blurred brown hair 
suspended in midair.    She turns her head to regard him, her 
profile limned satin-platinum in the rays of the setting sun, and a 
smile touches the corner of her mouth.  She extends her hand.  
A buttery bar of setting sunlight bends diagonally across the 
length of her lower arm and splashes to the floor between their 
feet.  He grasps her shadowed hand and he leads her backward 
into a quiet dark. 

They circle each other, palm to palm, profile to profile.  Her eyes 
are clear but she sees nothing in how pale his face becomes.  
She is a seer but she can't see Drusilla shadowing his eyes.  
And he whirls her thus and thus.  Her skirts swish as she steps 
twice to his left, and to the right.  Their knees brush, and brush, 
and she snickers.  But her eyes are clear, but she sees nothing.  
Nothing of who he was.  He draws her close.  Directs her flush 
along the length of his body, with the edge of one hand firm 
between her shoulder blades and the other rigid with all of his 
preternatural strength.  Cordelia is a natural follower, her 
understanding of the dynamics of motion ground in her natural 
grace and long hours of cotillion. 

Her eyes narrow.  "Do it," she commands.  

He smirks and dips her.  Her eyes widen with delight.  She 
cackles.  The pulse beats mad in her long throat.  He draws her 
up, checks her raised hand to his, and sets her off in a spin, 
whirling her away from himself and back into the light.

* 

Heavy glass and metal door resists Wesley's pull.  He gasps, 
releases the tension in his arm, resettles the warm packet of 
sandwiches on his hip and yanks at the handle once more.  The 
hair fringing his forehead trembles.  Tendons stand on his neck. 
He grits his teeth, strains, and with a low groan opens the door.  
Old condensation drips from the overhead window air-
conditioning unit, missing Wesley's shoulder by inches.  Overripe 
banana must weighs the air.  Fluorescent gray shapes impose 
themselves on Wesley's vision as his pupils dilate.  

Slutty linoleum floor beneath his feet, tell-tale mildew reek from 
the mop standing in the wheeled bucket at the end of the aisle. 
Nostril's flaring, Wesley wends his way through the second aisle, 
the angle of his body shifting to accommodate display stands 
crowding the narrow space.  He passes a jangle of travel size 
dishwashing and laundry detergents and comes to the candies.  
Longing for wine gums, his gaze skips over American candies to 
hover over squeak-toy yellow, purple and green packages of 
bubble gum.  He buys several packets of chewing gum, 
perceiving that he is in the mood for grape - not realizing that 
he's chosen them on the basis of the brilliant purple cow 
Cordelia had been drawing when he left.  He pays at a counter 
crowded with breath aids, first aid paraphernalia, grooming 
guides, horoscopes and hanging produce.  The door is heavier 
upon his exit.

Back on the street, aluminum screens scroll down to the 
pavement as shops close. "Mustn't have soggy sandwiches," 
murmurs Wesley, adjusting his glasses and squinting at the 
orange sun.

* 

. . . and into the light.  Cordelia's skirt bells sheer and her legs 
are black against the light.  That heavy hair of hers fans in a 
weightless, rippling arc.  Her spin complete, she squeals, bounds 
in place and claps her hands.  "You danced!"

Angel's chin receded into his neck.  "I don't dance, Cordelia." But 
there's something fish quick in his expression, fleeting and 
centered 
by his mouth.

She launches her laughter like a net, snaring his elusive smile.

"Stand there," he said, reaching for the drawing implements on 
the coffee table. "Just . . . pose." 

She grabbed a fistful of her hair.  "Like this?!" she stepped 
forward. The blank silhouette of her head decants into the 
momentary wreck of her heart-shaped face – forehead 
corrugated by one manicured eyebrow bent double, her opposite 
eye slitted, and wide mouth agawp. 

At the very least, he thinks, she'll catch flies.  He snags pad and 
charcoal stub from the coffee table. 

She gasps. "Angel?!"

There's a mouse-feet chuckle followed  by a low, "Yeah." 

He's sketched the edgemost curl of her hair, the arc of her 
shoulder and smudged the line to shadow her neck with the tip of 
littlest finger.  Cordelia huffs but closes her yap, submitting.  
She's an animated girl, her expressiveness schooled into 
countless expressions so practiced they seem spontaneous but 
for a moment there's a sweetness there, her eyes aren't at their 
widest, her smile isn't at it's brightest but that's her gazing at him.  
Funny girl, sunny girl.  Her world view is black and white, but it's 
judgmental, vibrant and liberating.  Her universe isn't orderly but 
it's consistent but even in light of his many years and his 
wisdom, he can't predict her at all.  His elusive grin actually 
parts, revealing his even white teeth just the same.

She's posing – holding that hank of hair, indulging him.  And that 
smile of his widens.  Alarm binds it into a snarl when pain sears 
the space between Cordelia's scalp and her skull and she 
screams.  Charcoal splinters to dust between Angel's hand and 
Cordelia's shoulder as she writhes under the weight of her third 
vision since Vocah.  

He's got her on the couch, is kneeling next to her. "You're okay, 
you'll be okay.  I've got you, Cordelia."  It's to reassure himself.

The bathroom door flies open.  Angel yells, "Dennis!"  A jumble 
of plastic bottles zoom out of the bathroom, rattling as Dennis 
tries to open one after another.  Popping sound as one explodes 
and the red bottle cap spins into the window screen.  

Tap is turned on in the kitchen.  A glass is filled.  It sloshes as it 
floats through the air.  It and the pills hover beside Cordelia and 
Angel.  All the while she's writhing, her eyes fluttering.  The old 
woman she might become if she endures ravages her features.  
Familiar tear musk on her face; the thin, hard tease of blood 
diluted by saliva, floating past her lips with every pant.  Her back 
arches.  She sobs, "Ow, ow, ow." Her fingers splay.  Her pulse 
rattles in her throat.  Slowly, he gets her shoulders down.  
Slowly, she lays flat.  

"Cordelia?" His hand framed the side of her face.  She and 
Drusilla had the same fine bones.  He'd trapped the wailing 
remnants of an outraged girl in a vampire frame for eternity.  

"Mmm-hmm," Cordelia nodded, sheer water in her eyes.  "Vision-
girl, that's me."

He cast his glance over the back of the couch.  Barest daylight 
lightened the lowering night, but the hills just outside Cordelia's 
window are in shadow.

"Before moonrise. Vampire gang's setting up an ambush in an 
alley off of Embury and Palisades?"

Angel frowned. "Tow truck?"

"Some kind of truck.  Smells like Doritos.  And through air 
freshener." Her nose wrinkled.  "And *feet*."

"Bouki demon?" Angel asked?  "Yay high," he raised his hand an 
inch above his shoulder.  "Completely brown eyes?"

"Human. Twenty-something.  And in serious trouble.  He thinks 
he's a vampire hunter but he's in way over his head."

Angel understood that, but there were tear tracks on her face 
and her eyes were bloodshot.  They'd been clear minutes before.
Also, she kept blinking.  He didn't want to go.

"You'll be alright?" he finally says.

She sits up and fresh pain swivels through the soft parts of her 
head.  Clasping her head she sucks in a breath, then glares at 
him. 

He hesitates.  

Plastic strands and beads slithered and clicked against one 
another as Cordelia re-thrust her finger at the door.  "Go!  He's a 
good guy but he's bitten off more than he can chew?  Dead 
soon? Maybe turned?"

Brush of cool fingers down her cheek, and he is gone.  

The apartment door swings shut.  Cordelia sinks back into a 
lying position.  The wet water glass hanging midair, nudges the 
back of her hand.  Her many bracelets clattered and whispered 
down her arm as reached for the glass.  Damp, the pills left dim 
coral smears in the palm of her hand.  The first goes down 
without a hitch, the fourth sticks and burns its way down her 
esophagus.  Grimacing, she downs the rest of the water, but the 
pill still hurts.  "Thanks Dennis," Cordelia says when she's 
drained her drink, closing her eyes as she waits for the pills to 
take effect.

Her eyes snap open.  "Wesley!" she exclaims and leaping off the 
couch, and immediately losing her balance.  "Uh!" she exclaims, 
in pain, her features screwed up.  She shakes her head, 
worsening the discomfort and whimpers.  Huffing, her shoulders 
rising and falling, her legs braced apart, she endures until her 
pain fades.

Balance regained, she starts ng again. "Okay, shoes." She 
minced over to the hall closet, opened the door, switched on the 
closet light.  She hooked out a pair of tennis shoes with her 
fingers shoved her feet into them.  She looked down at her feet, 
judged the untied laces as being hazardous for her health, 
summoned her fortitude and knelt shoving the laces between the 
interior of the tennis shoes and her feet.  "Shoes, check. 

She back-stepped and spun towards the coat rack where her 
bag of weapons hung.  "Bag.

"Keys. OH, Angel took the car I don't have keys."

A basket on the mantelpiece shifted back and forth and the slick 
settling and resettling of keys was heard.  Cordelia strode to the 
mantelpiece and fetched the keys.

Cordelia strode back across the living room, wrenched open her 
door, and lurched down the stairwell to the ground floor, arms 
braced on the banisters and feet jumping three stairs at a time.


* 

Colors, Wes thought in colors, the vanishing colors, changing 
colors, fading disappearing colors.  Blue to brown, gold to 
nothing, white to gray smears against night sky.

A tow-truck, its cab festooned by yellow streamers written with 
Chinese characters and rosaries, limped along the west-lane of 
Embury street.  Wesley felt the tow truck driver's eyes on him.  
He continued on his way home.  Blue leached out of the sky.

Eventually, Wesley was the only person on Embury.

Around the edges, the sky was an eggshell brown, smash the 
egg, let drop the yolk, turn the shell inside out - that brown. Then 
it was gone - Sundown.


* 

Colors, he was thinking in colors, the vanishing colors, changing 
colors, fading disappearing colors.  Blue to brown, gold to 
nothing, white to gray smears against night sky.

Ataxia, when one foot in front of the other literally became 
another and simple walking became an impossibility when 
Wesley  - seeing that it was almost nightfall - picks up his pace 
and feels in his pocket for the cellular phone that wasn't there. 
The edges of his vision grayed and his knees dipped to far down 
for them to straighten.  

He flinched at memories. Faith, pretty Faith with the wonderful 
eyes and aggressive mouth, licking the flat of a blade before 
applying lighter flame to it.  Dancing slashed oval of white within, 
dancing slashed oval of blue within darker blue.

Cordelia's apartment is not so far away. Not so far away at all.  
He says this aloud, not more than a murmur over his shallow, 
whispery breaths.  The need inside of him, need for air, need to 
breathe, expands thicker and thicker inside him, he's gasping on 
the sidewalk, reaching for his glasses that have somehow fallen 
off his nose. He leans against a beige wall that's partially 
covered with weathered particle board.  Black on red posters 
advertising open mike night at the Perro Cafι descend in 
staggered diamonds from head height to shoulder level.  He 
really should be getting on.  He leans against that wall, forces 
himself to take a slow breath, and to exhale it slowly.  He starts 
to walk.  One foot trips over the other, and Wesley sprawls.  
Simple ataxia, really, he tells himself.  His mouth is dry.  Simple 
ataxia. Tachy-tachy-tacky, tacky, for a Watcher to be out in Los 
Angeles with nothing more than a wooden crucifix around his 
neck. Ataxia, it's the drugs, a side effect of the drugs.  

Faith had snickered that when she boiled his eyes, their whites 
would split like overcooked eggwhites.

Can't unbreak an egg.  Can't put the pieces back together again.  
Angel is . . .  Angel is a man who is a demon.  What is Angel, 
exactly?  The stuff of darkness who is a warrior of the light?  

It's dark out.

He's out in the dark.  Alone, on Embury Street.

*

Cordelia jumps to her feet, slides a beaded elastic band from her 
wrist and slides it on, cinching her ponytail tight.  She lunges for 
the armoir, pulls out Wesley's crossbow, reaches into a drawer 
and slides her arm through a bandolier of quarrels.  Another 
lunge takes her to the coat tree and she searches through the 
pockets of her jackets, stopping when she comes upon her taser.  
Frowning, she flips on the power.  A tiny arc of electricity 
ZAAKTS!  And Cordy smiles as hard and bright as the electric 
zakt.  She reaches for the front door. Yanks on the handle it 
resists.  "Dennis! Cut it out!"  She yanks on the door once more.  
"Phantom Dennis!" Rattling keys draw her attention.  Cordy 
snatches at them.  Once they're secured in her hands, the front 
door opens on its own.

Dennis swings open the front door.  Cordelia bounds down the 
stairs, two, three, four at a time.  She stands on the curve, 
turning her head from left to right, spots Wesley's motorcycle 
across the street and dashes into traffic, cars honk! Tires squeal.  
"STUPID BITCH!" is screamed at her but she hops on Wesley's 
motorbike, pats the front for the ignition.  Finds the ignition.  The 
keys slither and turn in her hands as she looks for the proper 
key, she shoves that key home.  Turns it, nothing happens.  
Shaking the handlebars Cordelia screams wordlessly.

Thinks, thinks, thinks – how am I supposed to start this again.  
Leaning on the handlebars she hops, hops.  Kicks the kickstand 
back and jumps onto one of the silver thingies on the bottom 
here and URGRHHHH!!!

Ignition.  

Certain that Wesley wanted to bring her Philly steaks, Cordelia 
heads east.  

It's been a visionless summer so far. July now, and the respite 
has been good but Angel's questing and it's left to her to bring 
Wesley home.

She roars back and forth, in shorter and shorter distances, 
zeroing in on a block of rusticated buildings, completely out of 
place with Embury.  She must've walked past here any number 
of times with friends, but she's not noticed it before – and that's 
weird.  Cause she's from Sunnydale and she knows from weird 
and evil supernatural weird.

She finds Wesley sprawled on the ground, and a darkhaired 
vamp crouched over him. They're lit by the filthy orange glare of 
magnesium lamps. Wesley's crouched on the ground, panting.  
Cordelia doesn't know how to brake the bike.  She jumps a 
parking marker.  Tires squealed, bike spun out and Cordelia 
jumped over the damn thing, crucifix in front of her, steak in 
hand.  Her satchel swung and clubbed her him but she pressed 
on.  Arm raised over her head, arm up like lady liberty she's 
going to stake the vamp in the back.  Wesley says in warning, 
"Cordelia, oof!"

But she stakes the thing and falls on top of him.

"Ow." she says, or he says. 

"Good lord, Cordelia, my ribs," Wesley said.  Cordelia got her 
knee up on his leg.  Steadied herself by planting her hand on his 
stomach.  He squeaked.  She crouched up.  "Really, Wes, we've 
got to stop rescuing you like this."


***

They decide to ride the bike back to Cordelia's place, but they 
run out of gas most of the way there.  Five minutes on wheels 
turns into forty on foot with only Cordelia pushing the bike since
Wesley's back is twinging and twanging.



***

Home, Cordelia and Wes are sitting at the bottom of the stairs, 
looking up the flight.  Cordelia's ankle is fubarred.  Her feet are 
bare.  Wesley's back is horrendous. It does not permit stairs.  He 
insists upon picking Cordelia up and carrying her up the stairs.  
He makes stupendous faces that she cannot see.  Cordelia flails, 
she's no lightweight, she's heavier by muscle and he's almost 
out of painkiller and she *needs!* his painkiller.  He tumbles to 
his knees.  There's a tremendous crash bang sound.  Next 
scene, is Cordelia carrying Wesley into the apartment.  Dennis 
opens the door.  Strips of his shirt are tied around her feet.   
Cordelia has gotten the door open and Wesley is leaning on top 
of her.  No Angel, yet.  She gets inside.  Tugs Wesley after her.  
Dennis shuts the door. There's a jumble as Dennis tries to get 
her out of her jacket and bag.  She refuses to move.  Slides to 
the ground. Sits there.  Picks at the straps on her sandles (Oh, 
have the straps on her sandals break).

Wesley's carrying Cordelia to her bed. Drops her on it.  Is so 
tired, "D'you mind if I – "

"Feh."

So he slides on.  They 're both wrecked. Too tired for anything.  
Talk, murmur.  He's okay, yeah? Who, Angel?  Yeah says, 
Cordelia.

-OR-

Wesley and Cordelia look at one another.  "Two bony," says 
Cordelia.  "Two heavy," says Wesley and they hope for Angel to 
come home.

Then, they're trying to sleep, but Cordelia can't.  And Wes, goes.  
Or tries to, but no, he stops her.  She's frightened.  Frightened 
that Angel won't come back. And Wes watches over her.  Listens 
to her breath stop, catch, stop, catch.  Finally, he says the words 
of Anatole to her.  They joke that if he translates it incorrectly, 
she'll go back to the nonstop horrible visions.  

*

"The State of your floor, Cordelia."

"Dennis does –"

"A fine job for a disembodied entity that lacks the fine motor 
control of a poltergeist to scrub a floor.  I suppose an infirm 
middle-aged man like myself could do a better job than a 
temperamental – "

"Wesley…"

"Ghost."

"You are so not middle-aged.  Well, old and decrepit mentally 
and emotionally but so not physically.  Crappy endurance and 
brittle bones notwithstanding.  But that's really nutrition and 
temperament.  You can fix that."

*
"Ever eat a raisin? Really eat a raisin, Wesley?"

Both are in the kitchen, Wes is lying on the floor because it's 
more comfortable, and Cordelia beside him because, well, she 
can't have him looking up her robe.

He doesn't really like raisins but he takes one.  She says, "Close 
your eyes – Not that tight Wesley, you'll rupture the moment. 
Okay, put it in your mouth – DON'T CHEW!" 

"Mmpf-rmpf." He says through the lips Cordelia's sealed with 
thumb and forefinger.  She's giggling.  "Don't talk. Don't chew, 
okay?  I'm gonna let go now."

"Okay, now make it the first time you've eaten a raisin."  They do 
that, texture, smell, shape, scent, flavor.  And there's 
peacefulness and calm.

Angel listens to them talk, then to them breathe.  They talk about 
food they enjoy, finding enjoyment, reason for living in the day to 
day. God in the details, or between the details.  Angel is holding 
his mug of blood.  The ceramic is cold, the liquid gelid, not what 
he wants, wanting makes him hate.  He's drinking blood, and 
he's so into it that he doesn't like the flavor and he doesn't hear.  
Cordelia has come out of the kitchen and sees him lost in 
misery.

Seers eyes, no, Cordelia's eyes and she takes his mug, and she 
hugs him, and he loses himself in it, the warmth, her hold, the 
scent.  He shakes in her arms.  She breathes on him.  Breathes 
in his face. He encircles her.

Dennis is upset. Rattling dishes, frothing curtains, or maybe it's a 
wind.  Maybe Wes means to reassure Dennis or Dennis Wes.  
But Wesley says, "Hear this Dennis, "breath is momentary.  
What remains is eternal."







 
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