Figments (Cordelia/Angel, PG)
Jan. 23rd, 2010 03:51 pmThere's all this argument about perception. You're chemicals, you're lights, you're a brain in a jar. You're a figment of some intangible's imagination; you're a figment of your own imagination.
There is a lot – more every day – that Cordelia is unsure of, but she knows she is no one's damn figment.
The problem with omnipotence is that it's, well, kind of impossible. Just like that riddle about can the Powers create a party so exclusive even They can't get in. You can't know everything there is to know and know it all at the same time. There's just too much. God, as they say, is in the details, and details get lost if all you're seeing is the big picture of the Entirety of Creation flashing past your eyes.
And so Cordelia sees everything, but only for a second at a time, and without a comfortable degree of control. Like little bursts of electricity firing wildly, like so many other possibilities. The nature of these things is impossible to divine.
Static crackles along Cordelia's skin as she walks through the aesthetically insular hallways of Wolfram & Hart. Everything is so neatly contained, color-coded and neat, like those little Japanese lunch boxes. It is late, so late that it's nearly early again, but there are still bodies in the building; not all of them are alive, but the building still hums, awake.
Angel has had too much to drink. He trails a few steps behind her, his senses, motions, dulled by alcohol and relief. Such relief. Cordelia turns to him, smiling, and the slow in her gait is enough for him to catch up, and he captures her hand in his. A flicker, Angel's body pressed against hers, his mouth devouring hers, the expensive linens in his expensive bed constricting painfully around them both, like they are making love while being savaged by some great beast. Too brief, and then she's seeing Angel – young, so young, such different eyes – his cheeks color, and his soft mouth works uselessly for a moment before seizing into a hard 'o'-oh-oh, and he shudders, his eyes rolling up in his head, the sweet milk-fed Irish girl taking his virginity laughing quietly against the hollow of his jaw.
Cordelia isn't sure whether these are Visions anymore or not. For one thing, they work in both directions, and they aren't meant to save anybody. It's just now Cordelia sees . . . everything.
Falling asleep curled around baby Connor, and halfway through the night Cordelia wakes, and her warmth and the warmth of his human son has heated Angel's flesh. Late nights alone in the AI office, sitting on Angel's desk and slipping her heels off, just the quiet of the two of them alone, the relief of closing a case and of stripping down to stocking feet. How quiet can escape claustrophobic and become comfort.
"Not bad for a day's work," Angel says, in lieu of nothing, and Cordelia knows, not from her creepy new omniscience thing, but just from knowing him, that he isn't talking about besting Lindsey; he's talking about the changes he's made in himself since she's come back.
"I'm very proud of you," she says.
She allows Angel to back her into the elevator. Her immediate thought is she wants to take the stairs, to feel the burn of the many steps fire in her legs – too long motionless – but then she realizes it'll be just her and Angel in the quiet of the small space, and she changes her mind. Some things trump physical pleasure every time.
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