by Kate Bolin
AUTHOR: Kate Bolin
SUMMARY: Cordelia still sees.
TIMEFRAME: "Parting Gifts", but an alternate take on it. RATING: PG
ARCHIVING: List sites, my site, standing orders, otherwise ask. FEEDBACK: Privately, please.
DISCLAIMER: The characters and universe herein are the property of Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar, Kuzui, and David Greenwalt Productions. This fan-written work of fiction means no infringement upon any copyrights, trademarks, and other legal bindings. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just a teeny tiny little AU.
She discovered today that she still gets the visions.
You would think that empath demon would've been right. After all, it was his auction. She wonders if Wolfram & Hart demanded their money back.
She wonders if they managed to get the money off of the corpse.
Angel wasn't talking to her. He couldn't even look at her (ha --look). Wesley mentioned that Angel was...reacting badly, and preferred not being faced with the reminder of his failure. First Doyle, then her.
At least Doyle didn't leave behind a mess.
The slow snaking throb jumping into razor-sharp cuts jumping into brick walls and she was sobbing dryly, curled up in the nearest corner she could feel. Wesley found her and carefully guided her back to the sofa. He strokes her back as she gasps out the last of her tears, and, finally, after a long silence, she whispers very softly, "I could see."
Wesley's hand leaves her back and the sofa cushions squeak slightly as he moves away. She slowly lifts her face up, the few days of training when that stupid bitch Amy had played around with witchcraft paying off, and follows the sound. There's sunlight on her cheeks, warm and gentle, and she closes her eyelids slowly, savoring the memory.
"I could see," she repeats. "Big demon, lots of slime, near Echo Park..." She trails off, and laughs, just a little, nearly hysteric. "I could see it, Wesley. I saw the demon, and the kids, and the sunlight..."
"Cordelia..." His voice is pained, rough, as if he had been spending the nights crying. He hasn't though, she would know, since he's been sleeping on her couch since that night.
The doctors demanded that someone stay with her, and she couldn't tell them about Dennis.
She stands up, slowly, carefully, feeling for the sofa arm and then for her desk. She fumbles through the desk drawers, trying to remember how things feel. "What?" she asks, her hands tracing over staplers and paperclips, lipsticks and tampons until she feels what she's looking for.
She pulls out the pair of sunglasses and slips them on over her empty eye sockets.
"Cordelia, I don't think--"
"Don't, then, all right?" She smiles, as black and as bitter as the darkness in front of her. "There's people out there that need your help, Wesley. You and Angel's." She shuffles her feet, two tiny steps forward, her hands stretched out, feeling for any moved furniture and for Wesley as well. It takes a few seconds, but eventually he grasps her hands, holding them in his. "Go help them," she says to him, reaching up towards his face. He hasn't shaved in days -- the stubble feels wonderful against her hand.
Wesley quickly steps back, and her hands drop to her side. He doesn't say a word, just breathes heavily, then, slowly, walks out the door, carefully locking it as he walks away.
She gropes her way to the sofa, carefully sits down, and waits to see again.
"You're wrong, and you're a grotesque and ugly freak!" http://www.dymphna.net
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Kate Bolin
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