*****

-Present Time-

Some things just hurt so badly that there are no words to express it. You'd have to go out and jump in an ice-cold river to feel the stabbing pain stretching, stretching, and not letting go. It's an experience, not a fucking life choice that can be recorded in words and separated by the commas of a damn dialect.

But shh---She couldn't tell ANYONE.

It was having a dirty secret at the wrong time, with the carpet burning up her thighs like so much spilled cigarette ash that she couldn't flick away. It was being Lolita sitting in the back seat with her legs spread and NOT liking the fact that someone could just peek right in and see.

Shh--can't tell.

Because then he'd know all about it and that would be just another ache for him to deal with. The man splintered enough to be a block of wood and she couldn't say a thing. And really, how bad would he feel about getting jealous over a dead woman? Buffy had been *his* first. Maybe she had been his second too, because there wasn't really MUCH to tell.

There could have been.

But there could have been no world to come back to after escaping Pylea, maybe just a thick brick wall that they would have run smack into. She didn't know the specifics of the situation, but there could have been.

There wasn't.

Her back was against the door, as though holding it closed on all the blood that suddenly Angel wanted to spill, with his eyes going black then yellow, and back to that obsidian, frightening color again. He was in her living room. Something dangerous and deadly was in HER living room.

And God, she wanted to cry.

Cordelia reached forward and held onto her calves, digging her nails into the smooth skin there as though gripping for something more important, something along the line of dirt over a fresh grave. She shoved her head forward into her bony kneecaps and rocked, just a little, as though someone was singing in her ear.

There wouldn't be any crying today.

Maybe tomorrow when the sun was just up, and Angel was falling into that strange, pull of sleep that Cordelia herself had never felt. She occasionally envied him, when the nightmares became too much to handle and the covers were not large enough to block it all out. She'd hold the pillow over her head long enough so that breathing was almost a past tense, and think about how much he took that pull for granted. How much he FOUGHT against it, how she'd seen him shake his head violently when his eyes began to droop.

Don't cry, she warned herself, as though it would make a difference. She lifted her head and shook it, as Angel might, but the bed blurred before her eyes when she looked, and she could feel the hot sting of salt in her tear ducts. Breath shuddered in and out of her chest as she held sobs back, air that scraped along her lungs, violent and wet.

Could *he* hear her? She hoped he couldn't hear her.

Fuck. Stung like whiskey in a scratch. Didn't matter that the scratch was really a big scar marring your stomach and you always wore a belly chain to cover it up. Hearts break all the time.

She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. She didn't have the right.

This was Angel's grieving time, Cordelia told herself, wiping her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. There was no time for her own tears, she had to get out there and be a good friend. She hated being a good friend. She didn't WANT to be a good friend. Not when she still remembered him staring at her blankly, like she was an empty page and there were other things to read.

Cordelia wanted to climb into her bed, beneath the covers, and cry till her eyes were too puffy for any make-up trick to fix.

But she couldn't.

She had to go out there and pretend Buffy was a casual friend whom she had lost. She had to go OUT THERE.

Oh, God.

Angel wanted to be alone, but it wasn't a good idea. Not on a night like this, not when Wesley was walking around with his back stiff like he'd ran too far and too hard and didn't know when he could sit down again. Not when Gunn wasn't quite sure WHAT was going on, just sat so still he might have been a beautiful statue made of oak, and that REALLY wasn't a good idea around Angel.

Definitely not when she'd just had her carpets cleaned and ash was so hard to scrub out. There had been a time when she had almost hoped to wake up and step in a pile of that gray death, walk around in it and dance over his stupid grave. Maybe she had abandonment issues, because there was a few times when she'd been pretty close to staking his beige-ass herself. Now was no longer that time.

Then there was Fred, who was hanging out in some corner, shivering. That girl has more shakes in her than a druggy, and Cordy couldn't really blame her. Her upper thigh still ached where the branding iron had burned.

What did they think they could do? It wasn't like any of them were Buffy. It wasn't like any of them were good with words, besides Wesley, but he was only good with the big ones and not the small ones that counted.

As if ANY of them made a difference when the love of Angel's fucking LIFE was dead.

Dead. Ouch.

Willow. She had already left, unable to deal with the vast emotion welling up in Angel's eyes, when her own grief was still bubbling like blood from a dead animal that had been poked with too many sticks. She had made her apologies, handed out the hugs, then gotten the hell out of Dodge and Cordelia had wanted to follow, to run right out that door and not face the reality pounding down around their heads.

Buffy was dead.

Saying it again didn't make it seem any more real.

Buffy didn't die. She kicked demon-ass and was always the one to win in the end. Good prevailed, and all that crap. But it hadn't. Not this time.

And no one was allowed to fall apart but Angel.

Because if she did crumble, Cordelia would reveal too much. So many secrets, so little time. How ironic life was becoming.

Shaking from repressed emotion, Cordelia forced herself to stand up, using the door for leverage to push against. Her shirt tugged against her neck as it caught on the door handle, and she experienced a brief second of choking, like her heart was rising into her throat and trying to get out.

She let the shirt rip, just a slight tear at the neck. It was a knock-off anyway.

Forcing herself to stand properly, she held a hand to her skull. Her head ached, like Faith had punched her again. Like *the* vision had finally gotten off its lazy ass and put her out of her misery. Maybe the doctors would finally be right when they predicted how long she had left to live.

Visions were never around when you needed them to be.

When she could stand it, when she could breathe again, Cordelia walked into her bathroom and shut the door quietly behind her. A click would make too much sound and disturb the quiet pool of hurt in her stomach into a hurricane and she just *couldn't* deal.

Flicking on the bathroom light, so that it hummed loudly over her beating heart, she thought of all the things she should be doing. Getting a plumber to fix the leak under her kitchen sink, getting her phone turned back on and paying that back-bill. Maybe she should be out there right then, comforting and consoling Angel in any way she could.

"Angel," she could say. "We have a lot in common. You loved Buffy. I almost did too."

She could DO this. There were steps to take. She had to fix her make-up. She had to fix her hair. She had to play pretend and make sure he was okay, as if right then she wasn't feeling the same damn thing. She was good at acting.

She would let herself focus on the ache dead center of her chest, later.

She would let herself *grieve*. Later.

~*~*~*~

-A few months earlier-

It was late when I saw her again, with a glass in my hand and a grudge in my gut from one too many heartaches, and a million too many headaches. Late in hours and late in years, though not many had gone by. I just don't have that many left. I was sitting in the back booth of Shaun's, a bar that I'd started going to. It was a place that I'd begun to need just to save my sanity when the world was spitting up on my shoes.

The alcohol numbed my throbbing brain, like a good, hard pity fuck in the back of a cheap smelling van with my shoes still on, banging against the metal siding. The atmosphere numbed my heart, like watching someone die, again and again until it just stopped mattering.

I could just STOP caring that my friend had turned into a stranger, that he was becoming dangerous. It didn't matter that I was stuck with HIS visions for HIS quest and HE wasn't helping. It didn't matter that I could hear the ticking of my life, mean and loud, in my ears. I couldn't even bring myself to say his name anymore; it hurt enough that I didn't want to HEAR it.

Bitter, like blood, like lemons. Not like tossing him out the window and onto a stake. Now that would just be FUN.

I didn't care easily. This was why.

The sweet scent of alcohol swam into my nostrils, as I dropped my head down and banged it lightly against the marble-topped table. It didn't help the throbbing in my brain any, but the liquor was beginning to work its magic enough already that banging my head against the table seemed like a *good* idea.

Billy, another regular at this brown shack Shaun called an establishment, was sitting at the bar with his ass cheeks hanging over the side and his stained shirt untucked. It dragged down past his belt to hide the rolls of fat that had gotten bigger with the holidays. Not because there was so much holiday cheer he couldn't resist that final crab roll, but because there *wasn't*.

An ignored cigar sat in the ashtray next to his beer bottle. A string of scented smoke curled up around his nostrils, and he could always be seen leaning forward as if to drag it up into his nose.

"Honey," he'd said to me before, when I'd asked him why he always lit the damn cigars if he was just going to let them burn out. "I don't smoke. California doesn't exactly make life easy on a smoker. Those damn 'No Smoking' signs hung up everywhere. The scent reminds me of my dead wife. 'Course she died of lung cancer --- I figure I will too, if I hang around sniffing these cigars long enough. It'll be me and my baby, sniffing that cigar smoke all the way up in heaven."

The look on his face was that of a child reaching for a mother that just wasn't there.

I hadn't been shocked so much as saddened. I started doing a lot of watching Billy, because I got the impression that he wouldn't be around for too much longer, if he had his way. What was it about love that made you want to kill yourself? I just couldn't understand the appeal. I sat with him when he wanted me to, and took this little booth when he didn't. I could always tell when he wanted company because he'd push the ashtray to the side, so I didn't have to deal with the smoke, 'clouding up my pretty face.'

Tonight it was the booth. I wanted to be alone anyway. There was just something in the air trying to speak and I wasn't in the mood to listen. All day it had been demon this, demon that, are you okay Cordelia? You're looking a bit pale.

I loved Wesley. I did! But if he asked me one more time how I was feeling, I was going to shove my migraine medicine up his lily-white ass!

A fake potted plant the size of a small vehicle hid me from view, cast shadows across my table in the already mediocre light of the room. It suited my mood, my life, and that damn counter in my heart. I didn't want to talk to anybody for at least another twelve hours and if anyone tried they could just *bite* me.

Three empty bottles clinked together on the table as I shifted them around so I could reach for my half-full beer. Like marionettes, they spun. The dirty, yellow light would catch them at odd angles and send a dazzling spray of muddy colors across the marble, like glitter on a whore.

Normally, I'd be drinking something sweet and flirty. Tonight it was all about not adhering to the usual. The usual was boring and I was tired of living up to myself all the time.

The first time I went to Shaun's, I walked in through the creaky, glass plated door and immediately figured the place was a dive. The walls were covered with posters of Race Car Drivers and Quarter Back Football stars, along with the occasional set of panties with American Flags printed on them.

'Red, white and blue, boys.' Nothing says America quite like getting under a woman's skirt.

It *is* a dive, and that's why I've started to spend so much time here.

No one would expect Cordelia Chase to be seen in a place like this, and I need my escape like everyone else. So maybe I didn't hop onto the three-fifty train to San Francisco, but I was doing something to get the hell OUT. I had hoped if I asked myself enough times what I was doing living the life I was, then maybe I would be able to leave it behind.

Nope. Wrong.

There was Wesley. There was Gunn. They needed me and occasionally I needed them too! Caring hurt. Caring led to having your friend looming over you like the dark shadow you forgot he was and you being SCARED. Terrified. But I couldn't stop caring for them. Nope, Cordelia the cold-hearted just couldn't get past what those guys would do for her.

Cordelia the cold-hearted was talking about herself in a third person.

I sighed at myself and took a sip of the lukewarm beer. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever tasted, but it gave me a sort of freedom that I wasn't going to get from the expensive wine any date with manners and two good eyes would lavish on me. While wrapping my lips around the mouth of the bottle, I could stare at the other side of the booth where engraved in wood, Jason proclaimed his love for Alan and wonder how long THAT lasted.

The pretty woman with long ropes of blonde hair and too much blue eye shadow began her nightly strut to the jukebox and back, in her tight leather skirt that cut off just below her ass. I've never spoken with her, but from what I hear, her husband ran out on her and her children and she comes in here every weekday looking for a quick fuck to feel alive.

She only ever stayed for forty-five minutes and if she didn't see anything worth touching, she'd leave and go home. There was something about her when she started walking out that door, like she was changing skins. Her shoulders would tighten up, but raise higher and her walk would become less of a strut and more of a hurried glide.

I guess she loved her children, even if she was here every night, fucking someone without a name and whom she probably wished didn't have a face. Some people had alcohol, some people had cigars, and some just had good old-fashioned pain.

Me, I just sat and drank my beer while watching these people be real and hard and everything that hurts. There was something ironic about it all. It made me wonder how The Powers That Be chose who was worth saving.

Maybe I've grown bitter, maybe I'm just sick of it all.

Naturally, I peeked through the fake leaves when the door to the bar opened with a pop, like someone had pulled harder than usual on it and the doorknob had snapped off. Stomach tumbling like I had an avalanche inside me, or my beer was already coming up, I felt shock rip through me. My mouth fell loose when I saw who it was, like a screw had been lost in my jaw and it could only hang there. The fake leaf tickled my chin as I leaned in for a closer look.

Blonde hair, tight pants, and high black boots.

She walked like she was ready to fuck or kill, not necessarily in that order.

That was Buffy all right, wearing faded jeans and a top that wasn't *too* bad, considering the fashion disaster she had been when I'd last seen her. I suppose being a Slayer didn't keep the clothes in tip-top condition, but hey, I've been slimed more times than a Nickelodeon guest and I still manage it. Some people have it. Some people just don't.

Granted, her fashion accessories weren't the things weighing on my mind.

What was she *doing* here? This was Los Angeles. She was in Sunnydale. There was a big difference, a lot more people, and well, ME. She needed to go back there and not put Angel's soul in any more danger than it already was. Not that I care, I just don't want to be eaten any time soon. If she went back to Sunnydale the natural order of the world would be restored.

The door slammed behind her with a rattle of cheap glass. Billy looked up, grunted, then ducked his head back over his beer and sniffed some more smoke up his nose. Shaun paused behind the bar, stopped wiping the counter down and licked his thin lips a little as he got a good eyeful of the new patron. Good ol' reliable Shaun. He wiped a hand over his balding hair and smiled charmingly. But Buffy didn't appear to be there for company.

She strode straight toward the bar with a no-nonsense attitude that I'd forgotten she had. She wore it well, like a boot wears snakeskin. I heard my own breath shuddering out as I stared at her; it rasped from my throat and suddenly I could see Angelus and his ugly-mug looming close, like a tongue in an ear.

Wet, irritating, and unavoidable.

"Jack Daniels," Buffy said, voice clipped and hard like a drill sergeant's. Shaun nodded roughly enough that the silver chain around his neck jerked and his dog tags jingled. Buffy gave him a tight smile that could have been fashioned with silver bullets and then looked around, eyeing the bar as though it was a possible threat. Ah, shit, I hadn't fallen into a demon trap had I? That would just make my day SO much more special.

I slid further into my booth, until the stiff and yellowed wallpaper brushed across the sensitive skin of my arm. I couldn't see her anymore and hoped I couldn't be seen, but I could hear her over the jukebox. It was just the hum of her voice that I heard, not the words she was saying. My ears pricked and my stomach tipped, because a part of me WANTED to hear what she was talking about.

Maybe she was telling yet another sob story. Buffy was self-absorbed like that. It wasn't necessarily a fault. Being the chosen one kinda made you that way.

Again, my stomach jumped.

It had been a long time since we'd last spoken.

Telling myself that Buffy wasn't going to find me, I took another swig of my drink and grimaced at the taste. Above me, a ceiling fan hung and tilted shakily as the blades spun. I asked myself again why I was so drawn to this place, like a phobic to her fear. I stared at my fingers for a moment, gripping the neck of the bottle so tightly that my knuckles stood out like white little balls. My fingers were NOT going to tremble.

I could feel tension creeping up over my shoulders, stiffening my neck. And my own morbid curiosity did me in as it always does. I had to look at her. I had to see. With a thousand questions running rampant through my brain, I could feel the need to grab a glance welling up inside of me, stinging my breastbone.

You know the feeling, like the second before an elevator stops and your stomach keeps moving? That's the one.

I was about to do something stupid.

I peeked through the leaves again, pushing a big one down with my hand. When I turned my gaze to Buffy, my heart nearly jolted out of my chest. I found that those eyes I barely remembered were looking around and locked almost immediately on my own. They went wide and the lashes spread apart, leaving the stormy irises naked. Buffy was seemingly shocked speechless. Her mouth hung open and a bottle hung limply from her fingers, halfway to her lips.

Heart pounding, I jerked back into my booth.

*****
Part 2:

No, I thought, please no. I can't deal with her right now. Maybe never. Buffy was, well, Buffy, and that was enough to make me regret ever stepping foot into this godforsaken, obviously cursed bar.

I leaned my head against the leather top of the seat and found myself praying that it had all been my imagination. I didn't want to be around Buffy. That had always been such a difficult thing, with all the competition and the hate and the� bad hair days. There was a small hope that maybe Buffy wanted to avoid me as much as I wanted to avoid her. I certainly wouldn't blame her.

This is what I told myself, in between the curse words.

Hey, a girl has to look on the bright side of things every now and then.

But as surely as Angelus would snap my neck, I heard the telltale sound of boots clicking against the scratched-up floor. They were headed toward my direction in a familiar, firm and quick pace. Great.

I ran my palms over my hair, pushing it behind my ears and hoping I looked okay. I hadn't exactly dressed properly. I was wearing something slinky and red because I WANTED to. Everywhere I went nowadays, it was all about what I saw and not being seen.

She came closer, the click of her boots became louder and I could all but hear her breathing down my neck like a bad hickey that I couldn't hide. Obviously, there was a reason I didn't look on the bright side anymore. It just kicked you harder in the ass when it didn't pan out.

I should have learned that from my various and several failed auditions. I guess I haven't yet. After all, I had an audition Saturday, didn't I? I wasn't going to give up just because some stupid vampire's Irish sidekick decided to hand me a bottle full of aspirin and a strange craving for good, hard liquor. He got dead because he was stupid and heroic and Doyle.

I wasn't going to be him.

The clicking stopped and from the corner of my eye I could see Buffy's torso pause before me. It was still slim but I could see she had filled out a bit from the schoolgirl she had been. Her hands were on her hips, with her legs set wide apart, like she was ready to kick some serious vamp-bootie.

On a weary sigh, I turned my head toward her and tilted my chin back to look her in the eye. I didn't have to tilt it too far back, after all, if Buffy was one thing it was height-challenged. Even WITH those noisy boots.

"Buffy," I said in greeting, staring directly at her face. Not to the left, where the bartender was watching us, and not to the right, where the door loomed seductively over her shoulder. She nodded, a tightly drawn motion of her chin ducking toward her neck. I flicked an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to speak. When she didn't, I found the silence disturbing, like listening to a grown man sing Mr. Roger's Neighborhood's theme song in the shower. "Long time no-see. So how's the slay-life? I hear you've got a boyfriend. Kinda cute, a little brawny, homegrown style?"

"Had," she interrupted, the left edge of her lips turning down slightly. Her eyelashes fluttered imperceptibly, as if to shield her gaze. "As in I don't anymore."

"Oh," I coughed a little, gripping my beer tightly and shifting in my seat. What did she want me to say? She was looking at me as though she hadn't expected to find me here, but didn't really mind that I was. I expected more of a: Cordelia-how-horrible-to-see-you-please-leave. "I'm sorry," I choked out to her, my plastic Vegas-lit smile glaring at her. I could feel it stretching my cheeks, bracing my lips apart. "That�sucks."

Buffy shrugged, an uneven jerk of her shoulder as if she was brushing off a bee sting. As if she was painfully allergic.

"It does," she admitted, and then was quiet again, just looking at me. She wanted to sit down, I thought, falling into depression immediately. Buffy wants to sit and have girl talk. Yippee for me.

I've done some bad things in my life. Believe me when I say Karma's a bitch.

"Would you like to sit down?" I asked her, managing to shove the words off my lips at the last moment. Say no, I pleaded with my eyes. C'mon Buff, Buff-ster, Buffy --- you don't really want to sit with *me* do you?

She did.

Buffy smiled, a hard-worn blade, and slid easily into the seat across from me. With her sitting down, she didn't seem quite so intimidating, but there was still an air about her. She could kill me with her pinky and has probably thought about it on more than one occasion. It was in the set of her jaw, the required ingredient to do whatever it takes.

"Thanks," she whispered and set her bottle onto the table with a clink. She didn't look directly at me as her fingers trailed down the side briefly, spreading the condensation. Then she set it away from her and tapped her fingernails against the marble. They were painted a pale pink. I had imagined they'd be red if I saw her again, like blood. "So how have you been?" she asked me, finally dragging her flitting gaze up to my own.

I don't know, praying your boyfriend doesn't kill me?

I wanted to say that, but I didn't. Maybe I have changed, just a little.

"Oh the usual," I replied, making my voice light and careless. "Getting visions, torturing information out of weasels, literally. Killing demons. MOST demons. You know. Everyday stuff."

There was a startled silence and then Buffy laughed at my bluntness and her shoulders slackened, a slow settling of muscles and bones. I smiled and took the last swig of the beer before dangling the bottle from my fingers, swinging it back and forth. It caught the light, made it dance brown across the yellow wall.

"Everyday stuff," she said after a moment, tilting her head to the side. A curtain of long, golden hair fell over her cheek. It was a darker shade than I remembered, but I don't remember well. Kinda pretty, I thought. Buffy has never been pretty before. Mostly she's been sharp edges and the skinny girl wearing clothes dragging low on her hips and stringy tank tops that slipped off of her shoulders. "Who'd have thought killing demons would be Cordelia Chase's 'everyday' when she had a choice."

My thighs clenched against the seat, and failure, like blood, burned coppery in the back of my throat. Bitch, I thought. But I kept my smile on, nodding my head in the way L.A. has taught me. I could have said: What Choice? I could have muttered: We're a little bit alike, you and I. Cursed.

"Yeah," I agreed instead, with my teeth cutting sharply into my cheek, "who'd have thought?"

Buffy stopped laughing abruptly, like someone had shot a gun and she was trapped in that brief, sickening silence before someone screamed. Then she grabbed her Jack and took a long drink, the column of her winter-white neck working up and down. I winced just as she did, as the poor tasting drink slipped into her belly like mud. She came up gasping, sputtering a little as the taste registered.

"God!" she muttered, wrinkling her nose up and holding the bottle away from her as if it had a particularly bad smell to it. "What'd they do? Fill this up in the men's room?"

I snorted and she pushed the bottle across the table, dragging her tongue across her teeth as if to scrape her taste buds away. It was an interesting sight, watching Buffy's lips snap together and her head shake as she willed the taste away.

"Don't bother," I warned her after a moment of her disgusted noises. She looked at me pleadingly, familiar, and I let out another snort of laughter. Oh, I thought, fun. "It's a taste that grows on you. A little. It has to, because you can't get rid of it once you let it into your mouth. Shaun likes to order his Jack from the worst providers."

How true those words were, she would never know.

"Like a lot of things," she replied, and that was a whole different ball game, obviously, because she shook the strange look from her face and looked me in the eyes. Hoo boy, that was something. Like being kicked in the stomach by someone wearing steel-toed boots. Buffy leaned forward, and the shadows from the fan above us moved across her face, shielding her gaze. The Slayer always had something to hide and I had always wanted to know what that something was. "So how is he?"

Her words are soft. Maybe she was unsure of herself in this question, maybe I could tell her to shut up and get on with the ass whipping. Maybe I didn't have to tell her anything.

I could laugh it off and say: In which room? On the floor or in the bed? Maybe you mean in the graveyard, because whoa, have you seen these L.A. graveyards? Talk about BIG. You could do some damage here keeping those corpses in line.

He is Angel. If I told her, I wonder if she would be able to make a difference. I wonder what it would do to her if she couldn't. I wonder why I give a damn.

I heard Billy tear himself from his seat with the usual groan. I looked over and saw him rubbing a low spot on his back. It was the same as every night, before he decided to leave. Billy tossed me a look, sighed, and walked wobbly toward the door with a ghost hanging onto his hand. I'm getting used to a lot of things and maybe I'm a little terrified that a few of those things were gonna stop being constant.

Like so many other things have.

"She's calling me," Billy had once said to me, in a monotone, with his ear turned to the ceiling where a water stain spread bigger each day. "She don't realize I'm listening. Always like that, my baby, calling me in for dinner and thinking I haven't heard a damn thing she's been yelling."

"Angel is Angel," I told her and that's not a lie, not really. "Broody. Dark. A little heavy in the forehead area." Buffy nodded but didn't laugh, instead sucked her cheeks in like she still tasted that bitter beer. She looked away from me and I realized that she was uncomfortable with the line of conversation even though she had started it. Her teeth worried her lips, leaving them pink and swollen. Her lip-gloss was long worn off.

Another thing to remember, Buffy never had a clue what she wanted.

The door creaked open and I heard Billy swear.

"Fucking doorknob's broke. Shaun! Your bar's a piece a shit!"

"Ah, fuck you, old man!" Shaun called back amiably and sat a frothy beer down in front of a man wearing sunglasses though it had long been night-time.

Then Billy was gone and I was left with Buffy staring at me like it was my turn to speak. Words weren't waiting on my tongue. Pleasantries aside, I didn't know what there was left to say. We had never been friends, even when we could have been.

I didn't know how to talk to her like this. I didn't really care to learn. Tonight was my night and Buffy barging in uninvited wasn't my idea of a good time.

"Well," I said, placing my palms flat on the table and preparing to rise. "It's been fun, but---" Her hand closed over mine, the fingers squeezing tightly around my knuckles. I frowned, lips drawn back across my teeth and glanced from her face to where her pink nails dug into my wrist. "Buffy."

Her gaze was bright, filled with a dangerous sadness. I've seen that look in my own eyes, when I towel the mirror dry after taking a hot shower. It always surprises me, how close to the edge I've come.

"A little longer," she said, and her voice was high pitched. "Then I'll be out of your way. Cross my heart."

'Hope to die,' I finished silently.

There was something about the way Buffy said it, like the screeching sound of a train pulling into the station, metal against metal. Her tongue flicked out, as pink as her nail polish, and swabbed her teeth-torn lips. Her nostrils were flared and turning red. I couldn't bear to look in her eyes, because besides the pain in my hand, I could feel sorrow radiating off of her like heat, like sweat, and like blood dripping from an open vein.

Something wasn't right in Slayer-ville.

"Okay," I complied and slowly pulled my hand from her grasp. Her fingers opened briefly, dragged across my own. And then they looked empty against the table, before they clenched into a fist and drew away toward her chest. Buffy looked down at the marble and swallowed hard enough that I heard it.

I slowly sat back down, cocking my head at her.

"Ever feel like you just need someone to talk to?" Buffy questioned me, her eyes dark with things I wasn't ready to know. The tight t-shirt she wore proclaimed: Freedom. It glittered in silver across her small breasts. "Like you've got your head full of something big, and no one is listening to a word you're saying? Or they're listening but don't really care?"

Every day, Cordelia thought but didn't say. I have my head full of death and I'm starting to think about what it feels like to make that kind of thing happen. It's so familiar that I'm no longer shocked. It's the first thing that I see when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. How sick is that?

"It's like there's this feeling inside of me, like time is running out and I want to tell somebody but I know they'd just start worrying." Buffy paused, cracked her neck, and then curled her lips to the side disdainfully. Her gaze flickered and fell. "I'm just so tired. Tired enough to be sitting in a bar with you, wondering if you're listening or thinking about the quickest way out the door and away from the crazy Slayer who can't hold her alcohol."

"I'm not thinking that," I whispered and she didn't mind that I was lying. "What is it Buffy? What's so bad about your life that you can't tell anyone?"

She leaned back, eyed me like she might an enemy or maybe a lover. Buffy gave me a half smile, the delirious been-around-too-long type, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her breasts pushed up against her forearms, and suddenly her shirt only proclaimed: Free.

I wanted to laugh, but the air was too thick and I knew she'd speak eventually. I didn't want laughing to ruin what she would say.

"I'm dying," she said dryly, red lips pressing together and apart as she spoke. "Or so all the books say."

I felt my own eyes go wide, startled, dismayed and irritated all at the same time. Who was she to drop a bomb like that? Who was SHE to be dying when *I* had that privilege myself? Fuck, Buffy always got the good stuff first. She'd be the damn martyr and everyone would remember the things Buffy had done to save the world. I just see people die in my head.

Yay, Cordelia, right? Her super power was taking ten ibuprofens at once.

My epitaph isn't going to be: She saved the world.

My epitaph IS going to be: She complained about migraines. Too bad we never listened.

"Yeah," I huffed and grabbed my beer bottle. It was slick in my hand as I slid from the booth. I heard the leather squeak and ignored her puff of angry breath as she slid from her seat as well. "Well, we all are. Books or not."

Suddenly I was second best again and it felt like everyone was watching. I stomped to the bar and tossed the bottle at Shaun. He caught it with ease and his eyes flickered around me, through me, to where Buffy was surely standing, tapping her foot and being ignored. By me, anyway.

Damn it, Shaun.

It was all about Buffy to everyone else. She was the reason why I stopped looking through my yearbook and had packed it away into a box I kept in the back of my closet.

Beside my picture, someone had written: Stay cute. I bet she had tons of people writing things like: Thanks for saving my life. I bet people meant it when they said to her in flowery, yellow ink: I'll remember you forever.

"Shaun?" I grouched, smiling tightly and waving a hand in front of his face. He blinked and stared at me dumbly with those puppy-dog eyes of his. "Yeah, Scout, over here. Remember me? It's your loyal customer speaking. I want something hard and I want something that burns. Got it?"

Shaun looked at me for a moment, in brief concern before he shook it off and nodded. If he had one rule, it was to never give a damn, not a proper one anyway. Everyone was comfortable with that, as long as the tap never ran dry.

I don't know what he poured from that green bottle, but when I picked up my shot glass and tossed it down my throat, it was as if someone had ripped a hole in my esophagus. I liked it. Buffy tapped on my shoulder and I shrugged her off, slamming the shot glass back down onto the bar hard enough that it was in danger of shattering.

Shaun frowned at me, but I simply raised my elegant, demanding eyebrow. The green bottle came out again, winking at me from under the weak lights. He could get in major trouble for doing the things he does. But the poor bastard just couldn't choose between furnishing beer or liquor.

"What the hell are you DOING?" Buffy hissed into my ear, grabbing me by the elbow hard enough that I knew tomorrow I would roll over and lay my arm across the bed and it would HURT. She dragged me toward a dark corner, and a pair of those patriotic panties brushed against my cheek. I cringed and moved slightly away from the wall. Buffy stopped me by holding onto my shoulders and glaring up at my face.

"What, Buffy --- not in the mood for a drink?"

"Christ," she whispered, staring at me hard. I wanted to ask her when she'd found a new religion and if it was any better than getting fucked over by the Powers That Screw You Over. "You're no easier to talk to than they are. I don't know what I was thinking, coming here. You're still the biggest bitch I know, throwing snits over something as incomprehensible as someone wearing the same nail polish as you."

I blinked, unable to comprehend. The corner smelled like sweat, like the walls had spent their time bathed in heat and were withering away beneath the posters of men who deluded themselves into thinking they were famous.

"What?" I gasped, taken aback. I tried to shrug off her hands, but they dug in. It was like ten branding irons, jabbing angrily into my flesh. You know that thing I thought about Buffy killing me with just her pinky? I bet she could do worse with all ten fingers. "You came to L.A. to see ME?"

Buffy rolled her eyes.

"Well, YEAH. Not just you, but I figured with what Willow had said about you, maybe you could give me a little insight."

"Want your fortune read?" I snarled and shoved her hands off of me. I heard someone cough discreetly. Shadows or not, we could be seen clearly enough in a bar that wasn't that well lit in the first place. "Go to fucking Miss Cleo."

"That's not what I meant," Buffy murmured quietly. She tilted her head to the side and watched me shift from one foot to the other. Her eyes touched briefly on the balled up fist at my side. "What's got you so riled up Cordelia? Is there something you're not telling anyone? Did I hit a nerve?"

"Leave it be, Xena," I growled. Buffy's eyes narrowed and then she stuck her tongue into her cheek, stepping back into the low lighting. Her face curved softly, I noticed, but her chin was like the sharp end of a stake. That was Buffy all right, the most contradictive bitch on the west coast.

"That's fair," she said to me as though I hadn't really won anything, and I forced myself to unclench my fingers and move away from the wall. The scent of sweat stayed with me, like a memory of the locker room after cheer leading practice.

I watched, from my perch next to the bar, as Buffy walked casually to the jukebox and dragged her fingers lazily over the titles. Something country-western was worming its way from the speakers at the moment, and Buffy's hips swayed a little, the worn fabric over her ass moving gently against her skin.

Then I realized I had stared at Buffy's ass and had a serious 'what-the-fuck' moment.

After an eternity of searching, her shoulders jumped a little and I knew she had found something she wanted to listen to. She reached into her back pocket, digging her hands into the faded jeans and bending her elbow. She pulled out a quarter at a time and I knew everyone had to be watching her, so why shouldn't I?

Buffy was a one-woman show: small and blonde like any man's fantasy and a few women's too. I was average height, with big tits, and dark hair. Every man had to have more than one fantasy.

I tried hard not to smile when the Rolling Stones came spiraling out of the speakers, singing about not getting any satisfaction. Shaun hummed at my side, bouncing his head a little and making the hair he had combed over his skull flap from side to side.

Buffy turned, tossed me a glance, and strolled over to take a seat on the squeaky stool beside me. I continued leaning against the bar, staring with feigned boredom toward the other patrons. Sally, with her large, red hair was swinging her leg gently, from side to side and staring at Shaun. Some people just didn't have a clue, I thought, some people just couldn't put two and two together.

"You know," Buffy began, and she didn't sound like she was dying, "I didn't expect you to tell me my fortune." At her words, I glanced at her hesitantly. I wasn't up for any elaborate explanation on her part. I didn't want to know how she had found me in this bar, if she'd been watching me, or what she was here for. "I just figured you'd be someone to talk to who wouldn't really care enough to go crazy. Guess I was wrong."

I laughed, incredulous. I thought of the green bottle and wanted my shot, but I didn't think it was a good idea to get drunk when Buffy was in a say-anything mood. There were things I wouldn't even say to myself and I wasn't about to pop out with a sob story to her.

My life sucks, sure, but I've got more class than spilling it over the rim of a dirty glass at Shaun's.

When I didn't say anything, Buffy continued, "I thought maybe you'd empathize a little. Being a Seer."

"A Seer isn't a Slayer, Buffy," I explained, as if to a child. I stared toward the door, wishing I was anywhere but here. I shouldn't have stayed. Shouldn't have let Buffy's neediness drag me down into my seat and into her mouth. She'd been a black hole all my life, and I had fought so long and hard not to be sucked into her. I wasn't Buffy's sidekick, I wasn't Buffy's love interest, and I wasn't about to be her priest. "There's not even a comparison."

She looked sad and her eyes fluttered shut for mere seconds before they re-opened and looked defiantly bitter.

"Good thing," she retorted.

I could have said something back, but I was too tired of it all. The clock on the wall said that it was long past time I returned to my cozy apartment and Dennis, my friendly ghost. I sighed and rolled my head toward her, my neck aching at the position. Buffy's lips were drawn in a hard, flat line.

In the background, the song switched over and Sally drew her gaze away from Shaun.

"What do you really want, Buffy?" I asked her, near begging. I just wanted to leave. I was sick of living outside normal, and hanging around the Slayer wasn't exactly the epitome of normality. She wore on my nerves, like a slow-sawing job. One day, I might just float away into dust.

Buffy ran her fingernails across the over-used counter top and frowned.

"I'm not sure," she whispered, with something like heartbreak. "Every time I want something it goes away. I'm so damn sick of running after everything and having it flying off into the distance without looking back or giving me a chance to work things out in my head."

Maybe Buffy had been right. Maybe there WAS something to emphasize with. But I still wasn't sure why she'd singled out me, of all people. I was a little glad I didn't know. "Things are so crazy right now. I just want things to stop spinning and sit still for a little while."

"Price of being the Chosen One," I reminded her. "Nothing stops spinning."

Buffy smiled ruefully.

"Cordelia," she replied, and her tone was anything but happy. She didn't say anything more, just cut herself off at my name. Our eyes met, held, and I was the first to look away, confused. I watched the lights play on the jukebox. Red, green, and blue.

"I just think you've come to the wrong person," I confessed, even though it wasn't a secret. Buffy nodded, face bland. "I can't help you, I've got my own problems to deal with and I may be excellent at human relations, but I can't do everything."

Buffy tipped her head forward, staring down at the bar's surface. Her hair caught my eye again, and I wondered if she was still dyeing it or if I was finally seeing its natural color. The idea seemed strangely personal, so I forced my wandering gaze away.

"Jason loves Alan," she said softly, lifting her hand and running a finger over the wood. I jolted and leaned over, bringing my face close to hers as I stared down at the engraved words.

"Still?" I muttered, shocked. "Now that's love."

Buffy turned her face just as I turned mine and our eyes met, so close it hurt to keep them open. Her breath fanned out across my mouth, alcohol-sweet. I swallowed down a thick lump I didn't recognize and drew away from her. Buffy blinked, glanced one more time at Jason's vow, and sat back up.

Something fierce held her still and tight.

*****