Breaking Point
© 2001 Christie
The curtains are drawn just so - not even a sliver of unwanted daylight allowed to peek in. Shadows bounce off the walls and scurry into corners; once welcomed here, now abhorred - everything is unwanted.
Cordelia knows this - knows it is the wrong thing to do but she does it anyway, squaring her shoulders and walking into Angel's room, mug of warm blood clutched in her hand. She's done it in the time before this, always entering with determination until she reaches him, shoulders droop as she moves closer. Sees the beaten despair on his face and knows, again, she shouldn't be here.
Stays anyway, because she is his friend, and places the mug on a nearby table. She uncertainly kneels in front of him, hands going to either side of his stoic body, to grip his fists balled at his sides. She looks up into his blank, uncaring eyes, blinking back tears in her own and pleads with him:
"Angel, please. Talk to me."
It's been two days but he surely doesn't know he's been sitting in that chair, same position, same blank stare while the sun has risen and set not once but twice on the city. Still, he doesn't move and Cordelia swallows down defeat, replaces it with determination and rises, picks up the mug and offers it to him.
"Eat."
It is the third time she's done this and she expects nothing more than a third rejection: a tired gaze that clearly says, --Cordelia, go away--, before eyes revert back to that place somewhere on the opposite wall but certainly farther away than that. A place where Buffy is still alive.
And she would leave the blood and go, come back a few hours later to collect the cold, congealing liquid, and reassertain that there were no stakes laying about in case Angel decided to get crazy.
So when he raises his fists, uncurls them and takes the mug, Cordelia gasps, watches in shock and more than a little relief as he downs its contents, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and hands it back to her.
She gets up to leave as his eyes return to the place on the wall and wherever beyond, somewhat pleased at her success and mentally ticking off the I told you so's she's about to deliver to Wesley.
His voice is haggard, not used for two days and completely out of practice, but she hears him say "stop" and does, hairs standing on end at the back of her neck.
His bulk shifts, first time in days, and she turns slowly as he clears his throat and tries again.
"Don't leave."
Now, their eyes have met - his are wet - and Cordelia realizes this could be the first, or the hundred and first time he's cried. But not in front of her. Never in front of her.
She's pretty sure she's not going in slow motion, though it feels like it as she moves back toward Angel, replaces the mug on the table and stands as close to him as possible without actually touching him.
His eyes follow her and now look upward, blinking back the tears flooding them, even as they slip out of the corners and down his cheeks.
"I'm done," he whispers, and Cordelia reaches for him, knowing the rest, sinking down into his embrace, an awkward in-between of the floor and his lap - but it doesn't matter and she doesn't feel a thing.
"I'm done being alone."
He says it between sobs, and Cordelia gulps in air to swallow down her own heart as it wrenches itself upward into her throat and threatens to spill.
Angel cries harder than Cordelia's ever seen anyone cry, much less Angel, who just doesn't, and the silence is deafening when it finally stops; minutes, maybe an eternity later.
Left over sniffles muffled into her shirt before Angel pulls away and stands, nearly spilling her to the ground. Cordelia catchers herself, doesn't make a big deal because it's not the time or the place, and rights herself as well.
She watches as Angel pads silently across the room -hadn't before noticed that his feet were bare - and shuts himself in the bathroom. She waits for the water to turn on before allowing her legs to give out and sinking into the chair Angel previously occupied, hands over her face, muffling the sobs.
She forgets to get ahold of herself - it's been such a long two days with no thoughts but those of Angel, and Xander, and Willow, and Giles, and Dawn. Barely enough time to get through the list of people who are hurting worse than she before strong arms haul her up and she is pressed against Angel's chest in a fierce bear hug.
She lets him hold her, buries herself in the embrace and cries for a long, long time. He cries too, she's pretty sure of it, and she's glad because there can't be room for all that guilt, and sorrow, and madness inside one man.
Eventually, the crying stops, because it has to, and he carries her to his bed, puts her under the covers and crawls in with her, cocooning both of them from the rest of the world. They lie there, not crying or talking, in the dark, arms intertwined. Just holding.
Cordelia is scared, but she won't say it, scared now more than ever of losing someone she loves - scared of someone she loves losing someone they love again.
And again.
And again.
Giles lost Miss Calendar.
She and Angel lost Doyle.
Gunn lost George.
Everyone lost Buffy.
Cordelia wonders if there's a breaking point -everyone has one, right? - when you just can't lose another person; can't stand to hold another big, black hole in your heart and expect to go on living.
Cordelia wonders how close Angel is to breaking, how close he is to giving up his shanshu for the nothingness of final death.
He can't read her mind, she's pretty sure - he's proven that with how clueless he usually is, but this time, it seems like he does. His voice is as deep and gruff as the darkness that envelops them as he pulls her closer, dipping his face into her hair.
"Never leave me, Cordelia. Never, never leave me. I can't do this again."
And there it is - her answer. His breaking point. It's her.
END.