Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Angel, seasons 2-3
Dedication: I'd like to thank the WB for their lovely fall preview last night which had Angel and Cordelia kissing. After a three hour shower with industrial strength cleaner and a scrub brush, I wrote this story.
ANGST WARNING!
Summary: Angel broods (Hallelujah!)

Angel sat on the roof of the Hyperion Hotel. He looked out across the dark, smoggy Los Angeles sky, savoring the sight of the stars through the thick, black smog. If he squinted hard enough, maybe he could make out Orion's Belt and the Big Dipper. He could picture them so clearly in his tin coffin…the one his only son had locked him in and left him to die in.

Angel pounded the cool slate roof with an angry fist. He didn't even register the pain that shot through his hand, his wrist, and his arm. He let his fist settle on the slate and continued to look out across the skyline.

He remembered nights in Sunnydale when the stars where the farthest thing from his mind because back then, for him, the world's brightest star was in his arms. He took a moment, fought off saying her name. Angel's willpower succeeded and his voice was silent, his lips were still. It was such a long time ago; he was a different man then.

The question that loomed in the back of his mind was 'Did I change for the better?'

Did he, had he really changed for the better?

He had given up the love of his life to...to do what?

To lose control and fire his friends, slip into the darkness? To try and murder his best friend?

Had Angel left Sunnydale to become a liar, a demon, a killer, and a user?

Angel lied to his friends repeatedly, only to be taken back into their loving arms after a little token punishment. He had become a demon in Pylea, his true demon taking form. Angel had left those vampires in the roomful of Wolfram and Hart lawyers, and to be honest- he felt no guilt. That made him a killer. Angel tried to smother Wesley, to kill one of the only people in 249 years that ever gave him a chance.

Most of all, he was a user.

Angel had used Darla for a quick fix and to relieve anger and angst. Angel had used Fred for relief after *her* death, trying to distract himself. He had used Gunn to do all of his work for him. Most of all, Angel had used Cordelia.

Cordy was a good person. She didn't deserve to be deceived like that. Angel was, in essence, leading her on. He knew the restrictions, he knew that he could never have a moment of true happiness again.

Angel knew that no matter how much Cordelia loved him (or claimed to love him) that Angel would never love Cordelia like he had loved...*her*. Angel couldn't. There wasn't enough of him to give Cordelia- the most important pieces; the largest pieces were already claimed. By his Slayer (his wife), and his son (his murderer). By his sire, and by his mother.

Something that Buffy had once said rang in his ears.

"Angel. When I try to look into the future, all I can see is you. All I *want* is you."

Angel looked down at his right hand, his middle finger. It was gone. The simple silver band, his wedding ring, which he had worn on his hand for four years, was gone. He had woken up one morning and let the ring slide off his finger and into the drawer by his bed stand. For weeks afterward, he felt the ring still around his finger and he often absentmindedly rubbed the shadow, the nonexistent weight that played upon his longest finger.

Why had he ever taken it off?

Angel remembered the meeting he and Buffy had had after Willow had brought Buffy back from the dead. He had held her, but her mind was elsewhere. She was so *cold* and so *foreign* to him. Only when he had kissed her had she seemed warm, he had warmed her with his cold body and he took little comfort in that fact.

Before she stepped into Xander's vehicle, she stood in the harsh white headlights. Angel stood staring at her, reliving the moment before he left Sunnydale forever.

"I love you," he said, his voice the lightest audible whisper.

No sound came out as she mouthed, "I love you. Goodbye." She stepped inside the car and was gone. He hadn't seen or talked to her after that cold November night.

Angel looked back down and silently decided to change the subject, thinking of Connor- his little son. Oh, god. Connor had represented everything Angel had wanted and could never have. No wonder the PTB worked against him.

Wesley was wrong to take Connor, but in retrospect, Angel finally understood. Wesley had done it out of love and concern for Connor, not out of anger for Angel. Now Connor was a boy (no, a man, Angel mentally corrected) who wanted nothing more than the demise of his father.

Angel sighed and thought of Wesley, one of his best friends. He had ruined that relationship forever. That night, in the hospital room, Angel had a chance to fix everything. But his pain in losing Connor, his confusion about Cordelia, and his blind and searing hatred for the man who had kidnapped his son had forced him to lay that blue pillow over his friend's head and press down.

The hairs on the back of Angel's neck prickled; sunrise was near. Slowly, the vampire lifted his body off of cool slate roof and reached for the doorknob. He made his way down the stairs and headed towards his bedroom. Without thinking, Angel opened the drawer of his bedside table. He reached inside and found the cool silver circle. Autonomously, he slipped it onto his finger and walked out of the bedroom.

Words from long ago echoed in his mind...

"My people, before I was changed, exchanged this ring as a sign of devotion. It's a claddagh ring. The hands represent friendship, the crown loyalty, and the heart..well, you know. Wear it with the heart pointing toward you, it means you belong to someone. Like this."

'Yes. I do belong to someone. Even if I'm with someone else for a while.'

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