Disclaimer: Joss never writes, he never calls; I’m thinking the relationship is beyond over. The song is “Tango In The Night” by Lindsey Buckingham of Fleetwood Mac. I’m not him, either.
Summary: Angel broodage, sometime "recently" in L.A.

Spoilers: Takes place immediately after the end fade-out for "Slouching Towards Bethlehem".
Rating: PG
A.N.: Got sent a challenge: Write a fic to one of these Fleetwood Mac songs. Heck, I’ve gotta take that one. It’s Fleetwood Mac, baby!
A.N. 2: For those of you wanting to know where "Mirror, Mirror", "Pieces of the Heart" or "Lonely in Your Nightmare" is, I'm working on 'em, I'm working on 'em!!!
A.N. 3: There is some A/C in here. You're warned.
Distribution: Anyone who has my stuff can have this one, too. You want it? Let me know. I’m sure we can do a deal.
Dedication: To Smurfy. Hope this one likes you more than the other one you read.

He stood there, leaning in the doorway of the room Gunn and Fred had set up for Cordelia. There were boxes everywhere, still, but what else could he expect? That she’d come up here, clean it up, unpack her life and remember everything?

It didn’t happen that way.

Instead, she was staying with his son in the loft of some warehouse, with a bunch of stuffed animal heads on the wall. It was like his whole world was in an upheaval since Wesley pulled him from the bottom of the ocean and he’d thought Cordy’s return would solve all his problems. Instead, she ran away with his son and he was left here, staring into her empty room.

He kept thinking, if we hadn’t lied to her, if we’d told her the truth straight off, everything that happened, that maybe she’d be here, sitting on the bed. On the bed where they’d nearly kissed.

He’d nearly kissed Cordelia.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the doorframe. He wanted to walk into the room, to inhale her scent, her presence, but she hadn’t been in there long enough. Her scent didn’t have a chance to imprint, to soak in. Her scent was a fleeting thing. If he closed the door, it’d linger a little longer, but it would also get stale in here and he didn’t want that.

She could be back any minute, after all, just as soon as she regained her memory.

If she regained her memory.

No, she would. She had to remember everything, all the things they’d done, all the things that have happened. Maybe if he’d started really at the beginning.

The thought was there, if he’d told her about Sunnydale, rather than just Cordy being a cheerleader. It might have helped. Surely she’d remember her parents, her friends, the high school, nearly being eaten by a giant snake demon. Twice.

Angel walked into the room, letting the compulsion guide him. He sat on her bed gingerly, as if it were a trap and when it didn’t slam shut, he leaned back into the mattress, turning his head to swallow her scent. It was stronger here than anywhere, proof that she’d been sitting on the bed for a long time. He knew he should get up, should go back to his own place but it felt like something was holding him there.

Everything slowly drifted through his mind, the things he’d said, the things he should have. If I’d started at the beginning, he thought, with the first time I saw her. His eyes drifted closed, though he couldn’t find sleep, not while Cordelia was out there, even with though she was with Connor. He knew that Wolfram and Hart would just be biding their time. Even though they knew more now than he did about whatever it was that was coming, they might still go after Cordy.

He knew he should go back out into the city, see if he could find something out. But right now, with everything that had happened spilling through his mind, he couldn’t seem to make himself move. It was almost like being on the beach, with the susurration of surf rolling onto the shore.

Listen to the wind on the water
Listen to the waves upon the shore
Try to sleep, sleep won't come
Just as I begin to fade

If he’d just told her, he thought, if he’d just said the truth rather than glossing over things. If he’d told her about Sunnydale, about the people she’d known there.

Angel sighed out a breath he didn’t need to take, self-recrimination fading as he lost himself in the memories of the past few years. Of teaching Cordy how to fight. Of her holding Connor, when he was just a baby. Of her joy when he gave her those new clothes. How she’d rolled her eyes at Doyle.

He winced mentally. Doyle. How long had it been since he’d thought of his first real friend? How Doyle had been the one to carry the visions, how Doyle had put him back on his path as a warrior for the Powers. How Doyle had died and how they’d both mourned him. And Kate, how could he forget Kate? Her father killed; a victim of vampires and she’d blamed him for it. She’d wanted to destroy him for opening her eyes to the dark side of the world. She’d nearly thrown him in an easterly jail cell. Angel knew that he could have died from Kate’s desire for vengeance. He could still hear Buffy’s pleas as Kate dragged him down that hallway, heading for the jail cells. He could remember Buffy’s fear that he’d allow himself to die for Faith. But it hadn’t been necessary. Faith turned herself in and Kate was forced to let him go. Then he and Buffy argued and he sent her back to Sunnydale, where everything had happened originally.

Angel shifted slightly on the bed, trying to find the threads of his thoughts again but instead of Cordelia’s ebon eyes he kept seeing another pair, brilliant as opals and so full of life. The name of the town brought it all back, everything that he’d submerged when he heard about her death.

Submerged. Funny word. Not so funny when you’ve experienced it close hand but still. Before Connor was even born, Angel had been drowned in emotions he couldn’t even begin to name. “Love” sounded so frail, “devotion” no better. His lips whispered the words, “No greater love than this,” remembering, completely, the feeling, the taste of her blood searing his mouth, his throat, his veins. He remembered the feel of her flesh, breaking beneath his fangs, her legs cradling his hips, her hands clutching at his skin. The sheer heat of her, enflaming him, making him want more and more and his realizing that she would die to let him live. The inferno of her blood burning out the poison in his body, curing him even as his drinking killed her.

As if that memory broke a dam, others spilled out, rushing through his mind, reminding him of things past, words spoken, dreams lived. He remembered the sunlight dancing in her hair, the taste of her lips, the feel of her body against his. He remembered her loyalty, her love, her devotion.

Then I remember
When the moon was full and bright
I would take you in the darkness
And do the tango in the night
Tango...

The ring he’d given her the night of her birthday. His own, that he kept, that he’d worn until he’d lost himself in Darla. He’d removed it then for the first time, hidden it away from himself even. It was as if a part of him still knew better than to wear that ring, the symbol of his love and chase after what he thought was a dream.

He knew why he didn’t replace it after his epiphany. It would be an easy thing to do but he’d felt he’d fallen, not only in the eyes of those he considered to be his friends but also to the memory of everything he’d shared with Buffy.

And now there was Cordelia.

Angel sat up abruptly, rising to his feet. He didn’t belong here. He was taking advantage. It wasn’t his place. Nothing had ever been said. Even though, even without her memories, she still was attracted to him and he still loved her…

…loved Cordelia.

He stared back at the room, trying to force away all the memories again. He couldn’t relive them, not his time with Buffy. He couldn’t think about them now. They were his past and Cordy was here and now or she would be, once she regained her memories again, they could pick up where they’d left off. And he could love her and she could love him.

And they’d be, well, if not quite happy, content together. Because they needed each other and Buffy was strong, she always had been the strong one.

It was the way things were. It was the way they had to be. Angel consoled himself with that thought even though he knew it wasn’t true. He lied to himself, the way he lied to his friends, the way they’d lied to him. It was all one giant circle of lies tied up in prophecies and spells, things to make him, make them all believe that someday in the unknowable future there would be respite, there would be peace, there would be life where there once was death.

But until then, he had to stay focused in the now, because looking into the past or to the future could kill, destroy any chances he had, they had, any of them, not just his family but hers as well. And Angel would do anything still to protect her, even if it meant living a lie.

He sucked in air the way he’d once swallowed blood, seeing a book forgotten on a table. The crimson and gold cover drew him and he found himself opening it, flipping through the pages, seeing thoughts of high school students emblazoned in so many different colors of ink. He recognized handwriting he hadn’t seen in years: Giles’ legible hand, Willow’s precise script, Xander’s barely-legible scrawl. And oh-so-familiar loops in purple ink that he remembered teasing her about, marking a photo of her, Giles and Willow, the girls sitting on a bench with Giles talking to them outside the high school.

Angel’s throat clenched as he carefully touched that black and white image of her. She looked so young there, so untroubled. His hands swept through the book quickly, searching quickly for other photos, other remembrances.

“What’re you doing?”

He jerked, lifting his head from the book, nearly slamming it shut on the tassel of red with a gold medallion reading, “Class of 1999”. “Fred,” he said, licking his lips, glancing at the book nervously. “I was, uh.”

She came into the room, her brown eyes inquisitive. “Is that Cordy’s year book?” she asked, taking it from his suddenly awkward hands. She flipped through the pages, hesitating and then laying the book on the table. “Oh, look. Wasn’t she beautiful? ‘The Sunnydale Razorback Cheerleading Squad.’” Fred read the words out loud and traced a careful finger along Cordelia’s profile. “Are there more pictures in here?”

“Fred, I don’t think,” Angel began.

“Oo, is that you?” Fred glanced up at him and back down at the photo. “I didn’t know vampires could have their pictures taken.”

“We don’t have reflections. Photography is something different,” Angel said. He peered over her shoulder, eyebrows lifting in surprise. The two page-spread was labeled simply “The Bronze” and showed photos of various bands and crowd scenes. Angel could pick Oz out on the stage, another photo showed Cordelia’s friend, Harmony. But Fred had her finger tapping against a small picture.

Angel couldn’t remember the photo ever being taken, but there it was, wedged in between one of some troll-shaped man labeled “Principal Snyder” and another of a band singing to the crowd. He and Buffy, dancing, his forehead pressed against hers, their gazes locked on each other’s. If he closed his eyes, he could feel her weight against his chest, inhale her scent into his lungs. He could hear the sound of her heartbeat echoing against him.

“Who’s that you’re dancing with?” Fred asked.

Her name escaped him before he had a chance to think of anything else. “Buffy.”

Fred’s eyes got impossibly wide, her entire face expressing her surprise. “The Buffy?” She held the book a little closer, the better to see. “The one who died and came back? That Buffy? Your,” she stumbled, as if she’d realized who’s room they were in, who’s book she held in her hands, “Buffy?”

“Well, not mine.” Anymore. “But, yeah.”

“She looks nice,” Fred said dubiously, “and you look so handsome.” She smiled fondly. “I remember the place we used to go to in Texas to dance. Once, I went with Wendell Thibideaux. I think someone dared him to ask me but we had a good time. Did you dance with Cordelia?”

“I’ve never,” Angel said and shook his head. “I only danced with Buffy. One of our last good moments together was her senior prom.” He kept himself from touching even the reflection of her face. “One of the few times I was there for her.”

Fred opened her mouth then shut it again. “Well, you’re here for us,” she said lamely.

“Yeah.”

“Pretty much all the time.” She shifted her weight awkwardly. “Um, maybe I should go. The phones might be ringing.”

“Yeah.” Angel heard more than saw as she set aside the book. Cordelia, he thought, feeling a familiar ache run through him that had nothing to do with her. Even she wasn’t enough to erase it, with her brightness and tenderness and touchy ways. He rested his fingers gently on the cover of the book, finding himself opening it to the page where the memory of that dance lay. Beautiful.

She was, always, beautiful to him. Without any witnesses, Angel touched the tip of his forefinger against Buffy’s reflected cheek. “Someday,” he whispered, promised, swore, “someday. We’ll dance again.”

//I keep the dream in my pocket
Never let it fade away
Inside, outside
No loneliness in this dream
Then I remember
When the moon was full and bright
I would take you in the darkness
And do the tango in the night
Tango...//

Send feedback to S. J. Smith

Back to the Fanfiction Archive