Title: Scattered Thoughts: The Wells of Silence
Author: JR
Email: JRR42@yahoo.com
Rating: PG/PG-13
Episode spoilers: Angel: ‘Heroes’
Status: Complete
Series/Sequel: Scattered Thoughts series Follows ‘Promise You Forever’
Previous parts: www.angelfire.com/de/theparlor/buffy.html.
Disclaimer: Angel, Willow, et al, are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.
Thanks:
Be advised: ‘Heroes’ is the last Angel episode that I was able to see (living overseas sucks sometimes). There may be some differences in characters & their behavior in subsequent episodes, so please file any errors under ‘creative license’.

We stayed that way for almost hour. In all that time my only movements were to soothe Cordelia when she grew restless from her troubled dreams. In fact, it was a powerful body spasm from one such nightmare that sent her tumbling back to a wakeful state.

“It was just a dream, Cordy. You’re okay,” I reassured softly when I read the confusion on her face. Even in the darkness of the room, I could see the moment when her memories returned with a vengeance.

“No,” Cordelia whispered. In less than a heartbeat her face crumpled in misery. Moisture gathered, then quickly overflowed as an unending waterfall of tears began to flow from her haunted eyes. “It’s never going to be all right.”

Maybe I should have done something -- offered her platitudes and adages that ‘time would heal all wounds’ and that ‘things would be better in the morning’. But I, of all people, knew better. I knew that however well intentioned, those sentiments were just words. They would do nothing to comfort her in the face of such a grave loss.

I knew it because I felt the exact same way.

I said nothing as I pulled Cordelia even closer against me, holding on to her as tightly as I could without hurting her. Minutes ticked away unnoticed as we clung to each other, giving and taking the only comfort that made any kind of difference.

Finally, I felt Cordy’s arms let go as she broke away. The impending loss of her warm presence washed over me with all the iciness of a wave of fear. Nevertheless, I understood.

Cordelia brought both of her hands to her face, using her fingers to rub at the tear-tracks that stained her cheeks. She was a sight in her rumpled clothing. I harbored little doubt that she would shriek the minute she saw her unmade-up face and tousled hair in the mirror. Sighing, she pivoted away from me, sliding her feet down to the floor as she returned to a normal seated position.

“Angel?” she asked softly.

“Yeah?”

“I want....I’m gonna...go home,” Cordelia said as she stood up from the couch. Sleep and emotional upheaval left her almost swaying on her feet.

“You know you can stay here,” I offered as a sudden sense of abandonment began to rise up within me. I was utterly surprised to realize that I I didn’t want her to go. She was the only person who comprehended what I was going through, and I didn’t want to lose that.

“I...I just...” she looked down at her feet. Taking a deep breath, she managed to bring her eyes back up to meet mine. “I just need to be alone for a little while.”

Although I recognized her desire to grieve for Doyle in private, it did nothing to help to ease my own need to keep her with me. Shunting aside my own emotions, I found myself rising up as well.

“All right,” I answered with more calm than I was actually feeling. “But let me drive you.”

“You don’t...,” Cordy instantly began to protest.

“Look, Cordelia, you’re in no condition to drive,” I insisted. “Let me do this.” ‘Because I couldn’t save him for you,’ I added mentally.

Rather than arguing, Cordy’s brown eyes bore deeply into my own. She must have found whatever it was that she was searching for, because a moment later she simply nodded her agreement. Grateful for her easy acceptance, I moved in the direction of the elevator.

“Just let me go get my keys,” I told her as I reached the grate of the lift.

“I’m gonna go wash my face,” she illustrated with one last rub of her fingers over her cheeks. I almost smiled as I caught her grimacing over the salt-covered condition of her skin.

After the abominably slow ride in the elevator, it took only seconds for me to locate my keys and jacket. Something occurred to me as I picked up the items. I hurried across the room, knowing that I didn’t have much time before Cordelia came downstairs to look for me.

My finger raced through the familiar number as soon as I had the phone in hand. Three rings later, a voice I knew all too well began speaking when the answering machine at the other end of the phone line clicked on.

“Hi. This is Cordelia Chase...”

“Dennis, it’s Angel,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. I wasn’t sure if Cordelia would be angry at me for contacting her ghostly roommate without telling her first. Cordy could get downright moody about the strangest things at the best of times. I shuddered to even think about what the next few weeks were going to be like around the office. ‘You sure knew how to pick ‘em, Doyle,’ I thought ruefully to myself.

The telltale ‘beep’ let me know that Dennis had not only picked up the phone, but also disengaged the answering machine. The only sound from the other end of the line was the quiet background hissing, but then again, that was to be expected. While Dennis’ corporeal dexterity had greatly improved in the weeks that had passed since Cordy freed him, he had yet to learn how to speak aloud.

“Dennis, I just thought I should tell you that...,” Damn. The thought of saying *it* aloud for the first time made my throat tighten in misery. Still, I had to do this. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to continue. “Doyle...Doyle...died tonight.”

Suddenly, the lack of noise coming from the other end of line bothered me more than it ever had before. I would have given anything for Dennis to have been able to speak at that moment -- to whisper...to yell...to offer condolences -- *anything* but the unnatural silence. Nevertheless, I pressed onward.

“Cordelia’s taking it pretty hard, understandably I guess. Anyway, I’m going to bringing her home in a few minutes. She says that she wants some time alone, but I thought you should know.”

There was a long pause before I heard the electronic tone of number key being pressed on the phone at the other end. It was a signal that we had worked out with the ghost a while back, mostly so he could let either Doyle or myself know if Cordelia happened to run into trouble at her apartment. One tone meant ‘yes’; two meant ‘no’; three meant ‘okay’; and the combination of ‘9-1-1’ meant help or danger.

The first tone was followed a second later by a second, then a third a moment after that. The long pauses between the semi-musical notes were unusual. I guessed that maybe it was Dennis’ way of showing his sorrow over the news.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice choking over the word. Clearing my throat, I continued. “We’re leaving now, so we’ll see you in a few minutes. Oh, and you might want to erase the message before we get there.”

The speed with which Dennis sent the single beep almost made me smile. As Cordelia’s roommate, he probably knew better than I did just how mercurial her temper could be. Muttering a fast goodbye, I hung up the phone and hurried upstairs.

I didn’t want to keep the Queen waiting.

The ride to Cordelia’s ended up being a quiet one. For the first time, she didn’t even complain about her hair being messed up by riding in the open convertible. Thinking back on Cordy’s previous rides in my car automatically made me think of all the times Doyle had been with us, which in turn only served to sink me into a deep state of melancholy. I would have given anything to look over and see him sitting in the passenger seat, expounding on his latest ‘sure thing’ at the track or some other typical Doyle conversational topic.

But never again would he grace my car with his presence. Never again.

Cordelia’s place was only a ten minute drive from the office, and yet the trip there seemed to go on for an eternity. I guess Cordy must have felt the same way because the minute I put the car into ‘park’, she was out of the door like a shot. Even with my longer legs, I found myself struggling to keep up with her ground-eating pace as I walked her to her apartment.

Recently, Dennis had taken to opening the door for Cordelia before she could even begin to dig her keys out of her purse. Sticking with his new habit, the door to Cordy’s place was already ajar by the time we reached the end of the outer hallway. If Cordelia noticed Dennis’ courtesy, she said nothing to indicate it.

We had barely crossed the threshold of her doorway when I felt a rush of cold air rapidly brush by me. Within seconds Cordy’s elbows were pressed up against her sides as her feet left the floor. It took a minute for me to realize that Dennis had scooped her up into a ghostly, invisible embrace.

“Oh Dennis,” she whispered as she began to cry again. The anguish in her quiet voice was enough to bring my own sorrow back in full force. I felt an ache in my chest -- like a giant hand had wrapped itself around my useless heart and began to squeeze.

If anything, the pain became worse when Cordelia started to move away in the direction of her bedroom, never once looking back in my direction. In all fairness, though, she would have had to have been a contortionist to do so. From the awkwardness of her gait, I could tell that she was leaning heavily against Dennis. Although he hadn’t yet mastered the art of visibly manifesting himself, the ghost was already getting the hang of making himself substantial for short periods of time.

My thoughts of the retreating pair were rudely interrupted. Out of nowhere, a wave of intense claustrophobia crept over me. For some bizarre reason the walls of Cordelia’s apartment felt like they were closing in, trapping me further and further with each passing second. I sucked in an unnecessary breath, but it was useless. Stupid. That calming trick had never worked for me back when I was actually human. What idiotic streak made me think that it would work after two-and-a-half centuries as a vampire?

Instinctively, I knew what I needed. I had to get out of there.

“Call me if you need anything,” I mumbled hastily as I turned towards the door.

I’d almost made my escape when a shaky but determined voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Angel!”

I stood frozen in place, my hand on the doorknob as I waited for her to continue.

“Call me...if you...need anything,” she said with more gentleness and compassion than I dreamed Cordelia capable. “Anything at all, okay?”

Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded my head twice before running out like the devil himself was after me.

For some inexplicable reason, the drive home seemed much shorter than the one over there. Maybe it was the uncomfortable silence Cordy and I had shared. Or perhaps it was the fact that I no longer felt the need to be strong for Cordy’s sake. Regardless, the I made the trip without any sort of emotional breakdown. In fact, I felt calmer then than I had since the whole mess with the Scourge first began.

Why then, I wondered, did I still feel that same damned sense of panic that began back at Cordy’s place?

The first thing I did when I got back to the office was to find the bottle of Scotch that we kept on hand for Doyle after one of his visions. The ache in my chest was still there and since it showed no signs of dissipating in the immediate future, I figured I could at least numb it somewhat by drinking. With that in mind, I settled down at my desk. I was about to drink myself into a stupor for the first time since I’d regained my soul.

That was almost a fifth ago. I’ve been alone in the darkness for over an hour now, reliving and remembering.

And that damned pain still hasn’t gone away.

I’m in the process of pouring myself yet another shot -- the last of what began as an almost full-bottle when the anxiety starts.

Four-thirty in the morning, the hour or so before the dawn will come to end this wretched, eternal night. The streets are eeriely silent, much too quiet for a city that never sleeps. And the darkness...

...the darkness...

For someone who has lived in it for centuries, the darkness begins to feel oppressive. What once offered me protection has suddenly turned on me. Instead of comfort, the blackness is now smothering me.

Suddenly restless, I shoot out of my chair. I need another drink and the nearest bottle is downstairs in my apartment. I retrieve it hastily, returning upstairs as quickly as possible. Without windows to let in even the meager light from the distant streetlamps, the darkness downstairs is even worse than it is in the office.

After coming back upstairs, I deposit the bottle on the sofa and forget about it. The liquor is starting to take hold, but not in the way that I expected. Instead of that soft, mind-numbing blur that I remember from my youth, my vision, my hearing, hell, all my senses feel like they are intensifying. Everything seems to become sharper, more painful.

Including my emotions.

I spend the next fifteen minutes or so pacing around the office. Although I seem to lack a particular destination, my movements are perturbed, precise, like a tiger stalking back and forth in its cage. I am prowling through the darkness like a wild animal. What a good analogy. And yet, no matter how much I stalk, I can’t seem to rein in my chaotic thoughts.

Everywhere I turn, I’m assaulted by memories of Doyle. The chair that he favoured, a pencil he’d been chewing on -- God, was it only this morning? -- his abandoned, half-filled cup of coffee. Images creep in and out of my head, bits of conversation -- both useful and meaningless -- come to mind. All uttered with the lilting accent of my native land.

A voice that I will never hear in person again.

My fault. It was all my fault. I should have seen it coming. I should have done more to protect him. I’m the warrior, right? Doyle was just the messenger. They aren’t supposed to kill the messenger.

Goddamned Scourge!

Goddamn them to everlastin’ hell!

Damn it, Doyle. How could you do it? Of all the bloody times to play the hero. I should have known.

I should have known.

As it happens, I’m right in front of the ‘coffee area’ when my anger hits. One vicious swipe of my hand sends everything flying. The sound of the mugs and the glass coffee pot shattering are like fuel on the fire burning within my soul. I can feel the ridges forming on my forehead as my rage continues. No object in my immediate vicinity is safe from my wrath.

Utensils, chairs, even the damned little refrigerator itself, are sent flying. And when I’m done there, I continue on through the office. Like a tornado, I tear through the modest space leaving a trail of destruction in my wake. With a berserker’s strength, I flip my desk as if it were made of cardboard instead of two hundred pounds of hardwood. The stand with the television and VCR falls to the floor.

It’s only when the TV smashes to the floor that a memory bubbles up through the murky haze of my rage -- a vision of Cordy and me watching Doyle on the screen only a few hours earlier. It’s then that I think of the tape.

Oh shit! I sink to the floor. I hear the sound of glass crunching under me as I fall, and I know that my knees are probably cut to shreds, but I don’t feel it. At this moment, I can’t feel anything but the pain in my heart at the thought that I may have ruined the one recording I have of my friend.

Amazingly enough, the VCR is still caught in the stand. It’s even plugged in, albeit rather precariously. In fact, the cord is stretched taut, holding the recording unit a few inches off the ground in the twisted mess I made.

Rising up, I use one hand to right the stand into it’s proper position. My other hand is clenching the VCR in a death grip to prevent any possible further damage to it. When I finally get the stand back upright, I reach out and with a shaking finger press the ‘eject’ button.

I want to cry out in relief when the tape is smoothly released from the unit.

Realizing what I had almost done, my anger recedes just as quickly as it manifested. My strength suddenly abandons me, leaving me to stagger over to the couch. Once I’m there, I sag into the glass-covered sofa with the tape in my hands. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that Cordy would dust me if anything happened to it.

And I probably would have let her.

But she’s not here. No, she’s safely ensconced with Dennis the Phantom Menace back at her place.

The more I think about Cordelia, the more that same, now-familiar ache increases. Although the alcohol is blurring my thoughts, I’m still cognizant enough to realize that there is something odd about that.

Earlier, I assumed that the hurt stemmed from the loss of Doyle. But when I think of Doyle, I seem to either get really pissed off or really melancholy. Yet, whenever Cordelia crosses my mind, the ache grows worse.

I don’t understand it.

Images flit through my mind, surfacing and then quickly disappearing back into the fog that is starting to cover my brain. Only one seems to reappear more than the others -- that of Cordelia being led away by Dennis.

At least she has somebody.

The thought reverberates in my brain like the claxon wailing. Could that be it? Am I resentful of Cordelia because she has somebody, a friend, to comfort her?

Out of nowhere, I feel something roll up against my thigh. In the middle of my half-drunk, over-emotional revelation, the unexpected touch is enough to make me jump out of skin. Stumbling out of the couch, I bare my fangs, totally prepared to defend myself...

...against a half-filled bottle of whisky.

Ashamed at my foolish reaction, I swipe the thing off the sofa and twist off the cap. I bring the bottle to my lips and drink furiously, as if to punish it for scaring me half to death. It empties too quickly to assuage my need for revenge, so I throw the bottle against the wall with all the strength I can muster. The sound of breaking glass echoes throughout the office, disturbing the silence that had once again descended.

The silence.

That’s it, I think slowly to myself. That’s what? Somehow I know that the quiet is the key to the puzzle I’m contemplating, but I’m having trouble thinking clearly. The alcohol has definitely taken hold, dulling my mental capacities and my reaction times. But it is not enough to keep me from knowing the truth.

I’m alone. Utterly and completely alone.

And I know that I don’t want to go through this alone.

Lumbering up off the couch, I stumble over in the direction of my overturned desk. Encumbered by my drunken condition, it takes me a few minutes to track down the phone. Once I find it though, my fingers automatically dial a familiar number.

“Leave a message...” the lilting voice on the answering machine asks.

I’m about to speak when it hits me that any message that I leave will never be heard. Acting solely on instinct, the first person I thought of calling was Doyle. I manage to drop the handset back into the receiver with surprising swiftness, horrified at what I had just done without thinking.

My shame lasts for only a few seconds, though, before my loneliness rears its ugly head again. I need to talk to someone. Names float around in my mind, but I’m quick to dismiss them. Cordelia? No, she needs some time and I’m still a little put out by her request, even if I sort of understand it. Buffy? No, we haven’t been on the best of terms since her trip to L.A. a few weeks ago. Whistler? I’m not sure where he is at the moment. Giles? Not the best sort for sympathy.

Oh God.

I’m such a fool.

How could I have missed her, I wonder as I struggle to recall her new number. With my vision impaired by the alcohol, I’m forced to lift the phone off the floor in an attempt to catch some the dim light coming in from the window. My lack of co-ordination makes me misdial twice, but finally I punch in the correct series of numbers with the kind of exaggerated moves that only drunks and junkies can perform.

The flat ringing in my ear is a welcome sound. Anything that disturbs the silence of the darkness around me...

...anything but the sleep-encrusted voice that answers on the other end of the line.

“Heelllooo,” it drawls.

Shocked into silence by the unexpected voice, I freeze in place as if any movement on my part could somehow make my identity known. Even as out of it as I am, I know that I don’t want to talk to her, to answer the million and one questions she would have as to why I was calling.

“Hello?” she asks again, her voice only slightly more aware this time. “Look, since you’ve already disturbed my beauty sleep, you might as well say something.”

She’s pissed off, that much is obvious, but I still say nothing. All I know is that it’s not her that I want to talk to, to be comforted by, just to hear the soothing sound of her voice.

“Who is it, Buffy?” I hear Willow’s sleepy voice asking in the background.

And oddly, those four little words are enough.

I’m in no rush as I return the phone to its cradle, nor when I stagger my way over to the service elevator to my apartment. I do need to hurry though, as the sun is beginning to rise. At least it will take away the darkness for a while, anyway.

Just as the simple sound of Willow’s voice was enough to banish the deafening silence of my unbeating heart.

For a while, anyway.


“’Fools,’ said I, ‘you do not know.
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you.
Take my arms that I might reach you.’
But my words, like silent rain-drops fell,
And echoed in the wells of silence.”