Painted Eyes

Author: Ell
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: Ask and I'm almost guaranteed to say yes.
Improv/Prompt: "It's what I do in the middle of the day."
Pairings: Cordelia/ Angel
Spoilers: post-season 2 Angel and season 5 Buffy.
Feedback: Good and bad, it's all gratefully received.

Disclaimers: All characters and situations from the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel belong to Joss Whedon and others. They do not belong to me and I am making no profit from this fiction.
Authors notes: Dedicated to Sam, George, Tom, Craig, Zoe and Mike - who I'll finally see next week. This could be the beginning of a series so please tell me what you think.

*

The corridors of the Hyperion seemed to go on forever. They'd done their best to restore it all to past glories but, with 68 guest rooms plus staff facilities, it was a continual battle even almost a year on. There was always something they'd missed. Besides, she didn't think politely asking the nice forces of evil to stop trying to destroy the world, while Angel Investigations got on with the decorating, would work somehow. So parts of the building were still like this: damp, dull and dusty. Secretly she thought Angel was avoiding fixing up certain parts of the building so he had somewhere appropriately dingy to brood.

Three quarters of an hour after high noon, and the windowless corridor was still almost pitch black. After all she'd been through since coming to L. A., after all she'd grown, it was surprising to Cordelia that she could still be afraid of the dark. Mind you, she thought as she crept towards the scratching noise behind the door to Room 34, sometimes experience just means you know exactly what could be lurking in the shadows. Some things are worse than your imagination.

The door was ajar, electric light filtering through in a strict rectangle, and she pushed it open with a trainer clad foot. Why hadn't she brought some sort of weapon? Inwardly she cursed. Only Cordelia Chase could set out to become a star and end up in a job where you were considered stupid if you didn't bring an axe when you went to see if your colleagues wanted coffee. As she crept into the room what she saw made her gasp in shock and
wonder.

It was a painting. A vast canvas covered in fine brush strokes. It showed an enormous church or cathedral, like the old and gray European ones that her father had dragged her round on vacations when she was younger. Yet somehow this was beautiful in a way she had never recognized in those privileged years. The painter had loved his subject, and the mason had loved the stone he'd carved until it seemed almost delicate; there was respect in the art of both subject and image. In the center of the painting stood a golden cross, bathed in purple light as it poured through stained glass windows. It should have been a symbol of riches, an expensive ornament, but instead it spoke of the faith of generations. Heaven knows Cordelia wasn't religious, usually when she saw a cross she wondered where the stake was, but in front of this image she felt like she should kneel in respect.

She dragged her eyes away. She needed to find the source of that noise; dying because she was too absorbed in a painting to notice some big old stinky demon sneaking up on her would be just too dumb. She was in an enormous room, perhaps a honeymoon suite, but lacking a bed or any other furniture. Someone had repainted the walls though. She couldn't remember Angel mentioning decorating this part of the building, besides why do in here and not out in the corridor? Unless he wanted this room to go unnoticed.Could someone else have done
this, squatters maybe? Yeah right, a tramp with a fine arts degree and money for paint. Well, anything was possible, she should know that by now.

To her right was a landscape, fields at sunset. Further back, a small portrait of a little girl dressed in eighteenth century garb - the name Kathy scribbled in familiar writing at it's base, and then, to her left, yet another portrait. This time the artist was in no doubt; Buff Summers was sleeping in perfect peace. Each line gently
and lovingly portrayed. As usual she felt that shiver of jealousy rush through her, jealousy towards the girl who had called her own everything Cordelia had ever wanted. There was maybe a hint of sympathy there now as well, Buffy may have had everything but she'd lost it. Cordy couldn't imagine what Sunnydale was like without the Slayer, just as she couldn't imagine her world without Angel - for example. Not that she thought Angel was special... Well, of course she thought Angel was special but not in *that* way. She glared at the picture, for some reason Buffy's eyes held a skeptical statement. Great, she couldn't even convince a watercolor.

Angel - he must have spent hours in here crafting these images. She almost couldn't believe that he had created these beautiful things, so personal, like reflections of his soul. She'd seen him sketch, usually impressions of demons for Wesley to look up, but this was incredible and it made her chest hurt. It hurt because every single
image in this room was something that Angel must long for every night but could never have. Painting these things must have been a kind of torture, designed to make sure he never forgot the things he had loved so much. To remind him that he could never walk in the sunlight or wander into a Church and take communion in safety. The little girl could have been a sister or the child that he might have eventually had as a human. Suddenly the room was filled with pain and longing. 

There was a screech from the far side of the room, she gave a start. Oh right, the potential monsters bent on killing her best friend, mustn't forget those. Her view was obscured by the many canvases on stands which littered the suite but the noise was high pitched and insistent. Cordelia crept slowly forward, and then stopped to allow a slow smile to fall across her face. Angel stood at another mounted picture, sketching then cursing and erasing his work. The rubber screeched against the canvas, sounding much less sinister than before. She watched him in profile, unable to see what he was working on, but enjoying the chance to stare at him openly.

Eventually he felt the weight of her eyes and glanced up, concerned as always. 

"Hey Broodboy.".

"Cordelia? Is it a vision?", the vampire was watching for signs of pain on her face. She smiled brightly so he would know that everything was just fine. She tried not to look at the pictures again, if she thought about what they represented then he would see the heartache on her face. He always did. 

"Nah, it's nearly one. Kinda slow for visions - I think all the evil types are busy eating stir fried brains or something for lunch."

His relieved smile was as amazing as always.

She took a stride forward at precisely the same moment as Angel stepped around his work and toward her. He seemed almost defensive, as if he didn't want her to see what he was doing. But Cordelia wasn't exactly thinking about that right now, she was thinking about how incredibly close they were at this moment in time. She knew why she wasn't moving; her legs were rebelling and it took an extraordinary amount of willpower to stop her knees giving out and collapsing into those familiar arms. What she didn't understand was why Angel seemed to be paralyzed as well. It was almost enough to make a girl hope...

"Why did you come and find me then?" 

"S-sorry? What?", she swallowed.

"What's the problem?"

"No problem. Just caffeine. You weren't in your room, I was worried... We. We were worried.". No wonder she ever got work in romances (or anything else), when it came to playing it cool, she sucked. Actually, thinking about sucking this close to an attractive, unavailable, male body probably wasn't a good idea. 

"You were?"

"Always", so quietly that she hoped he hadn't heard her, "The paintings are beautiful.".

"Beautiful", something about his voice made her turn her face up towards his. His eyes... were another bad idea. Her brain was desperately signaling her body to look down and step away before it did something that they'd both regret. Unfortunately her body could be incredibly stubborn.

"Why... Why didn't I know about this? When do you have the time to do this?". Angel's hand was coming up towards her face; whatever he did next, it would change everything. Everything.

There was a crash. His elbow had caught the edge of the table on which all his paints had been, and they fell to the floor. Instinctively she jumped away from the falling colors. Angel seemed to jolt back into reality, bending down to pick everything up. His voice, when he finally spoke, was colder than before. 

"It's what I do in the middle of the day. I can hardly go out to lunch in the park with you guys, can I? What's the problem? I have to tell you everything now?"

"No. No, you don't. Wesley and Fred made coffee downstairs. Gunn's back from his cousin's place. Sorry to disturb you.", she didn't wait to hear his response. She just had to get out of that room as quickly as possible.

She wouldn't cry, that was the only thing she was certain of as she half-ran down the murky corridor, whatever happened, she would not let him see her cry.

*

Angel sighed gently as he rearranged his paints. The paints which Cordelia had bought him just before she collapsed and was taken into hospital last year. There had been a moment there when he'd almost thought... But no, that was all wishful thinking. Even if it wasn't, there was no chance that he could allow *that* to happen again. Bad enough that he'd thoughtlessly broken one girl's heart (lost his soul, threatened to suck the world into hell, killed one of her friends) he wouldn't touch a second. He would go down and drink coffee, apologize to his best friend and everything would be the same as it always had been.

His painting would have to wait. He could never get the eyes right anyway, the way they sparkled and laughed. They were perfect eyes, a seer's eyes. He knew that he could never do them justice.

FIN.

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