PART 1

Secret Souls

Author: Elektra

Disclaimer: You know Joss and company own everything and as far as I am concerned can keep everything, because it is far too big a responsibility to be pestered by these characters all damned day (just ask, I know).

Archivists: Tell me if you want it.

Part 1

She thought of the life she left behind as a picture, a painting in a gallery. Something she'd viewed once, admired yet had long forgotten the details, the nuances of the brush strokes. A painting, she'd given a passing glance to and then walked away no more moved by it than she was by the next on the wall.

On the wall.

She tread beyond the confines of the wall, beyond the scaffolding that held up her former life to this new place. The foundation upon which she walked seemed cracked and jagged, a killing field. Yet there was solace within the heart of the boulders, the veins of red blood life pulsating. The life she'd left behind and beyond was fixed, a painting. The life she entered vibrated and coursed. It could not be captured with a simple stroke of an oil brush, it beat and lived.

Her heart struggled in her chest as she pulled him toward her, leaning his back against her breasts. She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him to ease the quaking that tormented his body. With some hidden reserve of strength, she managed to drag Angel's lifeless body from the mezzanine of the Hyperion lobby to his room. Mustering the last of it, she hauled him onto the bed and covered him with sheets and blankets. His body began to quiver and she crawled next to him, curled her body next to his cold form and lent her heat to him.

In the stillness, she considered this life. The perspective had changed, moved as if in the painting she had only looked out when she was in highschool but now she looked at it. Her world had grown, transformed because of the man in her arms.

The man.

She pursed her lips, kissed him lightly and put her chin on his shoulder. How long had it been since she started thinking of him as a man instead of the vampire he was. Experience would do that. She knew people that were worst demons than the ones she considered her friends. She frowned, not knowing if lawyers could technically be defined as people. A rustle alerted her that consciousness moved through him.

"Angel?" she whispered.

No answer.

"Angel?" She trailed a hand down the ridges of his ribs, so painfully angled against the sickly translucent skin. How long had it been since he fed? "Angel."

A low groan issued from him and he balled his body away from hers. Shielding his head with his hand, he stiffened his muscles as if he awaited a blow.

"No, Angel." She sat up, her legs curled underneath her. "Angel, you're going to be okay now. Everything is fine."

He growled like a dog warning off a threat.

She stroked his arm again, brushed his forehead with the slightest of touches. "You're safe."

"Safe," the voice that answered hers sounded hollow, hoarse.

"Yes, you're here with me."

He laughed, a deep hard tone. "With you." Tugging away from her, he sat up on the edge of the bed and looked over his shoulder at her. With a sneer he said, "I know you. I know what you are. You aren't her."

"No, Angel." She slid to sit next to him but he adjusted himself so that he wouldn't touch her. "I'm really here. Cordelia, me." She put a hand on her chest. "Your Cordy."

"Cordy," he murmured and stared not at her, but at her wrist. The makeshift bandage she covered the bite wound was stained red with blood. Tentatively, he reached out, tested her skin as if she might be hot to touch. Then he picked up her hand and brought it his lips. He did not bite but turned her hand, palm open and inhaled her scent. His eyelashes fluttered as he took in her fragrance. "It was never so real. So perfect."

"It is real, Angel."

He raised his eyes to her and said, "You're real. This is real? This is all real?" He scanned the bedroom.

She smiled. "Yes, everything."

He leaned again to her wrist and lingered over the scent.

"You, you," she stammered. "Must be starving." She jumped up. "We don't have any blood. It has been weeks and weeks, you know."

"Weeks?" He looked at her confused and went to stand.

"Whoa!" She waved him back to the bed.

"I'm naked."

"Like, yeah." She shoved a blanket over him. "Apparently in Hell they don't believe in Versace. Or accessories for that matter." She paused and added, "Well that would make it Hell."

He yanked the blanket away and ruffled a hand through his hair. "I need clothes."

She grimaced and, turning around, went to the closet. "Well, we'll have to fix that since you don't seem to want to be Blanket boy." She pulled out a pair of black trousers and a black shirt. Black on black. Angel was back and she smiled.

"Whoa again! A happy." She gulped, dropped the clothes, spun around and covered her eyes. "Angel, I understand you're happy and all to be out of Hell. But maybe you should, you know, feel a little less excited about it." She peered over her shoulder, but he wasn't on the bed anymore.

His cool hands on her shoulder startled her and she gasped.

"What?" His fingers grazed the inner line of her neck, laced into her hair. "Happy, oh, I'm happy." He snickered. "You have anything in leather little girl."

She jerked away from him, turned around and said, "You're not Angel." She swallowed as she gauged the distance to the door, his position as it was juxtaposed to hers. She'd never make it. "You're Angelus."

A half smile marked his features as he tilted his head and asked, "What makes you say that?" She chanced to see the tip of his tongue flicker out and taste his lips. "Whatever would make you say that, Princess?"

Part 2:

He watched the doors close as a finality settled about him in the hushed quiet. Dragging his finger around the ridge of the glass, Wesley sank back into the chair and stared. Gazed not into the empty space, but within to the filled and cluttered spaces. The corners -- packed with remnants, with tattered forgotten articles, with the discard of his life -- suffocated him as he leaned into the cushion of the chair. Lorne had long ago left him to his peace, had long ago scooted the last of the patrons from Caritas, had long ago abandoned him to deal with the closet.

"Closets," he mumbled, emphasizing the plural. Too many closets. He'd hidden in one as a child, hid deep within its recesses in hopes his father would not find him. He recalled that last night his father marched down the stairs to the little room under the basement stairs. Swinging the door open, his father's form was black against the yellow light. He waited for the breaking blow, the punishment that was their ritual. Yet that last time, it never came. His father only stood there, sullen and quiet. His height overwhelmed every beam in the ceiling.

As he hulked over Wesley, he shook his head and said, "Your consistency in failure is the only thing you excel at." His father stepped out then and closed the door.

Curling his fingers into a fist, he covered his mouth, covered his eyes. Why had it been that as a child he so desperately wanted his father to come back, to hit him, to punish him. To be left, to be abandon had ripped away at his beliefs, in his faith that his father on some level still cared.

And the doors continued to close.

He heard Lorne's voice in the empty bar and glanced up. Standing with Lorne, Gunn and Fred considered him. The Host had called them, Wesley was sure of it. Called because he was worried. Perhaps his aura blistered with seeping wounds. He shrugged, he didn't care.

"Yo English, ain't this a little late for you to be out partying?"

He glanced up to Gunn, gave him a small smile to ease his fears and said, "I have yet begun to party, to celebrate my supreme failure."

"He's been Mister Party-pants all night, scared away half my customers," Lorne commented. "And that's hard considering the customers that frequent this place."

Fred squeezed into the booth and bent down to look into his face. "What's a matter?

He glared at Fred, but her wide eyed expression stopped him from retaliating and instead he turned to Gunn. "Come let me buy you a drink, perhaps we might discuss my next venture. For starters I was thinking about going into nuclear physics. I could set my sights higher than ever before and conceivably end up blowing up the world."

Gunn fell into a seat and shook his head. His whole large form seemed to deflate as he rested in the chair. "I ain't going to tell you this but one more time, English. Nothing was your fault. Nothing."

"I killed him Gunn," Wesley said and lifted the glass to his lips. Even the sting of bourbon failed to remove the taste of guilt. He regarded the glass and shoved it away. "I'd say ridding the world of a champion that was to avert the apocalypse might be categorized as my biggest accomplishment yet." He grabbed the glass again and said, "To coin a Sunnydale phase, Yay me!"

"I thought that was mine," Lorne said under his breath.

Gunn only glimpsed the Host out of the corners of his eyes and then turned back to Wesley, "Failure ain't been an option with you, not as long as I've known you. Belly wound and all you kept fighting the good fight, kept up the battle."

He bowed his head, thought of Buffy, of Faith, of Angel. The sacred trinity he'd failed. "Maybe I only fought to cover it all up."

"Cover it up?" Fred edged closed to him, reached out a hand and stopped his from circling the rim of the glass. She held onto him.

"All the failure. I failed Faith, and Buffy." He glanced up at the stage and a smile flickered over his features as he remember the rendition of Mandy sung by a vampire with a soul. "But I failed him most of all. He looked to me." He shifted his attention to Gunn. "In Pylea, he sought out my assurance the Beast was not his definition." Wesley stopped as the pain streaked through his head, the searing need to cry. Steadying himself, he whispered, "I've never had anyone look up to me the way he did. And I failed him."

"Failure's a pretty subjective thing." Lorne slid a chair to their table and, pointing a long green finger at Wesley, said, "Let's think about it. From your tortured life story that I had the pleasure to sit through tonight, hmmm, how many times, but let's forget about my pain and go on to yours." He paused then continued, "Where was I? Oh yes tortured Wesley."

"I don't appreciate your wit or humor at my expense," he cut in.

Leaning in, Lorne snapped, "At your expense? How about you stop being Queen of the Easter Parade of Woe, huh? How about you pick your skinny British arse and start living up to all that our Angelcakes thought of you? How about appreciating that? Or are you going to dump all your tea into the harbor?"

Silence spread through them and Wesley studied each of their faces as they awaited his response. "You're right, of course." He gave a tinny laugh.

"Don't bit yourself in the butt, double O." Lorne hit his shoulder. "Leadership is a lonely proposition, ask me about it sometime."

He glanced up at the red eyes and read a kindness there. "Thank you." Turning to Gunn and Fred, he added, "Thank all of you."

"‘Course you can get to the gratitude stage later and get on with the good fight now." Lorne sipped his drink.

"Yes, yes of course." Wesley pushed up his glasses, folded his hands on the table and sighed. "We should, of course, keep up the fight."

"Oh Double O, the fights already started and, let me tell you, Cordelia is one helluva Bond girl."

"What, Mojo?" Gunn asked, frowning. "You saying Cordy's in trouble."

"I'm saying, the reports of Angel's death have been greatly exaggerated and our sweet Pylea Princess is realizing that even as we speak."

Part 3:

Her mind pulled, dragged her and she fought to steady the room, the world. Her legs wobbled and she would have fallen, collapsed onto the floor had it not been for his arms around her. The spinning walls, the whirl of the ceiling spiraled around her and she squeezed her eyes closed only to feel the dizziness in the back of her throat. Its buzz drowned out all else. Everything but him.

He held her, her back to his chest. He pressed himself against her and she stifled the need to cry out from the feel of him. Against her. She shuddered and it amused him. Laying his cheek against the crown of her head, he inhaled and she experienced his shiver of desire as it cascaded through his body. He slammed his body into hers, pressing, pushing. Only the thin silk of her clothes provided a barrier against his invasion.

Moving his cheek in slow circles, he began to rock with her in his arms and whispered, "Dancing, we'll dance, you and I." The coolness of his tongue brushed her ear. "Would you like to dance, my cherished one?" His hand slided up around her waist, traveled to the swell of her breasts. "We could dance, would you like to?" He began to hum a low melody as he led her about the room.

His touch moved passed her breast and stopped at the throb of her heart. He paused in his waltz and tugged her. Shoving his head against hers, he growled, "I can feel your fear. I can smell it." His lips glided over her cheek and he stepped around her to face her. One hand gripped her upper arm as his other traced the lines of her features. "I can smell you." Flaring his nostrils, he bent toward her and dragged his lips over her mouth. "You want to dance, Cor, don't you? Say it." His words were only whispers. "Say it."

As he moved to kiss her, Cordelia struck out, biting his lip and ripping his flesh. He seized her hair and jerked her head back exposing the length of her neck. "That's what I always liked about you, Cor. You have spunk. Not like the others." He yanked her head toward him and he leaned to her ear, whispering, "Deep down inside, you feel it, don't you?"

"W-What?"

"Oh no, don't go all soft on me now," he hissed. "I expect so much more from Queen C." He rubbed his lips down her throat, halting at the pulse of her artery. He opened his mouth and, with slow, long strokes, licked her. His naked body crushed against her as his need hardened.

Concentration failed her and the room spun off its axis. She imagined the world rotating, then breaking and everyone floating off. She was flying, free of the bonds of gravity. Revolving without strings, without anchor. There would be no one to catch her as she drifted.

Yet the touch of his fanged teeth on her throat, the subtle grinding of his hips, disintegrated her haven. Her eyes opened and there it was. The answer. Her escape. Slipping her hand up around his back, Cordelia swallowed and embraced Angelus to her. As he responded by digging his teeth into her skin, she reached out and yanked the wooden cross impaled in the wall. Its end had been sharpened to a point. She had no idea how or when it got there. With a swift plunging stroke she speared him in the back with it.

His whole body heaved, quaked and then staggered. Stumbling away from her, Angelus opened his mouth as if to speak, gulped for the words and instead found only voice to scream. He crumpled to the floor, attempted to rise but pitched forward and toppled again. It began to burn his flesh, to sizzle and flay the skin. Reaching around, he grabbed for it and screeched for his efforts as his movements caused it to sink deeper. Tears streamed over his face and he glanced up at her.

"I knew you weren't her," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "I knew you weren't."

"Good Lord, Cordelia, what have you done?" Wesley rushed into the room followed by Gunn, Fred and Lorne.

Shaking her head, she jittered and, with quick pants, said, "He came. He came. Back."

"Yeah, hon, we get that part." Lorne waved her to continue as he avoided looking at the convulsing figure on the floor.

"He isn't. He isn't Angel," she finally managed to say.

Lorne snickered, "Well you got that part wrong, sweetcakes. He's one hundred percent with soul." He regarded the balled up form of the vampire as Wesley bent down to extract the cross. "Let's just say, Angelus with a twist."

Part 4:

Crawl deeper, farther into the tunnel.

He scratched and clawed at the earth, burying himself away from It. Slithering, sliding, the Hellbeast snaked into his soul. It found its pleasure there, infecting him, infesting the very core of his resistance. His defenses failed him, shattered around him like so many of his victims at that last moment before death claimed them.

They struggled against him, grappling to escape from his grasp. Their arms, their legs felt like porcelain, so easily crushed, so quickly broken. When he was feeding he recalled, death came fast. He slammed their bodies against his own, gripped their hair, wrenched back their heads and ripped into the pulsating artery. Muscles went taunt, tension flexing as if they needed to believe they could still fight. In a narrow moment, time stopped, the fight ended and muscles, tendons released. He called it ‘the shattering'. It defined the fractured second in time when they relinquished all hope and their resolve to live.

The slower deaths were sweeter. The Shattering came in steps, in crippled little jerks of time. Begging, pleading, they would bargain and cajole him. As the pain grew and his talent for torment matured into a sophisticated art form, he savored how they would belittle themselves. How they would grovel. It was the physical craft of craving into them that blessed him with the visceral thrills yet the toying, the torture was never complete unless he heard them gasp. Gasp not out of fear but because they could no longer harness the energy to scream. It was then they succumbed to their fate. He would feed as euphoric arousal overcame him and their blood tasted of succulent fear and submission.

The Hellbeast sought this delirium, this rapture from him.

Noises screeched out, scraped his eardrums and he stumbled into the dark cloak of the Hell. But no hiding place existed, no safe haven within the bowels of Hell. The abyss held no secret garden of hope, no secret soul to conceal his own.

The Hellbeast invaded him, came to him, corrupted his very memory. In many ways, he believe it was all that he deserved, this eternity of suffering. And so he resigned himself to his fate. He acquiesced to the Hellbeast, opened his arms to it in loving embrace. Surrendering, he gave over the last embers of his soul, the light within, gave over the images he valued. It ravaged his memory, fed on the solace he'd found within the circle of his family, within the warmth of her gaze. It took everything and left him nothing. Nothing of what he was.

Nothing.

Part 5:

She cursed as the quaking of her hands prevented her from locking the manacle. With silent patience, Fred joined her and took the clasp from her hand and bolted it. Cordelia glanced at her and only mouthed a thank you as they edged away from the bed. She wanted to deny the tears that stung her eyes, the constriction of her throat as sobs threatened to overtake her. She studied the figure tied to the bed, the gaping wound on his back blistered and oozed. Shuttering her eyes, she smothered the need to tend him, to wash his injury. The injury that she had given him.

Nodding to her, Fred clasped her hand and led her away from the bed. She trailed behind, peering over her shoulder as Gunn and Wesley finished chaining Angel to the bed. They joined Cordelia and Fred in the sitting room of Angel's suite. Lorne searched the shelves of the sideboard and commented, "No gin, how could he live without gin. That must explain the whole undead thing."

Wesley folded his arms and, frowning, regarded the demon. "Now that we've managed to sedate Angel, would you like to make us privy to your information?"

Retrieving a bottle of port, Lorne shrugged his shoulders, considered the vintage and said, "Not much of a wine connoisseur either I'm afraid. But it'll have to do." He waved to them and, lifting the bottle, asked, "Join me?"

In three strides, Wesley crossed the room, grabbed the bottle, flung it against the wall and demanded, "One more inane comment concerning alcohol, my pitiful past or how hot Cordelia is, I will get my Hilknor battle axe, chop your head off and find joy in mutilating your body."

"How hot I am?"

Stepping back from the ex-Watcher, Lorne replied, "Stressed much."

"Truly, I have every intention of following through."

Gunn stood by Wesley's side, folded his arms and nodded. His glare never left the Host's face.

He raised his hands in surrender and, shaking his head, said, "Quiet my little poodles. You're in for a long night, well more than one unless you can figure out how to fix this mess."And the mess to which Lorne settled in a chair and didn't continue until they gathered around him. "Don't want to have to repeat myself, trying to cut down on the senseless chatter." He paused, sighed at their lack of response and went on, "It's this way, he sOne hundred percent souled. That's all. Somehow or another you got Angelus back but the soul is still hanging on." A smile crept over his lips. "All we can hope for is leather now."

Ignoring his editorial, Wesley rubbed his chin as he said, "Angelus with soul should be Angel. It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe Hell kinda twisted his head some, made the marbles lose." Gunn offered

.

"No, no," Cordelia murmured and dropped her gaze to the floor. "It's more than that." She touched her neck. "He's Angelus. I remember, I remember." As she spoke the last words she could barely breathe.

"Hmm." Lorne stood and went to examine the slumbering vampire. He reached out and tentatively turned the vampire's face. "You said the Hellbeast transformed Angel, right?"

"Yes, from my studies since it happened. I believe the Hellbeast used Angel as some kind of link to our dimension. Since Angel had been imprisoned there for quite some time, it is possible a tether could have been forged. Why this occurred now I haven't the foggiest."

"Well Double O, I don't think that's the mission right now. World in danger stuff is still brewing."

"What do you mean?" Wesley was on his feet. She followed him to the bedside. The ugly gash still scarred Angelus' face. "Do you mean it is possible?"

"El Serpent guy is still out there? How's that?" Gunn asked. "Wes killed him."

"It's easy really if you look at it through the paradox theory." Fred smiled. When they frowned at her, she rolled her eyes and curled back onto the couch.

Lorne grimaced and said, "I'd bet a horn that you have to severe the link."

"The link?"

"I'm doing all the work here I am not the one being paid. Double O use that vegetable you have been fermenting. Cut the link to Hell and you avert the Hellbeast returning."

"But that still doesn't solve our problem of Angelus," Wesley said.

Lorne glanced at the closet and then back to Wesley. "I think you know where Angel is. Metaphorically that is."

She saw Wesley go perfectly still, not breathe, not blink. He only stared with singular purpose at the open door to the closet. The clothes she dropped lay scattered about the rug, but Wesley did not remark on them, did not focus on the closet at all. He swallowed, bowed his head, then said, "Yes, I believe I do know where Angel is."

She let them leave the room then, let them enter her life just to want them to go. They went to plan a way to save Angel and to avert freeing the Hellbeast. She lingered. The room became cold without them there, become hollow and lifeless. He lay on the bed, not a breath escaped his lips. The hole in his back had started to heal, though slowly due to his emaciated state. They hadn't fed him, hadn't clothed him. They chained him face down on the bed.

It was safer this way, Wesley had said. Safer.

When had she felt safe?

The moment Angel grabbed her, cradled her in his arms as bullets smashed into his chest, and jumped over Russell Winters' balcony, she had felt safe. The dank apartment, the cavity that was LA had suddenly and inexplicitly warmed and brightened. She'd felt safe, secure within the umbrella of his cHad he felt that in return? Had he discovered any solace in her company. She moved closer to the bed, tested it and then sat on the edge. He didn't move. She brushed his cheek. He had been more than a savior to her, he had been her friend when she had none. Her shoulders slumped as she folded her hands in her lap.

"Cordelia." The whisper startled her. "Cordelia."

She glanced at him, his eyes opened and he parted his lips. She couldn't help but believe it was him. "Angel."

"I thought, I wished," his voice faltered and he squeezed his eyes closed as if to shun some hidden pain.

"Angel," she whispered and leaned to him.

He tried to reach up to her face but the manacle chained him in place. Tugging at it, he panted and said, "I knew it. This isn't real. You aren't real."

"Angel?" she gulped. "Angel, you're safe now. You don't have to let Angelus protect you." She touched his forehead as if a fever plagued him. "You're with me."

He buried his face in the pillows and a wave shuddered through him.

"You don't have to be frightened," she said and she reached for the bonds clasping his wrists to the bed. Unfastening the locks, she freed him. "You're with me now."

He pulled her underneath him, his features transforming to his true vampire face as he said, "No, Princess, you're with me."

Part 6:

In slow methodic circles he brushed his cheek against hers. The motion drifted over her lips yet he did not kiss, only paused with quiet want, then moved on. Touching the coldness of his flesh against the warmth of her cheek, he hissed and took in a startled breath as if the blood pulsating just centimeters from his fangs burned him.

The weight of his body crushed her to the bed, the contours, the tendons of his form molded against her. The rack of his ribs stabbed at her, punctured her to reminded her all that he had been through, all that he had endured. She felt his rising need pushed against her leg.

"My precious, my dear Princess, do you know?" he whispered in her ear, the coolness of his breath stole about her neck, raising gooseflesh. "This soul, this soul wants you, loves you." The laugh grew from the depths of his throat and she struggled to escape, but the yoke of his weight, his hands clutching hers prevented her.

His tongue lingered at the edge of her throat. "This soul desires you." And his words hissed the air, hovered, then fell upon her in waves, waves to dissolve her. "You know what desire is?" He paused, did not answer his own question but instead buried his face in her neck and inhaled.

Lashing her eyes, she repeated over and again in her head. This is Angel. Angel. He has a soul, he has to be Angel. As if in desperate prayer, she murmured his name, "Angel."

He lifted his head to gaze down at her with amber flamed eyes. A crooked smile mocked her and he dragged a finger over her lips. "Yes, yes, that's it. I like the begging. I always liked the begging."

She swallowed back the fear threatening to constrict her throat. "Angel, it's okay. You're safe." She looked into his eyes, not faltering but knowing he heard the rapidity of her heart. "You don't need Angelus to protect you."

He smiled, broader, softer, then dropped upon her breast and spoke to her heart, "The want the soul gives, the yearning is so much more poignant, so much more delicious." He peered up to her. "I never understood how enjoyable torture could be until now."

"Torture?" she gulped, wanting to scream but his hand clamped her mouth.

Glaring down at her, he said, "Yes, how disturbingly delightful it is to torture him."

She couldn't question him and grappled against his handhold of her.

"No Princess, no. Or I might get sick of torturing him and hurt you instead." He considered her and as the tension to fight left her body, he released her mouth.

"Him?"

"Angel," he answered and added, "He's here with me. He's begging me not to hurt you, he wants you safe." He drew tiny circles on her face. "I can taste his pain." Then with a swift motion, Angelus grasped her jaw and growled, "But now I want to taste yours instead."

His fanged teeth speared into her throat and she moaned, cried out. Seizing her mouth, he muffled her screams and drew out her blood with his kiss.

Angel. The name rotated in her head, revolved about her. She saw faces, yet facets juxtaposed the images. Images of Angel. The other place, the Hell he was imprisoned in screeched out in her mind as Angelus drank her.

"Angel," she whispered. Her mind reeled, he was there trapped by this demon. The demon within him had condemned him. "Angel, please."

He stopped, removed his teeth from her flesh and glanced at her. "No, no don't do this Cordelia. Don't ask."

"Angel?" She could pull him back, she was sure of it. Twisting her hands from his grip, she held his face and stared into his now darkened eyes. "Come back to me. Stay with me. You're safe here."

He winced as the scar on his face beat, throbbed an ugly purple gray color. She ignored it, refused to see the warning and brought his lips to her own. A tender touch, barely there, was all she gave him at first. Her lips grazed his, then her mouth opened to taste him. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight her burden.

This was Angel. She would save him from the Hell dimension, she would make him understand. He was loved, he was safe, he was accepted.

His hands traveled over her face, exploring the line of her cheek, the structure of her jaw. Yet his mouth stayed upon hers, pushing, pressing, pulling at her. His touch stopped at her throat, the pulse. His kiss paused as if the pounding of her heart just beneath her skin awoke something deep within him, some need. He shuddered and looked at her. She said nothing, let the moment weigh upon them. Then slowly he removed his hand, let it trail to her breasts, began to caress her.

Yet the constraining manacles on his ankles halted him. She'd only released him from the bindings around his wrists. He threw a glance at her, then to the chains still digging into his legs. He said, "You aren't real."

He hurried away from her and curled at the foot of the bed. The gash on his cheek leaked blackened blood and he grasped it as he groaned in pain.

"Angel!" She reached out to him, started to crawl to him.

In one fluid motion, he lunged at her and seized her shoulders. Pushing her down on the bed, he snarled at her as his vampire face scarred his features again. Angelus dug his hands into her flesh, shoved his knee between her legs. She screamed out but he clamped his hand over her mouth. She felt the strain of him against her. She raked her nails across his back, balled her hand and pummeled him with her fist. Only the barest of fabric separated him from invading her.

He began to grind his hips against her and whispered in her ear. "You don't have to beg. He already is. He's begging me. Begging. How I love it when he begs."

His hand went to pull away her panties, shredding them. As he went to penetrate her, she heard a whistling and his body jerked in response. He opened his mouth as if to speak, his eyes flickered to brown and he moaned, "Oh Cordelia."

He dropped to unconsciousness. She peered over his shoulder to see Fred standing in the doorway with a tranquilizer gun. The girl smiled, rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. "Hope I wasn't intruding but I had a feeling something wasn't right. Seemed it was taking you an extra long time to come down. I just thought we girls should, you know, stick together."

Cordelia struggled out from under the slumbering form of Angelus. She pushed back her hair and nodded to Fred. "Yeah, yeah." Her hands shook again as she went to replace the manacles on his wrists.

"He ain't Angel. Angel ain't a beast." Fred tried to catch her gaze by bending down to peer at her face. "You know that don't you? He'd never do that to you."

A tear tumbled down her cheek and she hated it. Hated it for all its weakness. Hated herself for putting them all in danger.

Fred grasped her hand and said, "You okay?"

Cordelia nodded, pressing her lips together to stop the tears. "Yeah, yes I am." Straightening her shoulders, she revived Cordelia Chase, *the* Cordelia Chase. She looked down at the seeping wound on Angel's face. "I'm fine. But I don't think he is."

Part 7:

The words blurred together, meshed into a net as he stared down at the yellowed page. Blinking, he tried to focus but only saw the weaving of a net as if the incantation scripted out on the paper captured him. He withdrew his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

Failure was not an option.

Yet it had been his shield, his holy pledge for all these years. When he stumbled, when he floundered, he rested back and settled into the arms of failure. He wrapped himself in the cloak as if it were a badge of his dishonor, his humiliation. There was little expected of him.

Failure was not an option.

It seemed to mock him and he realized as he murmured it he tried to convince himself. He would not fail, he could not fail. In some recess, he looked upon his tenure with Angel as a rebirth of his Watcher vocation. Smirking, he recalled his lapdog attitude when he'd first come to work for Angel Investigations, for Angel. Their roles had inexplicably reversed, matured and convoluted so that Angel sought him out for advice, for leadership. As the lamp light cast its light across the page, Wesley understood that it was more than the firing that led to this place. Angel trusted him.

"Failure is not an option."

"No, it's not." Cordelia entered the office and slid into the chair in front of him. A blemish of sorrow etched across her face. She bent forward, arms curled about herself, elbow on knees as she dropped her eyes to the floor. "We have to help him, Wes."

"Yes, I know."

She raised her head. No tears were in her eyes now, but something harder, something harsher, something learned. "Or we're going to have to kill him again."

"Cordelia," he said in a whisper as he regarded her. A silence crept between them. Her gaze never faltered and he witnessed a transformation in Cordelia Chase, an evolution he'd wished to never see at all. "Cordelia, what happened?"

She did not respond, only offered him a frozen look. In that span of time a coldness slipped into his bones, into his nerves. She stood and said, "Just find a way to save Angel so that we don't have to kill that bastard Angelus."

The finality of her statement drove the chill like an arrow into his heart, into his brain. It pierced him and he only whispered in response, "We'll do this thing Cordelia. I promise you, we will not fail."

Her features softened a degree, the rigidity of her shoulder cracked and she slumped back down into the chair. The moment oozed away and she leaned her head back as if she was afflicted with a vision. "You asked how this happened now. How Angel came back."

"Yes, I have several theories none of which will possibly fill in the missing information."

"I did it."

"You?"

A pause. He observed a slow dissipation of her resolve, of her courage. In the days that he'd know her, Cordelia always firmed her upper lip, smiled and strode forward to confront whatever evil, whatever obstacle. She pulled herself up and stared at him.

"I did. With my blood. Don't ask me how." She shivered as she recounted, "I wanted some lasting mark, some lasting memorial and decided to give him my blood. I went to his ashes and made slashes." She stopped and turned her head away, a red shaming her cheeks. Offering her wrist, palm up, she showed him the damage there. "Just little cuts, just enough so that I would bear the scars, so I would carry with me something." She shook her head.

"Your blood brought him back."

She nodded and she clasped her hands together, hiding the scabs.

"Cordelia, I think I could kiss you!"

Startled, she looked up at him.

"Yo English, did I catch something close to eureka in here?" Gunn stepped into the office. "Cause we better do something soon, Fred's upstairs with a tranq gun pointed at Angel. Think she's already started target practice."

Wesley picked up the book, stood and rounded the desk. As he spoke he pointed to the ancient text. "I've found an incantation that might, and I must admit I can only say, might help us save Angel."

Cordelia peered at the words as if she understood the demonic phrases but said nothing. Gunn frowned and said, "Mind giving us the pop-up version for those of us that don't know the lingo?"

"Surely," he said, scanning the page with his finger. "As we have already discerned the intersection of Angel's soul through the portal to Pylea must re-established the Hellbeast's link to Angel." Wesley inhaled and then exhaled. A rush of heat went through him.

Failure was not an option.

"As Lorne has told us, we must severe the link but to do that according to these coded writings, Angel must have a link to anchor himself here." He paused as he examined the text. "You see, if we cut the link without roping him we effectively strand him in Hell."

"And my blood is the link?"

"Your blood, but more importantly, your soul."

"How do we chop the umbilical to Borg king?" Gunn asked.

"A ritual, we will need to move Angel outside. It stipulates an outdoor arena for this ceremony. During the pre-dawn hours."

"Pre-dawn?" Cordelia grabbed his arm. "How long will it take?"

"I've no idea," he admitted.

"We could just do it on the roof or in the garden," Gunn suggested.

"No." Wesley shook his head as he began to pace. "It specifically states we need to be close to the mother."

"Darla?"

"Darla?" Wesley furrowed his brows, considered them then realization hit him. "No, no, mother earth. Once there, it seems to be a bit of blood letting and chanting."

Gunn raised an eyebrow and said, "Already I'm not liking the blood letting. How come everything that has to do with vamps is about blood?"

Ignoring his remark, Wesley instructed, "Get Angel. We don't have much time." He glanced at the clock. "We're doing this now."

Gunn halted, looked at Cordelia and said, "You ready for this?"

She glimpsed her sliced wrists, peered up at Wesley and only bowed her head.

As they left, Wesley murmured, "Failure is not an option."

Part 8:

The edge burned off the night, seared the horizon with the deepest of purples. Yet the color was there, starting, flushing the land with a tinge of life, with a promise of life. The breaking of night's shield had begun with the hint of color. Glancing up at the zenith, she glimpsed the pith of night still harbored there. The last of starlight glimmered through the tree branches though it faded with the coming dawn. She found a solace there in the sky's dome. His safety, his soul lingered above her while the thin line of day scarred the horizon, waiting to consume him.

He grappled with the ties, the chains about his wrists and ankles. A madness grew in his eyes and, in the fire light of the candles they had placed she recognized his despising of her. With only his eyes, he told her, whispered to her the fate he planned for her. He lifted his upper lip and bared his fangs at her, the gag strapping his mouth only muffled his curses.

"Wesley?" She looked over to the ex-Watcher as he finished lighting the rest of the candles.

"Nearly there Cordelia, nearly."

She sat within the circle of the candles, within the canopy of a cathedral of trees. Twigs pinched her knees and dry grasses scratched her skin. They'd bond Angelus to a tree, the chain scraped into his skin until blood stained his flesh. The curving wound on his face shimmered in the stars' light. It wormed about his cheek and he screamed.

"Wesley?" She peered over Angelus' shoulder. "We don't have much time here."

"Right, right." Wesley knelt by her side and asked, "You're sure about this. I don't know what kind of lasting effects it will have on either one of you."

"It will cut the link to Hell beastie boy right?"

Wesley nodded.

"Then let's get it done."

He placed a hand on her shoulder, gave it a slight squeeze and said, "I promise you I won't let anything untoward happen to you. You must believe me."

"I believed in you since the day I met you Wes," she replied then added, "Now get your skinny ass moving and get this over with. I need some beauty rest, you know."

He smiled at her, patting her shoulder and, standing, instructed, "Everyone take your places. Each of you will only need to remember the chant and continue it. Repetitiveness seems to be a virtue with this incantation."

"Not a problem, Repetition is my middle name," Lorne commented as he, Fred, and Gunn walked to the points of a triangle around them.

Wesley glanced down at her. "Ready?"

The purple marking the horizon increased in width, was tinted with a blush of maroon. "Yeah, let's get the show on the road."

Kneeling again, Wesley took out a knife and as he began to carve her wrist open, the others started to chant. She couldn't understand the words, didn't know if she could even hear the words as the blade melted into her skin. She hissed as it broke her flesh.

"I'm sorry," Wesley whispered but she only nodded. "I won't let him hurt you, I promise." The knife only faltered once as he held it to her wrist. As he finished, he stopped before turning to Angelus. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

Wesley faced the vampire and raised the knife. A snarl escaped his gagged mouth and he backed against the tree as Wesley approached. With a quick stroke, the ex-Watcher laid open the wound on Angelus's face. He screeched and convulsed as the blue black strings were released from the gash, writhing over his cheek. She moved forward, inhaled a breath and lifted her wrist to him.

She choked back her cry as the infection spread over her hand, chaining her to it. It burrowed under her flesh, wormed down her tendons, pulling them taunt and shredding them. The nerves in her arm went numb as it expanded into her blood, as it pooled in her. The pain ripped at her lungs and she begged Wesley to stop it as she tried to yanked her wrist away. He only grabbed her arm and pressed it up to Angelus's fully covered face.

The rhythm of the chant drowned out in her ears as the white pain deafened her. It robbed her of air and she collapsed against Angelus' chest. It was then she realized Wesley's face was etched in pain as well. It was then she saw that his hand had been wrapped with the spreading ooze.

She tried to call for help, to ask them to stop but it invaded her mouth, streamed down her throat. It rooted deep within her, became a part of her. She seized as it devoured her soft tissue, as it ate away at her bones. As she faded, disintegrated, she glimpsed Wesley and saw the same fate overcome him. She wanted to apologize, she wanted to help him. But she only heard the cold hard cackling of Hell.

Part 9:

Here the shadows lived. Here the shadows moved. Here there was no haven in the shadows. She curled into the beating, the throb of a heart near her ear soothed the pain. She pushed closer still as if she understood that this would be her only comfort. A hand gripped her shoulder and she shivered, but knew it meant no harm. If she didn't move, if she stayed within Wesley's embrace she would be safe.

Yet the darkness howled.

Where is this place?

Hell.

She peered up at Wesley and knew he had not spoken, knew she understood him all the more. His sorrow streamed out of him in palatable waves. He begged for forgiveness, begged her to forgive him. He had failed and condemned them to this Hell dimension. She hugged him closer, cuddled against him. He had not failed. He had only tried.

Failed.

No.

There would be a way out. There was always another door to open, another safe place to find. Failure was not an option.

It occurred to her then in the shades of darkness surrounding them, she felt no hint of Angel. Though Wesley's soul beat next to her with reassuring regularity, Angel was gone. Even as she thought it, Wesley moved as if to search for him. He rose from their hiding place within the void.

There was no up or down. No floor or stone. She did not float but at the same time did not walk. She only moved, through shifting lands in twilight. She saw it as desert dunes only in grays and blues that dissolved into a gray silver sky without definition to where the land or sky intersected. As they moved, the dunes transformed, rose and sank, stretched and constricted. The void blurred all definition, the shadows warped all lines.

Within the oscillating darkness, she glimpsed fragments, figments of motion. Stopping, she tugged her hand and halted Wesley. He studied the odd figures. A man standing over a woman and her mouth wide open as if she let out a muted scream. They moved forward to find another apparition appear. A young boy glancing up at a well dressed man, the man bent down and opened his mouth as if to speak. She caught a glimpse of his teeth, his fangs. The startled scream of the boy ripped into her heart. Digging her nails into Wesley's hand she urged him on.

The wraiths materialized before them, blocked their path behind them. The gray dunes were soon littered with the carcasses of the slaughtered.

What is this place, she asked again.

Angel's hell.

Angel's?

Angelus' victims.

She clamped a hand over her mouth as she witnessed the torture, the tormented and the torturer. A chamber of horrors.

There.

Looking up, she saw the center of this Hell. On his knees, Angel fell back as shadows leaned over him, bent as if to harm him. She started forward but Wesley pulled her back.

It hit her, slammed into her as if she had been struck. She watched in petrified fascination as the phantom of Angelus preformed one debase act after another, terrorizing and tormenting Angel. The clarity of the moment drove home the knowledge that each turn of the knife, each twist of the iron, Angelus had performed on one of his victims and so now Angel fell to these same crimes.

This was his protector against the Hellbeast. This was his very own Hell.

A tortured soul.

Break the link, they had to break the link.

Her blood would link Angel's soul but the link to this netherworld, to the Hellbeast's chamber of punishment had to be broken.

He has to believe, Wesley thought.

Believe?

He can't get out of the closet.

Closet? she asked.

Hell. He can't get out of his Hell unless he believes.

Believes what?

That he deserves more, that he's worth more.

How do we show him that?

She looked at Angel's starved bent form, bloodied and bruised. He moved then, saw them and, struggling against the pain, rose to his feet.

"You shouldn't have come." As he spoke the words, the howling subdued, quieted for just that moment. "There's only one thing you can do. There's only one way."

"No," she called out against the howling. She grasped Wesley's hand.

Angel considered them and an expression that she could only identify as pity, pity for them, tumbled over his ravaged features. Wesley yanked her, stepped back from Angel. She watched a change, subtle in its shaping yet horrible in its reality, cascaded down Angel's form. He did not transform into the Hellbeast, but Angelus.

He descended upon them without warning and knocked her away as he attacked Wesley. Angelus gripped Wesley's throat, constricting the fragile bones, digging into the tender flesh. "I protect him. You can't protect him." He sneered at her attempts to free Wesley. He tossed Wesley aside, lorded over him as he said, "Failure is your only option, Wes. It always was, always will be." Kicking him in the head, Angelus said, "I protect him."

Disregarding Wesley, he circled her. "Think you can save him?" A shadow shifted over his features and she glimpsed Angel for a brief moment, yet he dissipated to be replaced by Angelus again. "I am him. I own him." He chuckled, a low ripe sound. "You save him, you have me. This is where he wants to be. Hell showed him this place, Hell gave him this place." His mouth was at her ear. "This is what he deserves. Tell me you don't think I deserve this."

His form changed again, the stride, the movements now mimicked Angel's again. As he spoke, she recognized the pain shredding the words. "It showed me the truth." He gazed down into her, through her. "Did you see, all the secrets of my soul? Did you see?"

She couldn't stop the quaking of her hands, the visions as they hit her. Crumpling to her knees, the vision crashed into her – visions of his victims, Angelus' victims, all their anguish rammed into her. She cried out.

"I only deserve to be Angelus. I'm not worth anything more." His voice whispered at the ridge of her ear. "He protects me from the secrets, from the souls plaguing me."

Fumbling, she crawled to her feet. "Angelus only hurts you."

"Do I?" His stance wavered again and Angel faded to be replaced by Angelus. "You think I deserve more? You think I deserve more than the Hellbeast gives me?" He stood within her personal space, his height dwarfing her. "You want me? Do you?" His hands glided over her arms, tingling down the length to her hands, to the bleeding wrist. "You want him? You want me?"

"The Hellbeast," she stammered. "Don't let it do this to you."

His other hand circled her waist as he spoke. "Oh no, no Princess, I put myself here. I did." Angelus confessed. "Think of all pain." The breath of his words intoxicated her, mesmerized her. "There's no other escape from this place. I'll protect you as I protect him."

"No, Cordelia!" Wesley mumbled as he pulled himself up. "The link, the blood."

"The pain, think of the pain the Beast will bring you. I can save you from it. Save you from the fear, from the pain. You can't escape." His lips touched the curve of her neck, heightening her pulse.

"He's lying to you, Cordelia. You're the link!" Wesley struggled to be heard over the howling wind, limped to his feet. "Don't let the fear own you."

She regarded Wesley, glanced at her torn wrist and simply nodded to Angelus. "I understand, now. I'm not afraid." She offered her blood to him.

The dark shadows of the abyss splintered, the shards rising up and taking flight like a thousand black moths. The grays of the sky dropped, melted as a fire scorched the sky. She heard a cry and knew it was her own. The last thing she remembered was the brush of Angel's lips upon her wrist.

Part 10:

"Get him up, come on!" a voice flickered at the periphery of her consciousness. "Come on there ain't much time, Mojo man." A shuffling moved her body, an arm cradled her. She smelled the last fragrance of night drifting. A blanket covered her naked body as a touch of cold whispered over her.

"I said get him up. He'll go up like an Olympic torch. It's almost dawn."

"Dawn?" she mumbled and opened her eyes.

"Quiet now," Fred murmured to her. She did as commanded and let slumber take her.

A weight shifted and she moaned as it awoke her. She tumbled from sleep and opened her eyes. Angel leaned over her, his long body next to hers on the bed. Only the sheet separated them. The gash that once marked his face was gone. An ashen hue colored his flesh and the press of his body against hers told her, there was little muscle, little flesh left on his body.

"Cordelia," he whispered to her.

"Angel." She smiled.

"I'm sor"

She placed her fingers over his mouth and stopped him from apologizing. "It wasn't you. I know that. You have to believe that." He glanced away from her but she pulled him back to face her. "We have a long way to go on this journey of yours. A long way. I wan"Believe?"

"That you're worth it. If you don't believe that, it can come again, take you away to that place. " His dark eyes looked briefly away as if he recalled some horror, some image that still lurked at the edge of his sight. "We wouldn't be here, with you, if we didn't believe in you, in your journey."

He nodded but said nothing.

The door to his suite opened and Wesley entered. The strain of the experience had marred his features yet he came to them and sat on the bed. "We seem to have beaten it. Closed the link to Hell as it were."

"It'll come back," Angel rolled away from her, stared at the wall.

"No," Wesley corrected.

"It's always there," Angel said in a hoarse whisper.

Wesley rose from the bed, slid his hands in his pockets and smiled down at them. "We broke the bond and Cordelia's blood has linHe didn't move, he lay there in utter repose. Then slowly he turned to face the ex-Watcher. "Linked my soul?"

Wesley smiled, a broad true smile. "Permanently." He seemed to laugh despite himself. "I'll let you two have at it then." He saluted them and exited the suite.

She crossed the space between them, wrapped an arm around him and perched her chin on his shoulder. "Wonder what have at it means?" She giggled as he faced her.

"Let's find out." He nudged her as their lips met.

THE END.

| Fiction Search | Home Page | Back |