Ghost Of A Chance - Part 2

Mud slopped around her ankles, heavy and cold. In the thick mist, she had little to guide her but a sense of needing to be there. She had to go deeper, to get down in there and look for -- what? Another step, and another. It was difficult to walk, like wading through oatmeal. And it smelled really, really gross. Cordelia had the distinct impression that this mud wasn’t the kind that was good for your complexion.

She bent down in the gloom and peered at the surface of the pool. Put her hands into the water and swished them around. Oh, God, there were people in there. She could see their faces, all of them crying out to her, calling for help. She had to save them. So many faces, so much pain --

And then something grabbed her hand.

Cordelia tried to scream, opening her mouth to find her voice gone. Pulling, grasping, there were dozens of them now, fingers winding around her hand and up her arm, pulling her off her feet. She went down, the mud sucking her deeper. Hands pawed at her, and she could feel every emotion, hear every thought. Help us, help us, help us…

She struck out, pushing them away, but they just kept coming. There were too many. Drawing her under, drowning her. She couldn’t face them all at once, not again. Mud filled her nose and mouth and her silent screams created only bubbles.

Someone yanked her upright. “Cordy, hush.”

“Angel?” she gasped, still flailing. Large, cool hands wrestled her still, and the dream dropped away, leaving her sweating and shaking.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he said, his arms still wrapped around her. “Vision?”

“No. Just a dream.” Cordelia ran a shaking hand over her face.

He released her, sat back, and tilted his head to one side, studying her in a way that made her feel naked and exposed. Waiting.

The silence stretched between them, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Okay, a nightmare,” she admitted.

“You’ve had them before?”

Dammit, she really didn’t want Angel to know about this stuff. He already felt guilty, and the last thing she wanted was to add fuel to the brood. But, by the look in his eyes, he had already guessed what was going on. She nodded slowly. “Every night since -- since Vocah -- the same dream. And I scream and scream, and nothing comes out.”

“Oh, it comes out, don’t worry about that.” Wesley’s voice was croaky with sleep.

She glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, an overgrown Christopher Robin in his stripy pyjamas. His hair looked like it had argued with his head and was now trying to get as far away from it as possible.

He leaned a shoulder on the frame. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine, Wes,” Angel replied, not looking around.

“I’ll put the kettle on, then.” Wes nodded, and shuffled off.

Cordelia admired his unwavering belief that a cup of tea was the answer to any crisis. Her attention was reclaimed by Angel putting his hand over hers in a stiff, awkward way. Funny how he was so bad at this -- when it didn’t involve her collapsing, or thrashing about like a lunatic.

He blew out a small, quiet sigh; looked like he was trying to find the right thing to say. He finally murmured, “It will get better.”

“Yeah?” she sighed, looking down at the twisted sheets. “How can you be sure?”

He turned his face towards the window, the grey, pre-dawn sky peeking around the edges of the curtains. “At least you didn’t cause their suffering.”

He had a point. “But you had almost a century of sewer-brooding to deal. I don’t have the luxury of immortality.”

“I didn’t spend all of it in the sewer,” he protested, looking a little offended.

For some reason that cheered her a little. “Well, okay, but you know what I mean.”

“We’ll help them, I promise,” he said, and he looked so earnest that she had to smile.

The shrilling of Wesley’s bedside alarm clock made them jump, jolting Cordelia back to the reason they were there. “Dennis!” she gasped, kicking the sheets away. “Did Wes work out the spell?”

“Careful, don’t get up too fast,” Angel said, restraining her again. “I don’t know. He was asleep when I came in.”

She shook him off, her bare feet hitting carpet. Snatching Wesley’s dressing gown off the foot of the bed, she scampered for the kitchen.

Ten minutes later they were all seated at the table, waiting for Wesley to explain his findings. His insistence on setting the table, and making everyone’s breakfast first, was driving Cordelia crazy.

“So, did you get the skinny on the bondage spell?” she asked, stuffing a slice of cold pizza into her mouth.

He looked up from the painstaking removal of the top of his boiled egg. “Did I get the what? Do speak English, Cordelia.”

“You know,” she said, mouth full, “the skinny. The good oil. The low-down.”

“Well…” he paused as he dipped a thin slice of bread into the yolk. “Yes, I think it will work.”

“And you made us wait all this time for one sentence?” she said, frowning.

“Well, no doubt you’ll be bombarding me with questions now,” he replied, “and I really can’t face the world before I’ve had a cup of tea.”

Angel nodded in agreement. “Me too. But, you know, with the blood.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Angel. I’m being a bad host,” Wesley said, looking mortified. “I don’t have anything er, red, to offer you.”

“It’s okay, I ate when I was out. This is fine.” Angel sipped his tea.

Cordelia snapped her fingers together. “Focus, people! Dennis? How do we save him?”

“We need to put him into a vessel before the exorcism is performed,” Wes explained.

“I have some Tupperware. Is a quart container big enough?” she asked, relieved she’d spent the extra dollars for a truly airtight seal. No way was Dennis getting out of that sucker.

“No, no.” Wesley shook his head, trying to chew and swallow his mouthful of toast quickly.

She wracked her brain. Did she have a bucket with a lid? Or maybe they could plastic-wrap him into the bath.

“I think Wes means a human vessel,” Angel said, looking uneasy.

Wes nodded. “Angel is correct. By anchoring Dennis to a person, he will be grounded to the earthly plane during the ritual. The theory is that an exorcism of a building and that of a person are different, and each is ineffective on the other. Dennis just has to hide in someone -- an assisted possession -- as it were.”

Angel leaned both elbows on the table, steepling his fingers under his chin. “It’ll have to be me. I don’t want either of you doing this.”

“Aah, I don’t think that’s a good idea, actually,” Wes replied. “The spell says ‘a living vessel’.”

“I’m undead, isn’t that close enough?” Angel asked.

“I’m afraid not; it might work, but the results would be too unpredictable.” Wes shook his head. “It’ll have to be me.”

“What about me? Just because I’m a girl, doesn’t mean I can’t host dead spirits with the best of ‘em,” Cordelia protested. “It’s not like I haven’t hosted him before, anyway,” she said, remembering what it felt like to come to, lamp in her hand, and Dennis’s exposed skeleton in the wreckage of her living room wall.

“You’re too weak, Cordy,” Angel said, folding his arms, going into stubborn mode.

“Hey!” She slapped his shoulder.

Wesley nodded in agreement. “After your recent experience, the last thing we should be doing is putting someone else in your body -- your head. We’ve no idea what the effect would be.”

“And you’re any stronger?” She stabbed a finger at Wes. “Last count, you got blown off your feet twice, and that was yesterday, alone.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Angel scowled. Wesley stared into his tea.

“So I guess it’ll have to be me.” Cordelia shoved back her chair. “Come on. Time’s a-wasting.”

“I don’t like it,” Angel said.

“You don’t have to. Let’s round up those stinky herbs and get this show on the road.” She looked over at Wesley, still picking at his breakfast. “Now, Wes?”

He heaved a deep sigh and pushed back from the table. “Fine. I’m coming.” He looked longingly at his half-eaten egg.

She got up, flipped her hair impatiently, and headed into the bathroom, where her clothes were drying on the rack. “Take it to go!” she shouted over her shoulder.

***

“Ick,” Cordy said, poking a finger at the Mason jar of yellow sludge. The cardboard box next to her held an assortment of magical supplies. “Why don’t spells ever use roses and champagne?” Smooth, white rocks, bunches of feathers, and a small crock of brownish-red powder, stoppered with a cork, all rocked with the slight vibration of the car. Next to them sat the bile, angled in like the jewel on a spell-caster’s crown.

“By their nature, spells are --”

“Hardly in the mood for a lecture, Professor Boring,” she snapped.

Angel cut in. “All right. Enough.”

She couldn’t see his eyes in the rear view mirror but she could feel his gaze on her just the same. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Wes said. “You’ve every right to be distressed.”

“Thanks,” she said, relaxing slightly. “You’d think I’d be over the whole demon impregnation thing by now.” The silence, already tense, stretched thinner. “Hey, it was just a joke,” she said.

The sky began to turn pink as they rolled down Sunset toward her apartment, passing white buildings, green palm trees and a relentless stream of early-morning traffic. Her stomach clenched and the palms of her hands went damp.

“Stop it,” Angel said.

God, this had to work. She couldn’t live without Dennis. Who would she watch movies with? Talk about her days with? Who’d sort her laundry and clean her --

“Cordelia!"

She jumped. “What?” Craned her neck to look out the window. “Are we there? Did I miss it?”

Angel sighed. “I meant, stop kicking the seat.”

Her foot froze, mid-kick, an inch from the vinyl. “Sorry.” Now it was her fingers, beating out the drumbeat of worry on her leg.

“Cordelia. I said --”

“Oh, my,” Wes broke in. “Is that --”

Cordy shot forward, leaning between the two men to get a better look out the front window. Even though they were nearly a block away, she knew immediately what he was talking about.

The black van with glazed windows sat at the curb in front of her building, its back doors open. A person in a Tyvek suit pulled a red box out and set it on the strip of grass between the road and the sidewalk.

Her stomach clenched. “What is it?”

“Great. Just what we need,” Angel said. He hit the gas and the car lurched forward.

She grabbed Wes’s shoulder. “Wes?”

Wes covered her hand with his. When he looked back at her, he had on his Worry Face. “Professional exorcist.”

She squeaked. “You mean, like, Ghostbusters?”

Angel wheeled in behind the van, turned off the engine, and got out, all broad shoulders and coat. “Excuse me,” he said, and even though his words were polite his body language screamed, “I’m a badass, don’t mess with me.”

Cordy opened the door and ran behind him. The Tyvek guy turned and she saw that it was actually a girl, her dark curly hair pulled back from a passably pretty face. “Yes?”

“We need to get into the building before you start.”

She held up her hand. “Sorry. No can do. We’ve got a critical situation.” She pulled the hood over her head and through the plastic window of her Tyvek helmet, Cordy could see her mouth moving.

So, apparently, could Angel. “What?” He shook his head and cupped a hand to his ear.

The woman slid the hood up. “I said, it’s too late. They started the ritual ten minutes ago. We’re already almost at containment phase.” Then she dropped the big, white hood back in place, picked up the red box and strode across the lawn toward the apartment building.

They stared at the building, and as they watched, the walls started pulsing like breathing lungs. “Oh, crap,” Cordy said, heart racing into her throat.

Angel whirled. “Get the box. Let’s go.”

Wes grabbed it out of the back seat and they ran across the yard.

Cordy ran as hard as she could, thinking, Oh, God, please let us get there in time. Angel and Wes pounded behind her and as Angel passed he scooped the box from Wes’s arms and disappeared like smoke up the steps.

Wes’s breathing hitched and he stopped, grabbing his side. His pale skin was covered with a sheen of sweat.

“Come on!” She grabbed his arm and hauled him up the steps, ignoring his moan.

They burst into the hallway and through her open apartment door. She could hear footsteps and voices in Mrs. Telemacher’s apartment above. The building was eerily still now, and Dennis’s fear was palpable, like a too-tight layer of Saran Wrap had been stretched across the room.

“Dennis!” She slammed the door behind them. “Don’t worry! We’re here!”

Angel looked up from his book, mid-chant, and pointed toward the box, which he’d dumped on the couch. Feathers, dust and pebbles pooled next to the uptilted cardboard. She’d kill him for getting crap all over her cushions later -- after they saved Dennis.

There was a sloppy circle at his feet, made of white stones and feathers, almost like the one they’d used when they’d kicked out Dennis’s Polygrip of a mom. In one hand was the spell book, in the other a ribbon-wrapped packet of smoking herbs. The herbs smelled like rotten cheese, and the Latin sounded strange coming from Angel’s lips.

Wes ran to the box, picked up the small brown crock and opened the lid. He dipped his fingers inside and smeared something on Cordelia’s forehead. It felt powdery and wet at the same time, and when she lifted her hand to touch it, Wes batted it away. “Leave it.”

Just then, the eerie silence broke with a firecracker-like bang. Cordelia jumped and looked toward the ceiling. “What was that?”

“It’s like a magnet for ghosts. It helps Dennis know who to go to,” Wes replied, wiping his fingers on his trousers.

“No, not the warpaint. What was *that*?” She pointed upwards. “The noise?”

Angel’s voice powered up and a strange wind blew through the room.

“Oh, that. It means they’re starting containment,” Wes said, still looking pale and shaky. He looked around, frantically. The crock of powder was still in his hands. “We’ve got to find someplace safe for this.”

“The couch? Won’t the cushions --” A low roar started somewhere in the building.

Wes dashed to the couch and wedged the crock into the space between the cushion and the arm.

“Is that us or them?” she screamed over the pulsing wind. One of the throw pillows lifted and flew straight for her face. She knocked it away.

“I don’t know!” Wes said, bracing himself against the back of a chair. His coat whipped and his hair flew. He reached up with one hand and pulled off his glasses.

Angel’s voice grew louder, and the pages of the book ruffled. Not knowing what else to do, Cordy rushed to his side, grabbing the herbs out of his hand. His skin was cool, electric in the swirling air. Smoke whipped around them, filling the air with silver currents of stink.

Upstairs, something thumped and the building groaned. Cordy’s hands tightened on the herbs. “Oh, God, Angel. Hurry!” Her hair whipped, tangling around her face and Angel’s, a dark curtain cutting them from everything but the book.

Angel was yelling now, his voice booming and stern, calling Dennis to come out, to take human form. Then the wind shifted and her hair changed course, and in the mirror behind Angel she saw one of her precious glass figures fly into the air like a crystal rainbow, hovering and twisting.

Then it dropped, shattering on the chest. The next danced up, her unicorn, the one her dad got her -- “No!” She dropped the herbs and ran, grabbing it out of the air and clutching it to her chest.

Something hit her in the back of the head and she stumbled.

“Cordelia!” Angel yelled.

Books flew off shelves, pillows bounced on the floor, pictures rattled like bones on the plaster. She opened the top drawer and shoved the unicorn in, then the horse, then the mermaid --

“Cordelia!”

She could hardly breathe, the air was so tight. Her eyes watered and her heart throbbed. Something hit her again, this time on the side of the head. Pain burst, she saw stars, and she stumbled, catching herself on the wall.

Wes screamed and she whipped around to find him hanging in the air, two feet off the floor, eyes wide and dark in his too-pale face. Then he flew backwards and hit the wall with a sick thud, eyes widening and then going blank.

She screamed and ran for him, only to be slapped back by an unseen hand. The room rang with chaos, like the inside of a tornado. Roaring, spinning, smoking.

Wes lay in a crumpled heap on the wood floor, glasses hanging limply from his hand.

Then Angel was rising, rising, only he looked furious, ready to kill whatever had him by the throat. She watched helplessly as he drew up, like a puppet on a string, and then slammed down. He chanted, nearly hoarse, and the book crumpled in his hand like a Kleenex and fell to the floor.

“Angel! No!”

The force threw him across the room, cracking him across the arm of the couch and slamming his head into the end table. A puff of brown dust flew up around him, and he rolled to the floor, stunned.

She struggled against the iron fist holding her steady, screamed and shoved, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t move.

Then everything stopped. The air rang with the sudden silence and Cordy stood, disoriented by the lack of noise. As if someone had cut the strings suspending them, books, pillows, pictures fell. Somewhere in the apartment, glass shattered.

The hand ghosted away, leaving behind a frigid chill as it set her free. She closed her eyes and reached inward, looking for Dennis. Nothing.

Through the thin ceiling, she heard someone upstairs say, “We got it, sir.”

Cordelia closed her eyes, stunned. “No. NO!”

“Cordelia, did it --?” Wes asked in a hushed voice.

She bit her lip and shook her head.

“Damn,” Wes whispered.

They failed. Dennis was gone, scooped up into the Ghostbusters’ cage like a stray dog. She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed her eyes shut tighter. What was she going to do without him? In one moment, her entire life had changed forever.

“Cordelia?”

“Yeah, Angel?” she said, huskily. She opened her eyes, but had to blink back tears before she could see him clearly.

Angel sat back on his heels and looked around the room. “I -- Are you all right?” His voice sounded wrong. Higher, lighter.

She went to him, kneeling beside him. “No.” Her hands covered her face. “We lost him. We lost Dennis.” Her shoulders shook as the tears welled up. So much loss in the last week, Angel’s apartment, their office. Wes’s mobility. Her sanity -- And now, Dennis.

A cool hand brushed hers. “Shh, it’s okay,” Angel said. He tugged her fingers away, cupping her hands in his. “Cordelia, don’t cry. Please.” He squinted at her like he was seeing her for the first time. His hand rose, smeared with dust and smelling like smoke and herbs, and touched her face. “Not for me,” he said, sounding embarrassed, shy.

Her breath hitched. Her gaze flew to the couch, the shattered pot. Dust everywhere, most of it on Angel.

“Oh, my God,” Wes said. He limped over and knelt beside them. “Dennis?”

She went still. “Oh, God,” she said, feeling panic rise in her chest. “Dennis?” She looked over at Wes. “I thought this was going to work. You said it would work.”

“And it did,” Wes said, sliding his glasses on. “Dennis is still here. Just not where we expected him to be.” He touched Angel’s forearm. “Dennis? Are you all right?”

Angel nodded, eyes glued on Cordy’s face. “Yes. I am, now.”

A laugh bubbled up in her chest. “You’re Dennis? YOU’RE Dennis?” It was too much to take. The last week, the drugs, the dreams, and now this… The laugh kept on coming, until she couldn’t breathe, until tears streamed down her face.

Wes took her hands, shook them briskly. “Cordelia, we must keep our wits about us.”

“Right,” she said, trying to catch her breath. No use -- the hysterical, out of control feeling took over, and she laughed harder.

Angel -- Dennis? -- put a hand on her arm. “Cordy. Stop.” It was his voice, the right one, and something about the sharp look in his eyes cut right through the hysterics.

She drew a deep, sobbing breath. “Angel? Is that you?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Oh, thank God. So both of you are in there? Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine, baby,” he said, running his hand over her hair. And then he smiled, a quick flash, like wolf’s teeth. “All of us.”

Cordy’s entire body went still. She cut her eyes at Wes, who was staring at Angel, an odd look on his face. “Oh, shit,” she said, almost afraid to move. “Angelus.”

Angel’s hand tightened on her arm and she stared down at the cold, white skin against her tanned flesh. “You’re smarter than you look.” Then he laughed, a high and chilling sound, and she felt Wes go still beside her.

“Oh, this is bad,” Wes said, in a squeaky voice.

The room hummed with silence while they stared at him, caught in the snare of his hot, black gaze. And then it flickered and dimmed, and Angel’s familiar, composed look came back online.

His hand dropped and Cordy sat back on her heels. She felt like she’d been whiplashed. First Dennis, then Angel, now this. Only the seriousness of the situation kept her from screaming and catching the next plane to Mexico.

“Oh, crap,” Angel said.

Wes levered himself onto the couch, if anything looking paler than he had when all this started. “It’s certainly not something we considered.”

Cordy’s defenses flared. “Well, who knew Angel would go crashing into the crock? I mean, it was safe, right? Cushions protect everything --”

She closed her eyes, reliving that moment in the cemetery when Angelus flew at her. A black streak, a flash of gold, and then all his weight taking her down. When she hit the dirt, she knew. There was no way she was making it out of there alive.

But when she looked at him now, it was Angel she saw, her friend. The one who’d been there when she woke up in the hospital. Who held her when Doyle died. Who beat up Wilson Christopher for knocking her up with the demon babies.

“Leave now,” Angel said. “Both of you.”

She glanced at Wes, who was looking at her, eyes full of questions. He hadn’t seen Angelus like she had. Apart from the little Doximal incident, he’d only studied him in books. Didn’t know the crazy-methodical way he broke people down.

Torture before death. Laughing eyes and murder.

And then she thought of all those people in her dreams. One face bleeding into another. The world of pain and suffering outside her door.

If Angel didn’t fight for them, who would?

“Everybody has a ghost,” Cordy said, feeling almost brave. “Something rattling their closet, right?”

Wes’ eyebrows rode above his glasses. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that while every instinct in my body is telling me to hop the next flight to Cancun, my friend needs help. And that’s what we do, right?” Cordy smiled at Angel. “We help people.”

Angel shook his head. “You can’t help him, Cordy. If he gets out --”

“We’ll just figure out how to bind him, then. I mean, we bound Dennis, right?” She glanced at Wes for reassurance.

“I’m sure we can. Willow did it before. It shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Angel’s eyes hardened, like hematite. “Oh, how I’d love to get my hands on that one. Redheads always bleed so prettily.”

Cordelia scrambled back.

Angelus laughed, a sound like breaking glass, and grabbed her wrist. “Where ya going, sweetie?”

“W-wes,” she said, terror turning her intestines to liquid.

“W-w-wes,” Angelus mimicked in that high, mincing voice. “S-s-save me!” And then, just as quickly, the black eyes warmed, and a look of horror came into them. “Oh, God. Cordelia, I’m so sorry.” His hand, so capable of bruising, eased, and he began soothing her wrist. “Please, Wes we have to --”

“-- start researching,” Wes said, looking as terrified as Cordelia felt. “I know. In the meantime, we should chain you to the bed, just in case Angelus makes another appearance.”

Angel scrambled away, and his back hit the couch. “No.” His eyes went wide, shifting quickly from Wes to Cordy. “No chaining.”

She realized this was Dennis talking. “Oh, man.” The body behind the wall. Bricked up. Suffocating. She touched the back of his hand, as gently as she could. “It’s okay, Dennis. We won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

He swallowed, and the horrified look shifted to vulnerable, surprisingly human. “I trust you, Cordelia.”

“That’s good, Dennis. Would you mind if I talked to Angel for a minute?” She smiled at him and squeezed his hand in reassurance.

There was a pause, an obvious internal struggle, and then Angel’s eyes, looking frustrated and more than a little worried. “He’s hard to control,” Angel said. “Angelus, I mean. But I’m doing the best I can. What’s the possibility of putting Dennis back into the apartment, now? Or a holding vessel?”

“Good idea,” Wes said. “If you think you can keep a choke-chain on Angelus, we’ll see what we can do about getting Dennis back to his rightful place.”

He pushed off the couch like an old man and stood unsteadily. For a second he looked like he might fall over, but then he righted himself. “I’ll just go back to my flat and get some books. We’ll research and see how best to handle this. In the meantime,” he said, glancing at Angel, “you keep Angelus under control.”

”Don’t leave her alone with me,” Angel said. He looked rumpled, bruised. Anxious.

“Probably not a good idea.” Wes rubbed his forehead, wincing when he hit a bruise. “Can you control him for an hour?”

Angel got to his feet, looking determined. “I can if I have to.”

“Excellent. Cordelia, come with me. We’ll take Angel’s car and get those books.” He reached out a hand and Angel gave him the keys. “Lock the door behind us,” he said.

Cordy followed Wes to the door and looked over her shoulder, taking in the view. Her trashed apartment. Angel standing uncertainly in the middle of the floor.

“We’ll be back,” Cordy assured him.

After she closed the door, she could have sworn she heard him say, “Hurry.”

***

As they wobbled down the stairs, the first rays of morning sun peeked tentatively through the clouds. Wes was clearly staggering due to his involvement in far too many explosions. Cordelia knew her knees-o-Jello were directly related to that brief flash of Angelus. Well, that, and seeing her apartment looking like a herd of wildebeest had passed through it on their annual migration, stopping to have some sort of hairy animal orgy in her living room.

She glanced up at Wes as they hit the sidewalk and headed for the car. He had the wild-eyed stare of the concussed. She’d seen it on Giles often enough. Now there was a man who’d had more than his share of bonks on the head. Maybe it was an English thing. “You really should see a doctor, Wes.”

“Yes,” he sighed, rubbing brown dust from his forehead with a shaky finger. “And while we sit in the waiting room, we can imagine Angelus breaking free and sampling all your neighbours -- a multi-level buffet.”

“Good point.” She nodded, noticing a couple of displaced residents making their way back to their apartments. Nobody would be safe until they had fixed this. And poor Dennis -- was he any better off inside Angel, with his demon, than he had been outside him, with the poltergeist?

They reached the Plymouth just as the Tyvek woman and a couple of her stern-looking colleagues appeared, covered in debris and holding the smoking trap out in front of them.

Cordy gritted her teeth, thinking how close they’d come to losing Dennis to that trap. “Got it, huh?”

The woman shot them the thumbs’ up.

“Ghost-busting freak,” she said, under her breath. Then she held out her hand. “Give me the keys. I’m driving.”

Wes looked like he wanted to argue, but then he wobbled on his feet. “Probably a good idea.”

Cordy helped him into the car, then slid into the driver’s side. She was so tired and freaked that the excitement of driving the Batmobile barely registered. “So,” she said, as she pulled into the street, merging with the morning traffic. “This Angelus thing. What’s up with that?”

Wes leaned his head against the back of the passenger seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Think of it as a juggling act, Cordelia.”

“Huh?”

“What is Angel?” he asked, slow and patient.

She figured the concussion must have fritzed his brain. “A vampire,” she replied, echoing his deliberate tone.

Wes shot her a look, then went back to rubbing his forehead. “And why doesn’t he kill people anymore?”

“Because of his soul. Are you sure you don’t need a CAT scan or something?” she said, cornering hard. Driving Angel’s car was less easy than it looked.

“Because of his soul,” Wes repeated, grabbing for the dashboard. “It doesn’t make his demon go away. He still is what he is. But his soul prevents him from acting on the evil within. It’s taken him almost a hundred years to achieve the control he has today. Now that Dennis is in there too, he’s upset that delicate balance.”

Cordelia pondered that for a moment, didn’t like what she came up with, and hit the gas. The tires squealed, bit into the road, and the car lurched forward.

Wes groaned. “Try to get us back to my apartment alive. I don’t think I can take another heavy impact.”

At any other time, Cordy would have slapped him, but the very real possibility that she might do some actual damage made her check herself. “Sorry, I just want to get this fixed. Fast.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Me, too.”

***

Thirty minutes later they were travelling the same road, in the opposite direction. For the second time that day, the back seat of Angel’s car rattled with jars and vials of mysterious, powdery substances and liquids that looked like fermented fruit juice, and smelled like -- well, Cordelia didn’t really want to know. There were hawthorn berries, and lungwort, and -- yay -- more bile. As if the smoke and patchouli weren’t bad enough, now her place was going to smell like a yak had barfed in it.

Wes was scanning a large, ancient-looking book, which he had propped up on his bony knees. It was so big that the top leaned against the dash.

“Doesn’t reading in the car make you want to hurl?” Cordy asked, lurching around the corner. She was trying to drive carefully, she really was, but the Angel-mobile handled like a bus. This was nothing like driving her dad’s Jag.

“Not normally,” Wes replied.

She wrestled the wheel back the other way. “So, is this gonna be like the time we took the Ethros demon out of that kid? Because if it is, we’re gonna need a stronger box. That last one was a total rip-off.”

“Well, if we’d had the right kind of box, it would have helped.” Wesley glanced up from his book long enough to shoot her a look.

“The store only had a Horshack box. Mute Chinese nuns, blind Tibetan Monks, what’s the diff?” she said, braking suddenly, making Wesley’s book snap shut and loll toward to the floor. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Shorshack box, and I believe the ‘diff’ was apparent when it exploded into kindling,” he replied, returning the book to its upright position.

Okay, there was that. She shrugged. “Do we need something for Dennis? I have Tupperware.” One way or another that airtight seal was gonna come in handy, she was sure of it.

Wesley actually chuckled. “No, the apartment is his container. All we need to do is extricate him from Angel, which should be simple. He’s a gentle being, so I don’t anticipate any of the normal violent reactions that removing a demonic presence would generate.”

Cordelia nodded, relieved. In less than an hour they would have everyone back where they belonged, she could have that nice, hot, bath, and get on the with business of recuperating.

They were nearly there now. She thought of Dennis, and what Wesley had said.

The apartment was his container.

God, the poor guy had been trapped inside those four walls since psycho-mom bricked him up in the 1940’s. He had to be going stir crazy in there. No wonder he was always so happy to see her. How much had the world changed since he last went outside? Would he recognise it now?

A cold, creeping prickle ran up her back. “Wes, Dennis understands about Angel being a vampire, right? I mean, Angel’s been living there a week already.”

“I really don’t know, Cordelia. Why?”

“Well, if you suddenly got your body back after sixty years of being stuck in the same place, what would you do first?” she asked.

He glanced at his lap for a moment, then quickly switched his gaze back to the road, frowning. “I don’t know. I guess I’d want to go out for a -- oh my.”

“Crap!” Cordelia shouted.

***

They stood outside the apartment, the huge book and the box of ingredients clutched in Wesley’s arms, while Cordelia fiddled with the keys. Her fingers shook as she tried to isolate the one for her door.

“Well, it’s still locked.” Wesley tested the knob, juggling his load to one arm. “And no pile of dust.” He pointed to the nearest patch of sunlight.

“Okay, good,” she said, taking a deep breath. The keys jangled as she unlocked the door. They both stepped inside, slow, uncertain.

The trashed living room was empty and dark, the curtains all drawn tight. The only sound was her heart, pounding in her ears. Great. If Angelus was lying in wait for them, he’d already know she was scared.

Wesley deposited his box on the sofa, rubbed his hands on the legs of his pants, and looked around. Silence pressed in, and as much as Cordy had been longing for it last night, now it was unwelcome and creepy. The urge to just get the whole thing over and done with was overwhelming. She fished in her bag, and found the big, wooden cross that she kept for emergencies. Holding it out in front of her, she took a couple of tentative steps toward the kitchen. “Angel?”

A moan came from the bedroom, making them jump. Wes nodded towards the door, and they began to tiptoe forward. Pressure built in Cordy’s chest, and she realised she was holding her breath. Letting it out in a slow, steady stream, she peeked around the edge of the open door. Wesley crowded in behind her, as they hovered on the threshold.

Angel sat, curled in on himself, with his back against edge of the bed. He clutched his knees to his chest, fingers pressed so hard into his calves that his fingernails disappeared into the indentations in his pants. His eyes were screwed shut, and his lip dribbled blood, as if he’d bitten it.

A strange mixture of compassion and terror gripped her. The new Cordy wanted to go to him, help him. The old Cordy wanted to run the hell away. Actually, quite a lot of the new Cordy wanted to do that, too.

“Angel,” Wesley said, his voice low, cautious. It reminded her of those guys in the movies who tried to talk jumpers down from window ledges. “How are you doing?”

“Great,” Angel ground out, from between clenched teeth. “Did you…?”

“Yes, yes, we have the spell.”

Angel opened his eyes slowly, looked up, and smiled -- his lips a cruel curve. “You are so far out of your league here, Wes.” He began to laugh, that same shattering-glass sound, and Cordy felt her knees give. Then his teeth snapped down, breaking through his lip again, and he groaned, curling back down into a black, trembling ball.

She took a deep, shaky breath. She wanted to run -- keep going until she ran out of ground to cover. Every instinct was screaming, get out, get out, get out…

But she couldn’t. Apart from the fact her legs had stopped working, she couldn’t shake the sudden memory of him, plunging over Russel Winters’s balcony, cradling her in his arms, bullets plowing into his back. Bursting into the auction room to save her eyeballs. Defying hospital staff and sleeping by her bed.

Now it was her turn to be the strong one. “Wes, get the box. Quickly.”

Wesley nodded, shot another glance at Angel, and backed out of the door. Cordy could hear his feet on the floorboards as he ran across the living room.

Still holding the cross up like a shield, she stepped into the room. No doubt they were gonna have to make a circle around Angel, which would be difficult with him wedged against her bed. “Can you move?” she asked.

Angel didn’t, or couldn’t reply.

Wesley barrelled back in, dropping the box of ingredients in the middle of her bed. He took one look at Angel, and braced his feet against the dresser, shoving the bed away far enough for Cordelia to make a wobbly sand-circle on the floor. More stones and feathers, berries, the bile, a couple of crystals, something green and crumbly that smelled like mothballs, and they were ready. Angel trembled, his hands turning whiter than before.

“Quick, quick!” Cordy hissed, grabbing the matches and lighting the big, yellow candle that Wes had dumped on her bedside table.

Wesley pushed his glasses up his nose, placed the big spell book on the bed, and began to chant.

Cordelia’s stomach churned, partly from the smell of the bile, mostly from nerves. This had to work. She needed a respite, just a small one, from all this horrible-ness. The last couple of weeks had been worse than high school, and that was saying something.

Her hair began to whip around her face as the air in the room swirled. She braced herself, prepared for more flying objects. Angel stirred and moaned again, a sound like a trapped animal. Her skin prickled into goose-flesh. God, if he couldn’t hear her heart before, there was no doubt he could now. It was just about hammering its way out of her chest.

All the drawers in her dresser began to rattle, the bed shook, and one by one, the feathers took flight from the circle of sand and stones, and began to sail through the air. The wind formed a pattern, spiralling clockwise, picking up sand and berries as it concentrated around where Angel sat, drawn in on himself so tight he was almost imploding.

Wesley raised his voice, and it sounded thin and reedy above the whistling of the mini-tornado. Little bolts of lightning crackled above the swirling circle of debris. The air hummed with electricity, and the hair on Cordelia’s arms stood on end. Something didn’t feel right --

Angel threw his head back, arching up on his knees, arms outstretched. His eyes snapped open, glowed yellow, and a blood-curdling cry worked its way up from somewhere deep in his gut, spilling out, raising Cordy’s hackles.

“Cordy!” he shouted, his hands flying to his chest, fingers clawing. “No!”

“Wes?” she yelled, looking over to where Wesley was barking out a stream of Latin.

Wesley’s voice faltered, then picked up again.

“Stop!” Angel jerked forward, fell to his hands and knees, and reached out an arm towards them. “Oh, God, no…”

“We’re hurting him,” she shouted above the din. Wesley shook his head, kept chanting.

“Cordy,” Angel croaked, his dark eyes finding hers, locking on. He clutched at his chest, and his lips formed one soundless word. “Soul.”

Her stomach plummeted away, realisation sweeping into the void. “Stop!” she yelled, throwing herself towards the bed. The book bounced up, and over the side, landing on the edge of the circle and sending stones and herbs scattering. The whirlwind sputtered, like a failing outboard motor, and bits began dropping out of it. First the stones, then the berries, spattering on the wooden boards. Sand rained in sprinkles, and as the wind evaporated, the feathers see-sawed their way slowly down. Calm descended over the room.

Angel collapsed in a heap, eating floor.

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” Wesley snapped, throwing his already-busted glasses down on the bed. “It was working.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t just taking Dennis out,” she said, putting a trembling hand over her stomach.

“Oh?” Wesley, put his hands on his hips, and his eyes went wide. “Oooh. I see.”

They both turned to Angel, who twitched a couple of times, and groaned. As he rolled on his side, Cordy grabbed for Wesley’s hand, prepared to run.

Angel raised his head, looked at them both with eyes that were neither his nor Angelus’, and said, “Cordy, I’m scared.”

***

Cordelia turned the gas on under the teakettle, and spooned coffee into three big mugs. The muted hum of the television was calming, and after the tension of the day, she finally felt her nerves beginning to settle. The stress, those mind-bending drugs that still coursed through her body, and several hours of back-breaking cleaning had magnified the drained, wobbly feeling that she couldn’t seem to shake off. It was good to just putter around the kitchen, doing mundane things.

The day had been surreal, to say the least. Once it was clear that Angelus was no longer a danger -- and Wesley still hadn’t worked that one out -- they’d unpacked some of Angel’s smelly, charred books, and Wes started researching.

Angel/Dennis hadn’t said a lot. He’d taken a long nap on her bed, while she’d tidied up the bombsite that was her apartment. Then he’d come out, picked up a big book, and divided his time between reading and watching the TV.

Both people in Angel’s body seemed subdued, disoriented, and she could tell they were finding their equilibrium. Just like she did every time she came out of a vision -- finding herself again, among thoughts and feelings that belonged to other people.

The kettle shrilled, snapping her out of her reverie. She lifted it, pouring steaming water over the little brown granules, making them dance and dissolve. Since their old machine was now just a melted lump of metal and plastic, they had to make do with instant. Right now, it smelled better than any coffee ever had.

Cordy looked up, the kitchen window turning pink with the sunset, her own reflection just visible in the glass.

“Can I help?” Angel’s voice behind her made her drop the teaspoon in the sink. The clatter jangled like her nerves, instantly on edge again.

“Jeez, Angel. Don’t do that!” she gasped, turning to glare at him.

“I’m sorry.” The soft smile on his face faded.

She shook her head. “Dennis, no, it’s all right. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Ah-hah!” Wesley banged his hand on the dining table.

She carried his mug of coffee to him, setting it on a coaster. “Is this like the ah-hah of an hour ago, when you remembered your favourite sweater was at the dry-cleaner, or is it an actual, useful ah-hah?”

“I think I know what happened,” he replied, double-checking the page in front of him.

Angel drew up a chair, put five teaspoons of sugar into his mug, and stirred vigorously, until he realized they were staring at him.

“Just what we need, a vampire on a sugar high,” Cordy said.

“I think that’s Dennis’ preference, not Angel’s,” Wesley replied, looking intrigued.

Angel took a sip, and pulled a face, pushing the coffee away. “Ugh, even with vampire tastebuds, that’s terrible.” He got up from the table, shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and began to pace the room. He came to a halt in front of the curio cabinet, and turned back to them, his face anxious. “How do we get him out of me?”

“First things first.” Wes held up a finger.

Cordy picked up her coffee, which Angel -- or Dennis -- had put on the table for her. “You don’t know how to get him out, do you?”

“Not yet,” Wes admitted. “But I have a theory about how we got from Angel --” he waved a hand at Angel, who had taken her crystal unicorn off the newly-resurrected display on the curio cabinet, and was holding it up to his nose, seemingly fascinated by the play of refracted light on his face, “-- to this. Angel is a vampire --”

“Who is about to get staked if he doesn’t put that down,” she interrupted, raising her voice.

“A vampire,” Wes repeated, drawing the word out. “A demon without a soul. And a ghost is basically just a soul, unbound to a physical form. When a possession occurs, that soul enters someone by force. Your standard exorcism works on the principle of banishing the soul that doesn’t belong in that person’s body.”

“And you think, because my soul was put back inside me unnaturally, the spell tried to pull it out as well?” Angel said, carefully returning the ornament, and returning his hands to his pockets.

“Exactly!” Wesley beamed.

“Well, that’s bad, isn’t it?” Cordy sighed, sliding her butt onto the edge of the table.

“Not entirely,” Wesley said, poking his finger at a line of text in some demon language that meant nothing to her. “We haven’t seen any more of Angelus, so it obviously did something to subdue Angel’s demon.”

“Let me guess, you have a theory about that, too,” Cordy said, sipping her coffee.

“Indeed. I believe it’s a bit like identical twins. They share the same genes, and often have a psychic link. A sort of a soul-bond, if you like. They feel each other’s pain, emotions, and such. Dennis and Angel are sharing the same body, not just the same gene sequence, so it’s more pronounced. There’s bound to be some sort of blurring between one soul and the other. I think pulling them both to the surface with the exorcism has kind of -- stuck them together.” Wesley smacked his palms together, emphasising the point. “Angel’s soul must be taking strength from Dennis -- helping him control Angelus. How, I’m not sure. But the proof is right here.”

Cordy looked at Angel, who rocked on his heels, tense and fidgety. “Won’t that make it even harder to get Dennis out?” she said.

“That’s the problem,” Angel said. “Dennis doesn’t *want* to come out.”

Wesley’s face fell. “Of course. That’s why the unbinding didn’t work.” He stared off into space, thinking. “But if my assumptions are correct, the longer we leave it, the harder it will be. Angel, what do you suggest?”

“I don’t care what you have to do,” Angel said. “I want my body back.”

“We’ll do our best. I promise,” Wesley said, his voice soft. He reached for another book.

Cordy glanced down at herself, smeared with dirt, soot from the books, blood from the bathtub, and little bits of ectoplasmic residue which she’d had to scrub off her front door. She slid off the table. “I’m going to try having a long, hot bath. Without the demon-y interruptions, this time.”

“Hmmm,” Wes mumbled, already buried in his research again.

***

Cordy turned on the bathtub tap and waited, breath held, to see what would happen.

Water, warm and clear, shot free. Her shoulders dropped somewhere south of her ears. “Whew,” she said. “No more Exorcist.” She shook her head and glanced up at the ceiling. “You were killing the last decent towels I had left.”

She dropped the plug in and turned to the mirror to brush her hair. While she brushed, her gaze was drawn to the mirror and over her shoulder, where she could see that there wasn’t any steam rising from the tap.

“Hotter,” she said, under her breath. Of course nothing happened, just as she’d known it wouldn’t. But the habit was ingrained in her now. She depended on Dennis to take care of her, almost as she’d come to depend on Angel. Not having him hovering near her felt wrong, empty.

Her heart dropped. No one to pick up her clothes or run her bath or scrub her back. No one to comfort her when she had a vision or got lonely in the middle of the night.

Instead, he sat out there on the couch in Angel’s body, making Angel look like a self-confidence-challenged high school boy. “And what is up with that?” But, of course, it was all Polygrip’s fault. Who could grow up to be a man when his mother kept his balls in her purse?

Cordy slid into the water and adjusted the taps on the way down. She let her hair float around her and soaked off the sticky remnants of blood, of ectoplasm, and of the rotten-egg stench left behind by the expanding ghost.

After the last few days in the hospital, being home in her own tub was better than a pint of Chunky Monkey and the latest Grisham. Even as she floated, images flickered behind her closed eyelids and, unable to stop them, her body clenched. So much pain….

She sucked in a deep breath, sat up and reached for the shampoo. Enough with the Heathcliff act. There was enough worry in the world without adding hers to it. They’d just have to take one case at a time, just like they always did.

And right now, that case was taking up space on her living room couch.

She squirted iridescent Pantene into her palm just as a knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Yeah?”

“I, uh --” came the voice on the other side.

“Spit it out, Angel. Or Dennis, whoever.” It felt good to rub the fresh-smelling shampoo through her hair, to wash away the last couple of days.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Okay, that sounded like Dennis. “Volunteering for back-scrubbing detail?”

There was a little squeak. “Um, uh --”

She laughed. “It’s okay, Dennis. I’m fine. Why don’t you go see what Wes is doing?”

Silence bloomed and she slid back under and rinsed her hair. When she came up the knock sounded again. “Trying to have a private moment, here.”

“It’s me, Cordy.” Okay, that was definitely Angel.

She rubbed soap on the loofah up and scrubbed her arms. “Yeah, Angel. I’m here. I’m fine. No blood in the water, no freakiness ensuing.”

“Good. But that’s not why I’m here.”

She arched at eyebrow at the door as she scrubbed her back. “I knew it. My ghost cares more about me than you do.” Suddenly she was struck by the memory of Angel’s face when she woke. How in that one moment, she knew she had a family again.

But Angel just made his usual huff, the one that was a cross between amusement and frustration. “I’d smell it, if it were something besides water. Besides, don’t you think getting Dennis back to his rightful place takes top priority, even over getting clean?”

“Please. Tell me about the importance of good hygiene after you’ve stopped taking two showers a day.” She thought of Angel’s face again, naked with fear and need. “Don’t worry, Angel,” she said, softly. “We’ll get Dennis back home, so chill.”

“But…I’m not sure I’m ready to go back yet,” came Angel’s voice, on a lower volume.

Cordy shook her head, confused. Then she realized that she was talking to Dennis. Much as she loved them both, going back and forth between them was making her feel schizo.

She imagined Dennis, head drooping, hands in his pockets, fighting to stay embodied. Angel, stuck in there somewhere, desperate to have his independence returned.

“We’ll work something out,” she said, rinsing off soap suds and stepping out of the tub. Water puddled on the mat as she dried off and wrapped a towel around her hair. She slid her arms into her satin bathrobe and tied it loosely, then flung the door open, and found herself face-to-face with Angel.

Angel, head down, looked up sharply. His eyes widened. “Uh, Cordy…?”

“Please, like you haven’t seen it all before,” she said, as she brushed past. “Not mine, of course. Well, Dennis has, so --” She whirled. “Wait. Do you have his memories? Have you seen me --?”

Angel blinked. “Uh --” His gaze dropped.

Horror struck. “Oh, yuck. Dennis, why’d you have to show him that?” She closed the door behind her, wondering why she even bothered, and went to the dresser to grab her lotion bottle. The clean smell of Lubriderm hit the air as she smoothed it on.

“I don’t think he had a choice,” Angel said through the wood. “I -- we -- It’s probably harder on him, since he got all of my memories, too.”

Cordy went still then looked up at the door. “All of them?” Silence gave her all the answer she needed. “Well, crap,” she said, putting the bottle back and pulling clean underwear out of the top drawer. She shimmied it up her legs.

“Yeah. It’s, uh, kind of disturbing.”

She dried her hair with quick strokes then dropped the towel in a heap on the mattress. After tugging on a pair of gray jeans and a bra, she got a button-up shirt out of the closet. It was one of Angel’s old white ones that she’d stolen when she first started working for him. She slid it on, snuggling into its soft, comforting embrace.

When she opened the door, he had disappeared, and she walked toward the living room, not sure what to say next. Dennis got Angel *and* Angelus. And they got him.

For the first time, she thought, as she walked down the hall pulling a brush through her hair, she could see both of her best friends in the same plane -- problem was, they were stuck in the same body. And here she was between the two of them, wanting to make sure they both were happy and safe.

“Wow,” she said, coming into the room to find the two -- three? four? -- men sitting on the couch, staring at the TV. “This is totally weird.” She passed them on the way to the kitchen. “Anyone hungry?”

“I could eat,” Wes said.

“Skin-and-bones is hungry? What a surprise.” She stared into her freezer, at the half-eaten carton of Ben & Jerry’s, the two remaining Popsicles, and the bag of ice. “Wanna order a pizza?”

There was a shuffle, and then Angel walked in. “I -- Could we go out to eat?”

She turned. “Okay, that *so* has to be Dennis, because Angel would never ask to go out to eat.” She pulled her hair over one shoulder and finished brushing it into a long, untangled fall.

Angel stared at her hands, looking hypnotized by their movement. “I just…. I haven’t been out in a long time.” He gestured, glance sliding away, like he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have.

“Right,” Cordy said, heart twisting. “Give me a minute.”

She went to the bedroom, ditched the white button-up and pulled on a bright orange-and-yellow baby doll t-shirt. Poking her feet into her orange flip flops left her an extra minute to do something with her hair. It dampened her shirt and neck, and she knew she didn’t have time to dry it, so she pulled it into one, long ponytail.

She slicked on lip gloss and touched her lashes with mascara in the vanity mirror over her dresser. “Ready,” she said, meeting the guys at the front door.

Angel stared at her. “I don’t mean to be rude, Cordelia, but are you sure that’s appropriate attire for a meal out?”

She glanced down at the t-shirt and tight jeans. “Huh?”

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Angel fumbled to put on his long, leather duster. “I don’t mean any insult. I’m just used to women wearing things that are a bit more… modest.” He cleared his throat.

“And again, I say, huh?” Cordy said, glancing up at him. “You see me every day.”

Angel, posture changing, ran his hand over his face and sighed. “Sorry,” he said, in his own voice. “Dennis is a little freaked out.”

Wes reached into the hall closet and handed Cordy her jean jacket. “Why don’t you wear this?” He glanced at Angel. “I’m sure he sees things very differently through living eyes. He must be experiencing a profound culture shock.”

“Something like that.” Angel nodded and glanced at Cordy. “You ready?”

Cordy slipped the jacket on, then picked up her purse. “Let’s blow.”

Angel seemed to relax. “Blow what?” he asked, brow wrinkling.

“We’re gonna have to get a little sign for you to hold up so we know which one is which,” Cordy said. “‘Cause that could have been either of them.” She eyeballed Wes. “Any ideas for telling them apart?”

Wes shook his head. “This is certainly going to take some getting used to.”

“Understatement of the century,” Cordy said, pulling the house keys out of her purse.

Angel cleared his throat, and when she looked up he was holding out his hand. “Allow me,” he said.

She frowned. “Allow you to what?”

“Lock the door,” Wes said. He rubbed his forehead. “I feel like a translator.”

Cordy handed Angel the key and watched as he locked the door and made sure it was secure. Then he pocketed it. “Snug as a bug in a rug,” he said.

She shook her head. “I think I’m gonna *need* a translator if he keeps this up,” she whispered to Wes as they started down the hall. Except for the occasional flicker of TV sets, or a muted conversation, it was quiet after the ghostly scare.

They exited the building and started down the sidewalk. Angel turned in circles as he walked, eyes wide with wonder, and Cordy was sure he was gonna trip over his own feet at any second. He looked like a little kid on his first visit to Disneyland.

She reached out, grasped his elbow, brought his attention back to her and Wes. “Where to?”

“I really want a hamburger,” he said, and the longing for food sounded so strange coming from Angel’s mouth that Cordy laughed.

“That is *so* weird. But, a hamburger would be great.” She glanced at Wes. “Wanna go to Fatburger?”

He nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“They still have Fatburger?” Angel asked in Dennis’s voice.

“Only the best burger in America,” Wes said. “Or so they claim.”

Cordy elbowed him. “Like you could judge a real, American burger, Brit-boy.”

Wes pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ll have you know, I’ve eaten in many a pub.”

“And in one sentence, you’ve made my entire point,” Cordy said.

“There was a diner down in Hollywood,” Angel said, interrupting them. “Near the hotel with murals of movie stars --” He snapped his fingers, obviously searching for a memory, but came up short. “It’s so strange. I thought I remembered everything.” He glanced down at his feet. “I used to take my girlfriend there for milkshakes.”

Cordy started to wind her arm through his then stopped, realizing she’d never act that casually friendly with Angel, even after Vocah. “What’s it like?”

Dennis’s gaze filled Angel’s dark eyes, and he tentatively brushed her hand with his. She took the cue and slid her hand into the crook of his arm, grinning up at him.

“What’s what like?” he asked, walking her to the Batmobile and opening the car door for her like a true gentleman.

“Being human again,” she said, as she slid in the front seat. “Well, being up and walking around again.”

He glanced around the parking lot, eyes finally returning to her. “Strange. Everything’s different. But people...” He smiled, that beautiful, heartbreaking smile. “People still seem the same.”

“Except for your mother,” Cordy said.

Angel winced.

“Oops,” Cordy said.

Wes pulled the driver’s seat up and slid in the back. “Yes, that’s good, Cordelia. Do remind the man of how his mother walled him up and suffocated him to death.”

Angel slid behind the wheel of the car and started it, then shifted into drive. “It’s okay,” Angel said. “I don’t mind.” They rolled forward a few feet then screeched to a stop.

Cordy braced against the dash even as Wes “whuffed” against the front seat. The impact caused his glasses to fly off and land next to her. “Maybe you mind more than you realized,” she said, staring down at Wes’s glasses.

“Ow,” he said from the back seat. “My ribs.”

“Sorry,” Angel said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I know how to drive.” He looked at her, half frantic, half in apology. “I always took the bus.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Angel knows how to drive. Just use his memories.”

“It’s not that easy -- I mean, there’s some bleed-over between the two, but it’s more like waking up from a dream and just… knowing things. Does that make sense?” His soft voice begged her to understand, to not find him lacking.

Wes fumbled in the front seat and found his glasses. “I’ll drive!”

“No!” Cordy and Angel said in unison.

Suddenly Angel sat up straighter, his body relaxing into its familiar, confident lines. He put the car in drive, and they pulled into traffic.

Cordy shook her head. “Okay, that had better be Angel driving now.”

“It’s me,” he said. “And can I just say that this sucks?”

“You mean, the whole --” she made a vague gesture -- “body-switching thing?”

He shot her a look. “No, Cordelia, the fact that I’m about to eat a huge hamburger.”

“Ooh, nice,” she said. “Was that sarcasm?”

“Ahem,” Wes said, leaning his elbows on the back of the bench seat. “I’m sure this is stressful beyond imagining, but we’re working on getting it resolved.”

“By going out to eat?” Angel asked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I work better when I’m full,” Cordy put in.

Angel shot her another exasperated look.

By the time they pulled into Fatburger, Cordy was ready to have Dennis back. At least he wasn’t Mr. Mopey-pants. “Let’s eat,” she said.

Angel winced. “Do you have to slam the door, Cordelia?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your negative vibe is really dragging me down.”

“Well, excuse me,” Angel sniped, as he swept past her and into the restaurant. The diner-style interior made him look like an anachronism in his overly-chic coat and gelled up hair. “You try losing control of your body, and see how you feel.”

Cordy arched a brow and didn’t say a word.

Angel opened his mouth then closed it again. “Never mind.”

Wes worked his way to an empty booth. “Do you find you’re able to switch more easily between the both of you, now?” he asked.

They slid in, Cordy next to Angel and across from Wes. “Yeah, can you just do it like I Dream of Jeannie, and blink between the two?”

Angel shook his head. “No, it’s more like --” He let out a long breath and dropped his gaze.

When he looked up, she saw Dennis. “Okay, that’s just freaky,” she said.

“Yes, rather,” Wes agreed, excitedly. “I’ve been thinking. I know time is of the essence, but this is the sort of thing we might want to do some research on.” He leaned forward, almost bubbling with enthusiasm. “I could interview each of you, find out how the entities work --”

“And what, write it up in the Watcher’s Review?” Cordy said. She waved her hand. “Please, like anyone cares about this besides a bunch of stuffy old English guys.”

Just as Wes was about to answer, the waitress came to take their orders.

Angel stared at her hair, shaved nearly to the scalp and dyed blue. Cordy elbowed him and he dropped his gaze.

“I’ll have, um,” he said, glancing out from under his lashes, “a burger, fries and a chocolate shake.” The waitress nodded and turned to Cordy without missing a beat.

“Turkey burger, salad, dressing on the side. Diet Coke,” Cordy said.

Wes ordered a burger and chips.

“Fries, you idiot,” Cordy said, with an affectionate eye roll.

“We stuffy Brits have a difficult time with your butchering of the English language,” Wes said.

Cordy wrinkled her nose at him then turned to Angel, who was ignoring them in favor of the blue hair. “People still the same, huh?” she asked, poking him in the ribs.

He jerked and made a very un-Angel-like giggle. “Could you believe her hair?” he whispered as the waitress left. “Why would anyone do that?”

“It’s cool, I guess,” Cordy said, shrugging. “If you like that post-punk, Joey Ramone sort of thing.”

Seemingly without thinking, Angel twisted a strand of hers between his fingers. “I like yours better,” he said, eyes warm and soft.

Her heart sped up and she found herself smiling at him like she would if she were on a date. Then she stopped because she realized what she was doing.

Angel, acting all sweet and… human. She really shouldn’t be turned on by that, because he was still just a dead guy.

But, he was a hot dead guy.

She reached for the Diet Coke the waitress set down in front of her, and took a swig.

Someone dropped a quarter in the juke-box and Harry Connick’s, “Our Love Is Here To Stay,” rolled out. Angel’s eyebrows rose. “I recognize that song.”

“Remake,” Cordy said, slurping her soda. “When Harry Met Sally? With the diner scene where Meg Ryan fakes it?”

“Fakes what?” Wes said, brow wrinkling.

Cordy snorted. “Like I’m gonna fake an orgasm in front of you.”

Angel actually blushed. “Uh --”

Cordy laughed. “Sorry, Dennis.” She glanced over to find him staring at her. She caught his gaze, caught her breath. “What?”

His fingers in her hair tugged her closer and his eyes dropped to her mouth. Finally, in a gruff voice, he asked, “Would you like to dance?”

She stared at him, confused by the sheer wrongness of that remark. “What? You don’t dance, Angel.”

“I don’t think that was Angel,” Wes said, quietly.

“Oh,” Cordy said. And then it hit her. “OH.” She slid off the booth, suddenly shy. “Sure, Dennis. I’ll dance with you.”

His face lit up and he met her on the bright tile floor. Extending a hand, he pulled her to him.

She felt clumsy, unable to follow his footing. Embarrassed by the other diners who were staring at them.

“Here,” he said, pulling back enough to glance down at their feet. “It’s easy. You follow me like this, see?”

His eyes met hers, vibrant, glowing with life, and she sucked in a breath. Stunned, she looked down at their feet, watching as she got the hang of it, as her orange flip-flops began moving in tandem with his big, black boots.

The only dancing she’d done had been at the Bronze, so the feel of his hands on hers, of his hips moving in time with hers, sent a spike of heat through her. Angel’s hands, so big and cool, suddenly seemed warmed by Dennis’s life force. His eyes, usually reserved, lit with joy. And his smile --

Her heart trembled. “Now I know how Demi Moore felt,” she whispered. Then she leaned her head against his collarbone, closed her eyes and let him lead her around the floor.

Finally the song ended, and a smattering of applause shocked her out of her happy, Patrick Swayze daydream. She looked around to see the other diners watching them, some smiling, others with a “you must be crazy” look on their faces.

She turned back to Angel, who still held her hand tightly in his, who still cupped her waist with a surprisingly confident grace.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

She smiled, but inside she was churning. This was Angel -- her boss, Buffy’s boyfriend, Angelus -- not Dennis. He wasn’t safe, he wasn’t available. He wasn’t so many things.

He *was* about to kiss her.

His mouth edged toward hers, slowly, slowly. Her breath backed up in her chest --

“Order up!” the waitress said, brushing by them to drop the plates on the table.

Cordy and Angel jumped apart. “Great dance!” she said. “Thanks!” And then she slid back into the booth, right into his spot.

“Um,” he said, following, that uncertain look back on his face. “My shake?”

She quickly traded their drinks and plates and concentrated hard on putting mustard on her burger.

Across from them, Wes stared. “Perhaps we should get this resolved sooner rather than later,” he said.

Cordy glanced up at him. “Ya think?”

on to part 3