Title: Waffles
Rating: PG
First Posted: October 7, 2001
Notes: A continuation of "That Vision Thing", episode 2 of Series 3 Angel.
Disclaimer: The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Feedback: Cherished. admin@florrie-fic.com
From the penultimate scene in "That Vision Thing":
ANGEL: Heh, Cordy, I’m glad you’re feeling better...
CORDY: You’re not really a foodie, I know, but I saw this great big industrial kitchen that we have and never use and I thought that (starts as toaster pops) one of these days we should get someone in here that can cook. (puts a waffle on each plate and squeezes syrup over them) (sighs) Here we are.
ANGEL: Heh, here we are.
CORDY: Angel… what you did for me was unbelievably selfless and brave and amazing. And it’s so great to know that the next vision I have will just be blindingly painful and not turn me back into the elephant man or anything.
ANGEL: I hear a big but coming.
CORDY: But what if that guy you freed is someone or something that’s truly terrible. Wolfram & Hart won this time and it’s all my fault.
ANGEL: It’s not about winning, Cordelia, it’s about what’s at stake. And in this particular scenario, you’re way more important than winning. I can’t worry about that guy I set free. I did what I had to do. I’ll just deal with the consequences when they happen.
“So, um, eat! You don't want it cold!”
Cordelia hopefully prodded the waffle covered plate an inch closer to Angel. She watched as Angel frowned at the stickiness. You’d think it was a piece of cardboard drizzled with tree-resin that lay in front of him instead of yummy breakfasty goodness.
“I don’t eat... waffles.”
Cordelia mentally chided the fragment of over-ambitious nature which had earlier whispered “waffles and syrup” for the shared breakfast. With a barely suppressd sigh she realised she should have gone for peanut butter on toast instead of trying to be adventurous.
“Is it the waffle or the syrup, because I can throw that one and make you another with honey? butter?”
“No, Cordy, no. I don’t eat. Waffles, they’re not...”
“Liquid. Of course not. I’ll get you some good old plain oh pos. Give me the plate.”
“No. Wait. You know I don’t get much enjoyment out of eating, so I want to know, why the waffle? And don’t give me another line about using the kitchen.”
“Just a thank you, you know. A meal. Kinda like the old days, remember when you used to cook us breakfast?”
Cosy early morning bacon and eggs in the old basement kitchen. Long dead Doyle, and later Wesley, and Angel and herself. Angel doing all the cooking, comfortable post up-all-night-on-a-case “hmmm, great eggs” and “pass the toast”. So today there was no Wesley. Only Cordelia and Angel. Now why couldn’t he be happy with a breakfast? Why did he want to ask questions? Questions are icky because you’re expected to provide answers.
“Yeah, but I don’t need food so you can thank me. I don’t want you to thank me.”
“Why not? It’s what people do and ... and ... I’m groping here. You sure I can’t use the kitchen?”
“Cordelia I’m not most people. In fact I’m not people... a, a person. Is that what this is about? Have you forgotten?”
Cordelia’s eyelids dropped swiftly to hide the startled surprise and she lowered her gaze to her own uneaten, cold, waffle. Ever since he had gone away to the monastery she had been layering her inner Angel with fine gauzy qualities like... oh, moist breath and healthy mortality and warm skin. He had been hurting so much. How could she not feel what he was feeling, the horribly certainty that he did feel, as deeply as any living soul. To ease the pain of his pain Cordelia had endowed Angel’s undead, cold body with warmth and life. Somehow she thought, a warm body didn’t seem quite so desolate in the lonely grief of death. Giving him life had helped her to deal with his suffering and with his absence. Even on his return, it was a comfort when comfort was no longer needed. Okay, so Angel wasn’t human. Then why did he seem more human than anyone she knew?
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. But, I can pretend. Who does it hurt?”
“Me,” he said gently, “Maybe you. I am what I am, Cordy. Always will be.”
A vampire. Undead. With a soul, don’t forget the soul. A vampire with the promise of mortality. Talk about forgetting, he couldn’t forget ...
“Your Shanshu and...”
“Not in your life-time. Probably, not in your life time. If ever.”
Cordelia poked her cooling breakfast and delicately licked at the syrupy patch on her finger.
“Sometimes I can go for days without thinking of you as a vampire and everything is nice - humany nice. It’s so easy. You act much more like a real person now, smiles and, and laughing and ... caring.”
How long had it been since she had consciously checked for a stake or cross in her bag? The vial of holy water had been drunk months ago during a particularly lengthy tailing detail one warm afternoon. And never replaced. Careless really, there were so many bad vampires out there.
“Being your friend, letting me be your friend is...wonderful, but I don’t want you to forget what I am, Cordy.”
“I don’t, not really. I fake forget. Is it the syrup? I can scrape it off and drip blood over...”
“Thanks but no. Actually I would like some blood.”
Before Angel could rise from his chair, Cordelia opened the refrigerator door and deftly transferred the blood from container to beaker to microwave. She handed him the warmed fluid and went back to prodding her now moribund waffle.
With almost studious deliberation, Angel raised the blood to his mouth and gulped noisily at the thick fluid. Cordelia realised the display was intentional, provoked by their conversation, trying to arouse her disgust. He failed on the disgust, she thought. She had seen it often enough before. It was the other part of Angel. Part of his vampire. Vampire. A shiny dribble of deep red trickled from the corner of the vampire’s cold lips as he drained the last drops of blood from his glass.
A glint of extra long tooth glared out from under his curled, bloodied lip. As Cordelia watched, the final fraudulent layers of humanising gauze were rudely whisked away when Angel lazily dragged his tongue over his lips, completing his breakfast with a satisfied sigh.
“I know you, Cordelia. I don’t want you to forget.”
