Past, Imperfect

2.

They didn't speak the whole way back to Angel's apartment. When the cab pulled up in front of the building, Angel paid the driver and climbed out of the back seat without a word to Cordelia.

"Miss?" the driver said, turning his face to look at her. "Are you going somewhere else?"

Cordelia hesitated. She knew perfectly well what was going on. The only decision that remained to be made was whether or not she could live in Buffy Summers' shadow.

"No," she said, gathering her wrap and handbag and sliding across the vinyl seat to the door Angel hadn't even bothered to close. She could, if she were desperate, accept the open door as a subliminal message that he wanted her to follow him up to his condo. But Cordelia was no fool. She knew it had been months since he'd laid eyes on Buffy and she knew it must have knocked him for a loop. If she were a different sort of woman she would go to Angel and tell him that they were through, that he was pretending to feel something that he, clearly, did not feel. But Cordy wasn't that kind of woman. She was practical and calculating. She didn't want a messy break-up, especially not now, just days before May sweeps.

She swung her legs out of the cab and slammed the door behind her. Moments later she was standing in front of Angel's apartment door. Not really an apartment, actually. Angel owned the entire building. The bottom floor was a labyrinth of rooms housing books, the upstairs was an elegantly decorated flat filled with antiques and exuding the personality of its owner.

Cordelia hesitated. If she knocked, the chances were good that he wouldnanswanswer and she'd feel foolish standing in the hall, even though there was no one to see her. She wrapped her hand around the doorknob and turned, half-expecting it to be locked. The knob turned easily and Cordelia found herself in Angel's front vestibule. Somewhere, in a back room, she could hear music. Dropping her wrap and purse on the hall table and sliding off her shoes, Cordelia moved toward the music.

She peered into the dark kitchen, the living room and down the hall to Angel's bedroom. They had never gotten around to discussing where they would live after they were married. Cordy doubted that Angel would ever givethisthis house; he would always want a place to call his own. Would he bring other women here, she wondered, and then dismissed the thought: Of course not. She peered into Angel's bedroom, an immaculately tidy space that barely looked lived in if it weren't for the huge mahogany four post bed and Angel's tuxedo jacket, which lay on a stiff backed chair near the window.

He was in the study. Cordy moved further down the hall and stood in the open door. She could see his shoulder, leaning sideways in the oversized armchair he favoured. His long fingers were curled around a tumbler of amber liquid, Glen Fiddich, she guessed.

"I thought you might have gone home," he said, quietly.

"I thought you might have thought that," she replied. She moved into the room, walking through the piles of books gingerly, as though touching one might set off a domino effect, toppling every pile in the room.

He'd been crying. She could see that as soon as she sat across from him on the ottoman. She swallowed the dryness in her throat and folded her hands demurely in her lap. This was not the time for one of her stock faces. Angel knew them all and hadn't been fooled by a single one.

What she wanted to do was remain dignified. She didn't want to cry or beg, although she could feel the tears burning her eyes and could aly hey hear the pleading words form in her head. This wasn't about love. In many ways, her engagement to Angel had been like a business transaction. A single woman nearing 25 in Hollywood was not above suspicion. She didn't want toflipflip-flopping in the public's eye when it came to her sexuality. Anne Heche's career would never recover, Cordelia knew this for a fact (and had it on good authority from the stylist who cut Anne's hair, that the actress was pretty well read go go back to whatever planet she was from).

But underneath Cordelia Chase's glossy exterior beat the heart of Cordy Chase, almost prom queen; Cordy Chase, the girl whose Dad had bilked the IRS out of millions of dollars; Cordy Chase, the girl who couldn't even hold on to the guy from the wrong side of town. It would never do to let Angel O'Connor slip through her fingers. She'd play dirty if she had to.

She reached behind her and pulled down the zipper on her dress, standing to let the handful of black crepe fall to the floor with a whisper. She felt the weight of Angel's pitying stare and closed her eyes against it. She unclasped the black demi-bra, and let her breasts swing free. She was glad she'd thought to take off her shoes at the door, as she was certain her trembling legs would have toppled her from their considerable height by now.

"Cordy, please," Angel said, words propelled by air.

"Please what?" she said, reaching for his warm hand and cradling it against her breast. Her nipple puckered immediately.

"This isn't going to work," he said.

Cordelia sank to her knees in front of him, and traced the length of his penis through his pants. It seemed small and disinterested, but she hoped that given time she could remedy that.

Angel closed his hand over her wrist and yanked her up. "Stop!" he barked. He leaned over and grabbed her discarded dress and handed it to her, his eyes burning; the colour of the dark coffee he favoured first thing in the morning.

"So, what, you see her and all of a sudden everything we've built together is over?" Cordelia asked, her voice sharp-edged with hurt.

"What have we built together, Cordy?" Angel asked, taking her hands gently in his. "All I've built is a wall."

"I suppose that must make me the gate-keeper then," Cordy said, smiling thinly.

"No. I shouldn't have started this with you. I knew what the consequences would be. This isn't your fault."

Cordelia could feel her chin trembling childishly and she dropped her head.

Reaching out a finger, Angel tilted Cordelia's face up so he could meet her eyes. "I've led a very insular life, Cordelia. Look around you. Do you see family photos or anything that would indicate to you that I wanted to live in a world beyond this one? I haven't been a monk, but I've also only ever been in love with one woman," Angel said, softly.

"And I'm not her," Cordelia said, feeling the first shameful tear trickle down her cheek.

Angel shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Does she know?" Cordelia asked.

Angel slumped back in the armchair and reached for the scotch he had set on a relatively empty corner of the table beside him. He took a sip, winced, and smiled crookedly.

Cordelia wiped away her tears with her fingertips, careful to smooth away any imagined mascara (even though she always wore waterproof to guard against just such occasions) and slipped her dress over her head.

"She was never really a friend of mine in high school," Cordelia said, reaching behind her back to pull the zipper up and discovering it was much easier unzipping. She turned slightly and Angel pulled the zipper to the top. "Thanks. Like I said, we weren't friends."

"I know," Angel said.

"She was good friends with Xander Harris, my old boyfriend. Maybe I never forgave her for that," she continued. "And it wasn't like I went looking for you specifically, Angel. You were just there. Maybe it all began because of jealousy or hurt or whatever, but I do love you."

"It's not like you to be vindictive, Cordy," Angel said.

"Well, I guess I must be a better actress than I thought because it is totally like me to be vindictive," Cordelia said, smiling slightly. "But, nevertheless, I would have married you."

"I know. But I wouldn't have made you happy."

"Perhaps not. Do you think you'd have made Buffy happy?" she asked, not altogether sure she wanted to hear his answer.

"I guess I'll never know," Angel said, sadly.
The
They sat quietly for a few moments; Angel focused on the liquid in his glass, Cordelia contemplating a graceful getaway.

"Can we just keep the whole break-up quiet for a few days?" Cordy asked, finally.

"Certainly," Angel said. Standing, he offered his hand to Cordelia and together they walked to the front of Angel's apartment.

Cordelia slipped into her shoes and stuffed her bra into her small bag. She waited for Angel's last words and lamented that she didn't feel more horrified about being dumped.

"I am sorry," he said. "I should have been more honest with you, with myself."

"It's not always easy to be honest with others, or ourselves," Cordelia said, reaching up to stroke Angel's cheek. "There aren't too many opportunities for second chances in life, Angel. If you have one somewhere down the road, you shouldn't pass it up."

"Thank you, Cordy."

"You're welcome. Good bye, Angel," she said, removing her hand and slipping out of the door.

The silence, normally welcoming, suddenly seemed oppressive to Angel. He could have just smiled and gone on with his plans to marry Cordelia, but that option had become null and void as soon as he'd seen Buffy Summers drift into the Plaza's ballroom with William Bluddy. William Bluddy. Christ. Of all the men in the world to hook up with, why in the hell did she have to choose him? It wasn't a specific grievance that made Angel's neck tense whenever he saw the other man, just an intangible feeling that the man was up to no good.

Locking his door, Angel made his way back to his study, to his books and his scotch and his memories.

***

Buffy had claimed exhaustion when the limo had pulled up in front of her house at two a.m. She knew that Wim wom would expect to come in, but Buffy wasn't sure she'd be able to say no to him tonight. And she wasn't ready to say yes. She'd had no idea it had been his intention to take her to the bookseller's gala and she was barely able to contain her distress when she saw the placard outside of the ballroom. This was the last place she wanted to be because it was the first place she was likely to see Angel and she was sure she couldn't cope with that.

Would William have known how uncomfortable she'd feel in this room if Angel were there? Buffy would like to think that William wouldn't be so underhanded and had come merely for business reasons and brought Buffy because she was his "girlfriend," in the loosest sense of the word.

Buffy had put on her best face and smiled politely with feigned interest over books and folios. She'd sipped white wine, barely mg itg it through a single glass, and mingled, but she didn't see Angel. It was only near the end of the night that she'd begun to settle down, comforted by the fact that Angel couldn't possibly be in the men's room for this long. William was deep in discussion with someone about a box of books discovered in an attic somewhere when Wesley Wyndam-Pryce appeared at her side.

"Buffy," he said, smiling happily.

"Wesley," she replied, equally glad to see this man she had come to know during her short time with Angel.

"What brings you to this stodgy old event?"

Buffy tilted her head to one side, indicating William who was still engrossed in the discussion of the found books.

"Ahh, I see," Wes said, conspiratorially. "Because normally on a Saturday night you'd be..."

"Watching the television and folding laundry, most likely," Buffy laughed. "I thought you were away?"

"Yes, I was, actually," Wes said. "But you can only stand so much of New York, you know."

Buffy laughed. "Yes, it must be a real drag, all those lovely shops and restaurants."

"And yourself? How have you been keeping?" Wes asked, innocently.

Buffy's eyes clouded briefly and cleared suddenly. "I'm good," she said, tipping her glass and pretending to drink. "Great. Good."

"The gallery?"

Buffy had inherited her mother's art gallery as well as her house upon her death. "Well, I have to say it's a steep learning curve for me, but, I think I'm getting the hang of it. I've had some good advice."

Wesley smiled. He'd liked Buffy Summers immediately. Angel had brought her with him to dinner and she had kept the two men amused with stories of her giddy high school and college days. Wes had been amazed at how totally relaxed Angel had seemed in the young woman's presence. He'd known Angel for several years and this was the first girlfriend he'd ever met. He knew that Angel had never lacked for female companionship, but none of them had been permanent fixtures. They'd all had a very short shelf life. Wes had been amazed that Buffy's name was still on the tip of Angel's tongue, weeks after he'd met her. Angel was clearly smitten.

Now, standing before him in a lovely lavender silk dress, which accentuated her slim but feminine figure, Wes was reminded of why Angel had been so taken. And it wasn't just her appearance. Certainly she was captivating, but there was more to it than that. Buffy Summers was smart, faithful and kind. Wesley couldn't imagine what had ever come between the pair and he couldn't ask either one.

"So..." he said.

"So..." shplieplied.

"So, what are we talking about, then?" William said, settling a long arm proprietarily around Buffy's slender midsection.

"New York," Buffy said, quickly. "Wesley's just gotten back."

"Great. How was it?" William asked, clearly indifferent.

"Well, William, you know. It was the Big Apple."

William smirked. He couldn't be sure, but he thought that Wes might be taking the piss out of him. He squeezed Buffy closer.

"Could you watch it with the death grip, William," Buffy whispered.

"Oh, sorry love," William said, easing the pressure only very slightly. "Look at the time, Buffy. We should be heading back home. Wesley," William held out his right hand in order to shake, "it was great to see you again. Come see us when you're next in Sunnydale."

"Yes, indeed." And that might have been the end of it, except that Wesley hadn't liked the way that William wouldn't let go of Buffy; the way he hovered over her as if she were a possession and had implied, with simple phrasing, that he and Buffy were somehow a married couple that he could visit. "Buffy," he said, causing her to turn. "Just before you go, may I have a word?"

"Sure, Wes," she said, taking a step away from William. He stood there, unwilling to go on without her. "I'll just be a second, William. I'll meet you in the lobby."

He looked dubious, but nodded once and turned towards the ballroom entrance.

"What's up, Wes?" Buffy asked.

Wesley indicated a small loveseat in a nearby alcove. "Sit with me for a moment," he said, taking the opportunity to wonder whether it was wise to proceed.

Smoothing her dress beneath her, Buffy sat down elegantly and waited for Wes to join her.

"It's not my place," Wes started and then stopped, dismayed to see immediate tears spring to Buffy's eyes. "Oh dear, Buffy, I'm sorry.\
"
"No. I'm an idiot. You could have been about to tell me that William was the absolute wrong guy for me. That's what it is, isn't it?" she said, hopefully.

"Actually, no, it isn't. But that might well be part 'b' of what I'm about to say," Wes said.

"Then you're going to say something to me about Angel," Buffy said, unclasping her small purse and retrieving a crumpled tissue.

"Oh, here, use this," Wes said, handing her a large, freshly laundered handkerchief.

"Thanks," Buffy said, blowing indelicately. "I saw his picture in the paper. I know about his engagement to Cordelia. I appreciate you trying to tell me, though. I doubt it would have softened the blow any."

"Well, at any rate, at least you know the worst," Wes said, patting Buffy's knee absently.

She sniffed again.

"The thing is, Buffy, he was here tonight. I shouldn't be saying this, in fact it feels rather traitorous, but when you arrived, looking quite radiant on William's arm, Angel looked positively devastated. Not two seconds later, he left."

Buffy gave Wes a watery smile and said, "William's waiting for me. I should go." She stood, her dress falling like water around her, and smiled. "I'll clean this for you and the next time I see you I'll return it."

"That's not necessary, Buffy. I have dozens. It's one of those gifts nieces and nephews give a bachelor, bookish uncle. I have a great many ties, too," Wes chuckled.

"Perhaps not a bachelor for long," Buffy said, nodding towards Fred, who was standing engrossed in a book of restoration comedies.

"Maybe not. We'll see," Wes said.

"Thanks for the handkerchief, Wes. I have to go," Buffy said.

"Buffy," Wes called after her. "You should talk to him."

Barely turning her head, Buffy replied, "I can't. There are no words left."

***

Buffy closed the door on William's disappointed face and headed up the stairs to her room. She wasn't sure how much longer she could put him off. Sooner or later he'd use that headstrong determination to wear down her already depleted defenses. But for now, Buffy did her best to beg off spending any serious alone time with him.

After things with Angel had fallen apart, she'd begun dating in earnest, attaching herself to the quintessential All-American boy. She'd met Riley Finn at a college frat party in the weeks after her mother's death and Angel's desertion. She wasn't enrolled in school anymore, but her old high school friend, Xander Harris had insisted she attend. She felt like a fish hauled out of cool water: hot, flustered and open-mouthed, gaping at the young people around her who only had to worry about handing in their term papers. Her life had been pulled out from under her and she no longer seemed to know how to act frivolously. So she stood near an exit, as inconspicuously as possible, given that her escort was dancing on a table wearing a grass skirt and not much else.

Xander Harris might have seemed like an odd choice for a friend, but Buffy was grateful to have him in her life. While she had never been a fan of his high school girlfriend, Cordelia Chase, she had seen the way Cordy had managed to soften Xander's rough edges. In turn, Xander had brought out something a little more human in Cordy.

"Friend of yours?" Buffy had looked away from Xander's hula act to see Riley Finn smiling down at her.

It hadn't taken much. Buffy had been blind-sided by her mother's death, her sudden independence and Angel's disappearance. Tall, handsome, bland Riley Finn had moved bit by bit into Buffy's empty life, tugging at the corners of her world and fitting all the pieces back together again. It had been easy to pretend that he was perfectly suitable, even when Buffy knew he was anything but. Could he have been more opposite to Angel? She doubted it. But it had been long weeks before she finally had the courage to end things with him. In the end, she'd only been able to make the break because she knew that his feelings for her were much stronger than hers had been for him. She was trying to replace the irreplaceable.

Did she regret sleeping with Riley? Buffy couldn't say for sure. He had been an attentive lover: kind and considerate, patient and exact. Dull as dishwater. While it wasn't necessarily fair to compare, Buffy wasn't all that anxious to crawl into bed with mediocrity again. It made for a lousy bedfellow. Besides, she'd waited her whole life for Angel O'Connor to come along. She was quite certain she wouldn't be able to duplicate the experience with anyone else, and quite certain she didn't want to try.

William wouldn't be happy about it, though. Buffy could already see the impatient lust glowing in his azure coloured eyes. He'd shown restraint up until now, but Buffy could see his resolve faltering. Buffy knew that William Bluddy was a man used to getting what he wanted. Buffy was uncomfortable with being his newest goal.

As for Wesley's revelation that Angel had been at the convention that evening, Buffy was unsure as to what she could do with this information. They hadn't spoken in months. The thought of seeing him again made her stomach cave inwards, dragging vital organs with it.

Buffy undressed quickly and turned on the small fan resting on her dresser. The air in her room felt stagnant, unused and Buffy welcomed the relief of the cooler air manufactured by the fan. She crawled under the covers and closed her eyes, praying for sleep.

***

William Bluddy stripped and stood for a long time under the icy spray of his shower. His erection seemed a permanent fixture these days and Buffy Summers didn't seem willing to do much about it. He'd played his part: solicitous, patient, attentive. Each of these characteristics irritated him, made him cranky and difficult to be around.

He'd watched Buffy with Angel. He'd watched her with Riley. Now he had her to himself and he wasn't getting any oat hat he knew for certain the others had: her hot body, limp and pliant, skin molded under hard fingers, head thrown back, lips parted in a stuttering sigh. Damn.

William reached for the soap and lathered himself generously. It was going to be another long night.

***

A sharp rap on the door interrupted Angel's perusal of the Sunday Times. Setting his coffee mug on the marble counter, he headed for the door wondering who could be calling on him so early.

Wesley stood there, warm bagels in one hand, his briefcase in the other. "Good morning," he said, cheerfully.

"Morning," Angel said. "Were we supposed to meet?"

"Not happy to see me, then?" Wesley inquired with a small smile.

Angel pulled the door open wider. "No, of course, come in, come in. I just didn't expect to see you so chipper on a Sunday morning after a night on the town."

"Yes, well, Fred's an early riser," Wes explained, stepping into Angel's vestibule..

Angel stuck his head out into the hall. "Is she with you?"

"No, I dropped her at the university. She had some research to do. As I was in the neighbourhood I thought I'd bring over the latest bulletins from the office..." Wesley trailed off.

"And?"

Wesley pushed the door to Angel's flat closed. He put his briefcase on a hall chair, handed Angel the bag of warm bagels and crossed his arms disapprovingly.

"That was Buffy last night."

Angel cautioned Wesley with a curt shake of his head and went back down the hall toward the kitchen.

Wesley followed. "Well, it was, wasn't it?"

"You know damn well it was," Angel said, his tone unreadable. "Do you want coffee, Wes?"

The other man nodded. "Yes, alright, but don't think you're getting off so easy. I saw the look on your face. Worse, I saw the look on Cordelia's face. And I saw you leave. You don't owe me anything, Angel. This is none of my business and I have stayed out of it, until now. But, damn it, you are so obviously in love with that woman and I can't for the life of me figure out what is going through that thick skull of yours."

"Are you finished?" Angel said, tersely.

Wesley stopped, chastened. He blinked solemnly at his partner and accepted the mug of steaming coffee he was handed, but he said nothing.

Topping up his mug, Angel said, "Follow me."

The two men walked down to the back of the apartment and into Angel's study. There Wesley could see the remains of Angel's evening: two bottles of scotch, one empty, one almost gone, sat on the book littered table beside Angel's favourite chair. Several books lay scattered on the floor, spines cracked open to spill their contents: words tripping over each other to be read.

Angel stopped for a moment and then continued through the room to the double French doors that led to a small, private balcony. Wesley followed and joined Angel at a small seating area in an alcove created by the careful placement of potted palms. He sat in a comfortable wicker chair and waited.

Angel sipped his coffee and considered his words. He had never talked about this with anyone, but somehow he felt the need now, to say the words that might, in turn, exorcise Buffy Summers from his mind and his heart.

***

"Things fall apart, Wesley," Angel began, his eyes fixed on a small fountain on the opposite side of the terrace.

Wesley wasn't sure whether this was meant to be a one-sided conversation or not, but he took the safer route and remained silent.

"Have you been in love, Wes?" It sounded like a rhetorical question and Wesley merely nodded, thinking fondly of Fred's supple limbs. As infatuated as he was with Fred, he was certain that Angel speaspeaking of a more profound love than his own rather superficial experience. Of the sort of love Angel was speaking, Wesley could, unfortunately, make no claim.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Are these questions you want me to answer, Angel, or are you merely posing them hypothetically?" Wesley asked.

"They're questions I ask myself all the time. Is it possible to be walking down the street, or standing in a bookstore, mind distracted by crisp pages filled with all the words you wish you could say and be blinded by a person? Is it truly possible to love one human being, to hold that person close to you in the shelter of your heart forever and ever? I don't know."

"I don't know either, Angel. But how many of us are given the opportunity to find out, do you sse?\se?" Wesley asked, thinking back on his own botched relationships.

Angel shrugged wide shoulders.

"Don't you think that Cordelia would be happier married to a man who was in love with her?" Wesley asked, gently.

"I'm not marrying Cordy," Angel said, softly. "As soon as I saw Buffy last night, I knew that I could never marry Cordy. And I have to give her credit, Cordy knew, too."

"Well, that comes as little surprise to me, given the look on your face when Buffy walked into the room with William," Wes said, wryly. "You should know that I spoke to her after you left, Angel."

"You talked to her. Jesus, Wes," Angel said, miserably.

"I didn't say anything. But she saw the engagement picture in the paper. I'd say, judging from our very brief conversation, that she wasn't too happy about the news," Wes said. "Look, Angel, do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure if I can, Wes. I'm not sure that there's actually much to tell. In the end, how important are the details, really?" Angel said, glumly.

"Ask Agatha Christie," Wesley said with a small smile. "She'll tell you how important the details are."

Angel considered his friend for a long moment and set his cooling coffee on the terra cotta floor beside him. "There's a lot you don't know about me," Angel began.

Wesley settled back in his chair and waited. Angel, it seemed, was ready to lay open his soul.