While Cordelia is there to get her champion back on track, they share an intimate, long-awaited night together.

• CONTENTS: C/A in AtS / Season 5 Ep: ‘You’re Welcome’ (“Missing Night”)
• RATING: NC-17
• LENGTH: Short Story / 16,000 words
• CHALLENGE CREDIT: FangGirl / Lysa Says: Challenge Me / Challenge #11
• FICPIC CREDIT: Lysa
• STATUS: Completed.

BORROWED TIME

W&H Conference Room – Late Evening

The sharp crack of the seal breaking on a bottle of top-shelf scotch cut through the conference room like a starting gun. Gunn was laughing too loud, pouring generous glugs into crystal glasses that probably cost more than the entire Hyperion used to pay in rent. Fred perched on the table edge, legs swinging, while Wesley polished his glasses for the third time and Lorne hummed an off-key victory riff.

Cordelia Chase stood in the middle of it all, katana still balanced across one shoulder like she’d never been gone. Hair wild, cheeks flushed from the fight, mouth curved in that familiar, devastating smirk.

Angel couldn’t look away.

She was supposed to stay asleep.

The thought hit him low and vicious, the way it always did when the guilt crept in at 3 a.m. He’d sat outside her hospital room exactly once—six months after she slipped into the coma—and the sight of her, pale and still under those thin white sheets, had sent him straight back to the elevator. He hadn’t gone back. Couldn’t. Because if he had, he would have stayed, and staying would have meant admitting she was never coming back. That the woman who had chosen to meet him on that cliff at Point Dume—ready to tell him everything—had been taken away before she ever arrived.

And now she was here. Solid. Snapping orders at Gunn like it was still the Hyperion lobby and none of the last two years had happened.

Their eyes locked across the room.

The laughter died. Glasses paused mid-sip. One by one the others found somewhere else to be—Gunn muttering something about “paperwork,” Fred dragging Wesley by the elbow, Lorne shooting Angel a knowing green wink as the door clicked shut behind them.

Cordelia lowered the katana, planted a hand on her hip, and arched one perfect brow.

“What freakin’ bizarro world did I wake up in?” Her voice was exactly the same—dry, cutting, perfect. “Nice corner office, CEO Boy. The suits really bring out your inner corporate sell-out.”

Angel felt the old smile tug at his mouth even as something inside him twisted like a tourniquet around his unbeating heart. She was here. Beautiful and ballsy and ripping him open with a few words. He should have been relieved. He was. But the guilt was louder—years of her lying in that bed while he ran Wolfram & Hart like a man trying to outrun his own shadow.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s… been a long year.”

W&H Hallways – Moments Later

Their footsteps echoed down the gleaming corridors, heels and boots ringing off marble that probably cost more than the entire Hyperion when it was built. Cordelia kept the snark dialed up, but it had softened around the edges, the way it used to when she was trying not to let him see how much she cared.

“You look like you haven’t slept since I left,” she said, glancing sideways. “And trust me, I’ve seen you after apocalypses. This is worse.”

Angel didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The coma had been the perfect excuse—he’d boxed her away right alongside every other unbearable thing. Point Dume. The almost-confession that had died on his tongue when Skip stole her into the light. And then the Connor nightmare: Jasmine wearing Cordy’s face, seducing his son, carrying that impossible pregnancy in her body. He knew it hadn’t been her. Possession, not betrayal. The team had pieced it together, and Cordy herself had confirmed it before the coma swallowed her whole. But knowing it and feeling it were two different kinds of hell.

He’d buried it all under contracts and compromises and the cold comfort of “protecting the team.” Out of sight, out of mind. Just like her.

He stopped in front of the elevator, thumb hovering over the call button.

“I kept telling myself you’d wake up,” he said, voice rough. “Every time I thought about going back to that room… I couldn’t. I was terrified I’d be sitting right there when you slipped away for good, and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing to stop it.”

He cut himself off.

The conversation they’d had earlier that day in his office still burned behind his eyes. “You’re the guy in the corner office now,” she’d told him point-blank, eyes flashing with that familiar fire, “not the champion who fights for the helpless.” The Powers hadn’t just woken her up—they’d sent her back specifically to shove him back onto the right path. 

Watching her today fighting right beside the team like she’d never left—made something dangerous flicker in his chest. Hope. The kind that felt like she was really here to stay.

Cordelia turned to face him fully. The elevator doors slid open behind her, but she didn’t move. Instead she reached up, fingers brushing the knot of his tie, and gave it a sharp little tug that loosened the silk just enough to feel like a promise.

Her eyes were bright, dangerous, and so damn alive it hurt.

“Your place,” she said. Simple. Final. “Now. Before the rest of the gang decides we need a group hug and a PowerPoint about feelings.”

Angel’s undead heart gave one painful, constricted thud.

He stepped into the elevator with her. The doors closed.

Angel’s Private Suite – Night

The second the apartment door shut behind them, the snark evaporated.

For one long second they just stood there in the low lamplight, city glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the same soft gold that always made her skin look like it was lit from within. Angel’s hands flexed at his sides. He wanted to reach for her and he was terrified that if he did she’d vanish like smoke the way she had on Point Dume.

Cordelia took one step forward. Then another. Close enough that the faint trace of her perfume cut through the lingering leather-and-battle-sweat on her skin.

“Angel,” she whispered, and it sounded like forgiveness and goodbye all at once.

He broke.

The kiss was desperate from the first second—mouths crashing, years of everything they’d never said pouring out in a single hungry slide of lips and tongue. She made that soft, surprised noise in the back of her throat that he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and then her hands were in his hair, yanking him closer like she could pull the guilt right out of him.

They stumbled backward without breaking apart. His suit jacket hit the floor. Her blouse followed a second later, buttons scattering across the hardwood. He backed her toward the bedroom, palms mapping the warm curve of her waist, the familiar flare of her hips, every inch that proved she was here—not a memory, not the pale girl in the hospital bed, not some vision or dream the Powers would steal away again.

Her back hit the bedroom doorframe and she laughed into his mouth—bright, breathless, Cordelia.

Angel pulled back just far enough to look at her. Hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes dark with the same ache he felt twisting behind his ribs.

“I missed you,” he said, raw. “God, Cordy… I missed you so much.”

She cupped his face, thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I know. Me too.”

Then she kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, and the rest of the world—the coma, the guilt, the fact that dawn was already creeping closer—narrowed down to the heat of her mouth and the way her body fit against his like it had been waiting two years to come home.

Angel’s Private Suite – Deep Night

They made it the last few feet to the bed in a tangle of half-removed clothes and stumbling steps. Angel’s knees hit the mattress first and he let gravity take them down, Cordelia landing on top of him with a breathless laugh that vibrated against his chest.

For a long moment they just looked at each other in the soft glow from the bedside lamp. No rush now. No audience. Just the two of them and two years of absence pressing down like a physical weight.

Cordelia traced the line of his jaw with one fingertip, then followed it with her mouth—slow, deliberate kisses that mapped every familiar plane of his face. “Still brooding in the dark, huh?” she murmured against his skin. “Some things never change.”

Angel’s hands slid up her back, fingertips learning the warmth of her again, the way her spine curved under his palms. “Some things do,” he answered, voice low. “You’re here.”

She smiled against his throat, then pushed up on her elbows so she could look at him properly. “Yeah. Now.” The words slipped out before she could catch them, but she covered the slip with another kiss—deeper this time, slower, tongues sliding together like they had all the time in the world.

He rolled them so he was above her, careful, reverent. Mouths never parting for long. Hands exploring without hurry: the soft weight of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips that fit his palms like they’d been made for him. Every touch was a question and an answer at once. Mine? Yours?

Cordelia arched into him, nails scraping lightly down his back. “Less thinking, more doing, champion,” she teased, but her voice had gone husky, the bossy edge softened by something raw and needy.

He obliged, kissing his way down her body with the same deliberate care, learning her all over again until her breath hitched and her fingers tightened in his hair.

Angel’s Private Suite – Middle of the Night

They lay tangled in the sheets, skin cooling, hearts still racing. Angel’s head rested on her chest, listening to the steady thump of a heart that—technically—shouldn’t still be beating. Cordelia’s fingers carded through his hair, the motion almost absent, almost soothing.

He spoke into the quiet before he could stop himself. “Point Dume. I waited until sunrise.”

Her hand stilled. “I know.”

“I was going to tell you—”

“I know,” she said again, softer. “I was coming to tell you the same thing.” A short, bitter laugh escaped her. “Higher Being timing sucks.”

Angel lifted his head so he could see her face. The city lights through the window painted faint silver across her cheekbones. “And then Connor…” He couldn’t finish. The image still lived behind his eyes—his son and the woman he loved, Jasmine’s controlling hands on both of them.

Cordelia’s expression hardened for a second, then melted into something gentler. She cupped his face again, thumbs brushing the faint lines that hadn’t been there two years ago. “That wasn’t me, Angel. You know that, right? It was never me.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I still felt it.”

She pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like salt—hers or his, he couldn’t tell. When they broke apart she pressed her forehead to his. “I came back to remind you who you are. Not the guy in the corner office. The guy who fights. The guy who saved me a hundred times. Don’t make me have to come back here and kick your ass into gear again.”

The words landed like a warning and a promise. Angel closed his eyes, burying his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in like he could memorize her for the next eternity.

Angel’s Private Suite – Deepest Night

The talking fractured.

What started tender turned desperate in the space of a heartbeat. Cordelia rolled them again, straddling him, hands braced on his chest as she sank down onto him in one smooth, devastating motion. The sound she made—half moan, half sigh—ripped straight through him.

Angel’s hips jerked up instinctively, but then he froze, fingers digging into her thighs. “Cordy… my soul—”

She leaned down, hair falling around them like a curtain, and kissed him hard enough to silence the fear. “It’s safe,” she whispered against his mouth, voice fierce and certain. “We’re safe here and now. Trust me.”

“God, yes,” she breathed, hips already moving in a slow, rolling rhythm that had his hands clamping tighter. “Don’t hold back. Not tonight.”

He didn’t. This was every late-night fantasy he’d never let himself voice—finally having her, warm and alive and wanting him after years of loss and guilt and aching absence. Every snap of hips, every gasp and groan was driven by pure, desperate need to make up for all the time they had lost.

Cordelia laughed breathlessly as he flipped them, driving deeper. “Slow down, champion,” she teased, nails digging into his shoulders. “We’ve got all night. I don’t want to miss a single second of this.”

Angel groaned against her neck, the word “forever” rising on his tongue, but she rolled her hips in a devastating circle that wiped every thought from his mind except her.

Vampire strength leashed just enough, he thrust up to meet her, one hand sliding between them to stroke the exact spot that made her head fall back and her nails dig crescents into his shoulders. The bed creaked beneath them. Sweat slicked their skin.

They flipped again, Cordelia on her back, legs wrapped high around his waist as he drove into her harder, deeper, chasing the sounds she made when she came apart beneath him. Her second orgasm hit with a cry that he swallowed with his mouth, bodies locked together while she shuddered around him.

Only when she was trembling and whispering his name like a prayer did he let himself follow, burying his face in her neck, fangs grazing skin without breaking it, the release crashing through him like every unsaid I love you from the last two years.

They stayed locked together afterward, breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem. Cordelia’s fingers traced idle patterns on his back, but her eyes, when he finally lifted his head, were already shadowed with the knowledge neither of them wanted to name.

Angel’s Private Suite – Pre-Dawn

They lay tangled in the wrecked sheets, breathing slow and steady, the only sound the faint hum of the city far below. The first pale threads of dawn were just beginning to creep through the windows, turning the low lamplight into something softer, almost fragile.

Cordelia’s head rested on his chest, one leg thrown over his thigh, her fingers tracing idle circles over his heart as if she could memorize the silence there. Angel kept one arm locked around her waist, the other hand buried in her hair, afraid that if he let go she might slip away like smoke again.

He still couldn’t quite believe she was here — warm and solid after two years of nothing but that sterile hospital room and the cold reports from the team about mystical comas and higher powers. He’d buried the details deep, the way he buried everything else. Point Dume. The almost-confession. The nightmare of Jasmine wearing her face. It had all been too much. Easier to tell himself she was just… sleeping. That one day she’d open her eyes and they’d pick up right where they left off.

Cordelia shifted, pressing a slow kiss to the center of his chest. “Hey,” she whispered, voice husky from everything they’d just done. “Stop thinking so loud. You’re ruining my afterglow, champion.”

Angel huffed a quiet laugh and tightened his arm around her. “Can’t help it. You’re here. Really here.”

She lifted her head, eyes soft in the growing light. “That’s why they sent me back, you know. They saw you slip off the track and decided I was the one who could put you back on it. Not the corner-office guy. The champion. The guy who fights for the helpless.” Her thumb brushed his lower lip. “And I’m not leaving until you remember who you are.”

Angel closed his eyes, letting the words settle like a promise instead of a warning. She leaned up and kissed him—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.

“Then shut up and hold me a little longer,” she murmured against his mouth. “We’ve still got a few minutes before the world remembers we exist.”

He did exactly that, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, letting the quiet wrap around them like one last stolen breath before the light took her away.

Angel’s Private Suite – Dawn’s First Light

The sky outside had gone from indigo to pearl gray. They dressed in near-silence, the easy intimacy of the night giving way to something quieter, almost careful. Angel watched her button her blouse, every familiar movement twisting something deep in his chest.

Cordelia caught him staring and arched a brow, the old spark flickering back into place. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

He managed a half-smile and stepped in close, reaching out to straighten the collar of her blouse with gentle fingers. Then, almost without thinking, he adjusted the knot of his own tie the same way she had in the elevator hours earlier.

She watched him, something soft and aching in her eyes. “There. Almost looks like a real CEO again.”

“Almost,” he echoed, voice rough.

Their fingers brushed as they gathered the last scattered pieces of clothing. Neither of them reached for a full hand-hold. It felt too much like goodbye.

Cordelia gave the room one last sweeping glance—the rumpled bed, the low lamp still burning, the city waking up beyond the glass—then squared her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get back before the gang decides we eloped to the higher plane or something.”

She said it lightly, but the word higher landed like a small stone in still water. Angel felt it, but before he could ask she was already moving toward the door, tossing him one last teasing look over her shoulder.

He followed, because there was never any other choice.

Angel’s Office – Daylight

They stepped back into his office just as the first true rays of sunlight spilled across the floor, filtered safely through the necro-tempered glass that let Angel stand in daylight without burning. The room looked exactly as they had left it—papers scattered, katana propped against the desk, the faint smell of scotch still lingering from the victory drinks hours earlier.

Cordelia turned to face him, the teasing mask slipping away. For one long moment they simply stood there, inches apart, the entire night written across both their faces.

Then she closed the distance, cupped his face with both hands, and kissed him—slow, deep, and conveying everything she felt for him. Angel poured everything into it: every missed year, every unsaid confession, every desperate touch they’d just shared.

The phone on his desk rang.

Despite the interruption, Angel moved to answer it, reluctant to let the outside world back in. Cordelia gave him an encouraging smile—the same one that had saved him a hundred times.

He turned slightly, lifting the receiver to his ear and putting her just out of his line of sight.

Even as the nurse began to speak on the other end, Cordelia’s voice reached him, soft but steady.

“Oh… and you’re welcome.”

“Angel,” the nurse said gently, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry… Cordelia never woke up. She passed peacefully a few minutes ago.”

The receiver slipped from his fingers.

He stood frozen for a split second between confusion, denial, and dawning understanding, then turned on his heel—slowly because he knew what to expect.

She was gone.

No door had opened. No footsteps had faded down the hall. She had simply vanished.

Dawn light poured through the windows, turning the empty office into something cold and blinding. Angel sank into the chair behind his desk, staring at the spot where she had been standing only moments ago. As the pieces clicked together—the vision that had pulled her awake, the way she had pushed him so hard, the final smile—she had been gone the whole time.

And still she had come back — just long enough to stand beside him in the fight again, to call him out for hiding behind a corner office when he was meant to be the champion fighting for the helpless, and to shove him back onto the right path exactly as she’d promised. Just long enough to give him one perfect, stolen night.

The End.