CHAPTER 3: THE VISION THAT BLEEDS

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds of Cordelia’s Silver Lake apartment like it had a personal grudge against her attempt at normalcy. She’d carved out this sliver of time—just one goddamn afternoon—to pretend the visions weren’t carving her brain into confetti. Phantom Dennis had outdone himself: a frothy bubble bath, her favorite face mask that smelled like overpriced cucumbers, and a steaming mug of coffee balanced on the edge of the tub while he hovered a nail file like a tiny, invisible manicurist. Cordelia Chase, Queen of the Damned and Occasional Seer, was treating herself. No demons, no doom, no brooding vampires interrupting the vibe.

Until the vision slammed into her skull like a freight train made of rusty nails.

She crumpled mid-sip. The mug shattered against the tile, hot coffee splashing across her bare legs. Pain bloomed behind her eyes, white-hot and merciless, the kind that made her wish for a swift lobotomy instead of whatever fresh hell the Powers had queued up. Blood—warm, metallic—trickled from her nose, dripping onto the floor in perfect, accusing drops. The room spun. Her knees hit first, then her shoulder, and she stayed down because standing felt like a cruel joke.

“Dennis,” she rasped, voice cracking. “Phone. Now.”

The cordless floated obediently to the floor beside her, already ringing the one number she’d programmed for emergencies that weren’t 911. Because screw hospitals—they couldn’t fix this, and she wasn’t about to let Wesley or Gunn turn her into a pity project. Not yet.

Angel answered on the first ring. “Cordy?”

His voice was gravel and worry, and for a second she hated how much she needed it.

“Get over here,” she managed, before another wave of dizziness threatened to pull her under. “Apartment. Bring… sunscreen or whatever. Just—hurry.”

She didn’t remember hanging up. Time blurred in the haze of copper and thunder in her head. When the door finally burst open—literally, hinges protesting—Angel was already halfway across the living room, duster smoking faintly at the edges where the sun had caught him. His face was streaked with soot, hair disheveled, but his eyes locked on her like the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

“Cordy.” The word came out raw. He dropped to his knees beside her without hesitation, gloved hands gentle as they brushed hair from her sweat-damp forehead. “What happened? Vision?”

She tried for a smirk, but it wobbled. “No, I just decided the floor needed redecorating with my face. Obviously.” Blood still oozed from her nose; she swiped at it angrily. “It’s not urgent. Demon thing… day after tomorrow, maybe. Plenty of time for you to brood about it later.”

He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Angel never laughed when she was bleeding. Instead, he scooped her up like she weighed nothing—strong arms cradling her against his chest, the faint scent of singed leather and that damn cologne he pretended he didn’t wear. She let her head fall against his shoulder because fighting it felt pointless right now.

“Bedroom,” she muttered. “Bathroom, actually. I look like a horror movie extra, and I refuse to die ugly.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. Die. Not pass out. Not recover. Die. The visions were killing her; she’d known it for weeks, the headaches sharper, the nosebleeds longer, the blackouts deeper. She hadn’t told anyone. Not Wes, not Gunn, not Fred. Only the universe and her bathroom mirror got to know.

But Angel… he was already carrying her through the bedroom, shoulder brushing the doorframe, and into the cool white tile of the bathroom. He set her on the counter with the care of someone handling spun glass, then wet a washcloth under the faucet. Steam rose as the water warmed.

“You’re not dying,” he said quietly, as if he could read the thought scrawled across her face. His thumb traced the blood from her upper lip, gentle, deliberate. The cloth followed, cool against her heated skin, wiping away the evidence of the Powers’ latest gift. “Not on my watch.”

Cordelia huffed a laugh that tasted like fear and copper. “Big talk from the guy who’s literally allergic to daylight. Look at you—smoking like a bad barbecue. You ran through the sun for me? That’s… new levels of stupid, even for you.”

His eyes met hers in the mirror. Dark, ancient, and suddenly too close. The cloth paused at her cheek. “I’d walk through fire if it meant you weren’t alone on this floor.”

The air thickened. Dennis, bless his ghostly heart, dimmed the lights a fraction and retreated, giving them the illusion of privacy. Cordelia’s pulse hammered—not from the vision anymore, but from the way Angel’s hand lingered on her jaw, the way his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth like he was memorizing the shape of her defiance.

She was supposed to be snarky. Untouchable. The girl who’d survived high school hellmouths and still had perfect hair. But here, with blood on her shirt and Angel’s coat still smoking from the risk he’d taken, the walls cracked.

“I am dying, you know,” she whispered, the secret spilling out because the closeness was unbearable, a live wire between them. “The visions. They’re frying my brain. Doctors in my head say it’s only a matter of time. I didn’t… I didn’t want the others to know. Wes would research until he dropped. Gunn would get that protective scowl that makes me want to scream. And Fred—God, Fred’s barely been back a week, still hiding in her room at the hotel like the walls might eat her. I’m not piling my slow-motion brain-melt on top of that fresh hell. Pity party of one sounded better. But you—you’re already here, cleaning up my mess like it’s your job.”

Angel’s breath hitched. He set the cloth aside, both hands framing her face now, cool against her fevered skin. “Cordy…”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked, but the snark fought through. “Don’t you dare go all noble and say you’ll fix it. There’s no fix. Just… this. Us. Whatever this is turning into while I’m still here to mock it.”

His brow rested against hers. “It’s everything,” he said, voice breaking on the admission. “You. Me. Falling for you when I swore I wouldn’t—when I can’t—but I am. God, Cordy, I am.”

The kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, born of fear and the metallic tang of her blood still on his lips, the salt of unshed tears neither of them would admit to. His mouth claimed hers like the world might end tomorrow—because for her, it might—and she kissed him back with every ounce of fight she had left. Hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, the counter edge digging into her thighs as if anchoring her to the moment.

When they broke apart, gasping, their temples brushed, Cordelia managed a shaky smile. “Tastes like bad decisions and copper pennies. Romantic.”

Angel’s laugh was hoarse, pained, but real. “I’m not letting you go. Not like this. We’ll figure it out. Secret’s ours. Whatever comes next… we face it together.”

She wanted to believe him. The vision’s aftermath still throbbed in her skull, a promise of more pain, more bleeding, more days where normalcy was a lie. But here, in the quiet bathroom with Angel’s arms around her and the taste of him on her tongue, love felt like the only thing sharp enough to cut through the dark.

Even if it hurt like hell.

~ NEXT CHAPTER ~

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