CHAPTER 8: THE OTHERS START TO SUSPECT

Wesley rifled through the top drawer of Cordelia’s desk, muttering about the disorganized mess inside and the sanctity of the weapons cabinet key lost therein. His fingers brushed past gum wrappers, a crumpled headshot from some failed audition, and then his gaze snagged on the orange prescription bottle shoved toward the back—label facing out just enough to catch the light.

He almost dismissed it. Cordelia and her migraines were practically legendary. He kept digging for the key, came up empty, then froze. The drug name on the label registered like a slow-motion punch to the gut. Not the usual triptans. Not even the heavy-duty stuff she’d cycled through last year. This was the kind of prescription they gave when the patient was already running out of time.

Wesley’s hand hovered, then closed around the bottle. He stared down at the label, mind racing through half-remembered medical texts, cross-referencing symptoms, side effects, the slow, vicious creep of something far worse than headaches. He set it back exactly as he’d found it, heart hammering.

Cordelia breezed into the lobby twenty minutes later, sunglasses shoved up like a tiara, lips already curved in that patented Chase smirk. “If you’re here to nag me about the expense reports again, Wes, I swear on my Louboutins I will—”

“I found your prescription,” he cut in quietly, no preamble. “In your desk. While looking for the key. It’s not for migraines.”

Her step hitched—just for a heartbeat—then the armor snapped back into place. “Wow. Personal space much? It’s painkillers, British. Strong ones, because apparently my brain decided to throw a tantrum. You gonna arrest me for it?”

“Cordelia, that medication is—”

“Classified under ‘none of your business,’” she finished, voice bright and brittle as she snatched the coffee pot like it owed her money. “Drop it, or I start asking why you keep that weird British cough syrup in your desk. We all have our secrets, Watcher Boy. Mine just come with better packaging.”

She poured a mug one-handed, shoulders too straight, chin too high—the Cordelia special when the universe was trying to gut her. Wesley watched her, the lie hanging between them like smoke, and said nothing. For now.

Across the lobby, Fred perched on the counter’s edge, legs swinging like she was still half-convinced the world might swallow her again. Gunn leaned beside her, absently running a cloth over a battle-axe that didn’t need polishing.

“So,” Fred said softly, not quite meeting his eyes, “Cordy’s been staying over a lot lately.”

Gunn grunted. “Yeah. Silver Lake’s a haul after visions. Smart she finally claimed one of the guest rooms upstairs. Girl needs sleep before she starts yelling at us about rent.”

Fred’s cheeks went pink. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, a dreamy little smile tugging at her lips. “Um. Not exactly the guest rooms.”

He paused mid-wipe. “What?”

“I’ve seen her… coming out of Angel’s room. A couple times. Early. Like, really early.” Fred bit her lip, eyes going soft. “And once—after that vision last Tuesday—she was in there with him. They were kissing. I didn’t mean to see, I swear. I was just grabbing water and… they didn’t notice me. It was kind of sweet. And a little… hot, actually.”

Gunn’s rag stopped dead. The axe gleamed cold in the dusty light. “They what?”

Fred nodded, still wearing that starry-eyed look. “It wasn’t… casual. Looked like they really meant it.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Gunn—”

“No. Hell no.” He set the axe down with a clatter that rang through the lobby. “She’s been 

through enough. Visions ripping her apart, and now Dead Boy’s sinking his fangs in while she’s vulnerable? After what Wes told us about Angelus? Man’s playing with fire and using our girl as kindling—and you think it’s hot?”

He stormed toward the basement stairs before Fred could protest, boots thudding like judgment.

Down in the training room, Angel was sharpening stakes with mechanical precision, the scrape of stone on wood the only sound—until Gunn’s voice sliced through it.

“You got something you wanna tell me, man?”

Angel didn’t look up. “Not particularly.”

“Fred saw you. With Cordy. Coming out of your room. Kissing her like it’s your damn right.” Gunn’s fists clenched at his sides. “She’s hurting, Angel. Bad. And you’re what—taking advantage? Risking the whole team because you can’t keep your soul in check?”

Angel’s hand stilled. The stake in his grip felt suddenly fragile. The promise he’d made Cordelia burned behind his eyes—she’d curled against him in the dark of his bed, voice cracking as she whispered, Don’t tell them. Not yet. I can’t have them looking at me like I’m already dead. He’d held her while she trembled, her warmth bleeding into his useless chest, and felt the terrifying truth settle in his bones: he was in love. Not the careful, distant kind he’d armored himself against for a century. This was brutal, all-consuming, the kind that made forever feel like a curse and a gift at the same time. Every stolen night she sought him out, every time her fingers traced his jaw like he was the only real thing left, it carved deeper.

“I’m not taking advantage,” he said, low and flat. “Mind your own business, Gunn.”

“My business is this team. My business is making sure nobody drags Cordy down when they fall.” Gunn stepped closer, voice dropping to a growl. “You lose it—Angelus comes out to play—you know what he’ll do to her. And you’re still—”

“Enough.” Angel’s eyes flickered gold for a heartbeat, then banked. He couldn’t break the promise. Couldn’t tell him the visions were carving her brain apart faster than any demon, that the drugs were just wallpaper over a collapsing wall, that every night she crawled into his arms because it was the only place the pain let her breathe. That loving her was the hardest, most necessary thing he’d ever done, and he’d do it until it killed him too.

Gunn stared, betrayal carved deep. “Anything happens… this is gonna tear us apart, you do know that. Whatever the hell this is.”

Angel didn’t answer. Upstairs, he could hear Cordelia’s laugh—sharp, perfect, the sound of a woman spinning the lie of her life while her body quietly betrayed her. She was trading barbs with Wesley like nothing was wrong, but the fracture lines were spreading through the team like cracks in old glass.

Later, when the others had scattered to nurse their suspicions, she slipped into his room. The door clicked shut, and for a second she just leaned against it, eyes closed, the snark finally peeling away.

“They’re starting to figure it out,” she whispered.

He crossed to her in two strides, pulling her against him without a word. She fit there like she’d 

been made for the space between his arms—warm where he was cold, alive where he’d forgotten how. Her hands fisted in his shirt, and he felt the tremor she tried to hide.

“I told Wes it was just pills,” she said against his chest. “Snarked him into next week. But Gunn… God, the look on his face when he came up from the basement. He thinks you’re using me. Like I’m some fragile little victim you’re preying on.” A bitter huff of laughter. “If only he knew I’m the one who keeps crawling in here because your bed is the only place my brain doesn’t feel like it’s on fire.”

Angel pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering. “I hate this. Hiding it. Watching them pull away.”

“Yeah, well. Join the club, broody.” She tilted her face up, eyes bright with unshed tears and that fierce, unbreakable spark that had owned him since the first time she’d called him a loser in a Sunnydale alley. “But I’m not sorry. About us. About… this.” Her voice softened, almost shy. “Falling for you. Even if it’s messy and stupid and probably doomed. It’s the least crappy thing in my life right now.”

He kissed her then—slow, aching, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. Not just heat, though that hummed between them like a live wire, kept carefully banked. This was love, raw and difficult, the kind that hurt because it mattered. Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer, and for a few stolen minutes the rest of the world—the suspicions, the secret, the slow splintering of everything they’d built—faded to nothing.

When they broke apart, Cordelia’s smile was small and real and edged with pain. “We’re cracking them, Angel. The team. Because of me.”

“Because of us,” he corrected, thumb brushing her cheek. “And I’d burn it all down to keep you here.”

She didn’t answer with words. Just held on tighter, the secret wrapping around them like chains and wings at once—binding them closer even as it splintered the family downstairs.

The Hyperion felt smaller that night. Colder. But in the dark of Angel’s room, with Cordelia’s head on his chest and her hand tracing idle patterns over a heart that didn’t beat, the ache felt almost worth it.

Almost.

~ NEXT CHAPTER ~

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