CHAPTER 6: FALLING

The Hyperion’s roof had become their confessional, the one place in this crumbling hotel where the city lights blurred into something almost forgiving and the visions couldn’t quite reach. Cordelia climbed the fire escape every third night like it was routine, like she wasn’t slowly bleeding out her brain one migraine at a time. Angel was always already there—coat collar up, shoulders hunched against a wind that didn’t touch him—waiting like he’d been carved out of the shadows just for her.

She dropped onto the ledge beside him, sneakers scuffing gravel. “You know, if the Powers That Be wanted me to die dramatically, they could at least throw in a decent soundtrack. This whole ‘quiet suffering in the dark’ thing is so last season.”

Angel’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile he didn’t quite let live. He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted so his arm brushed hers, leather against bare skin where her tank top had ridden up. The contact lingered a beat too long, the way everything did now. Cordelia felt the tremor in her own ribs and hated how much she craved it.

“Snark level’s high tonight,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges like it always got when he was trying not to break. “Vision?”

She waved a hand, dismissive. “Yesterday’s special. Felt like my skull was auditioning for a jackhammer role. But hey, I’m still vertical. Points for me.” Her tone was pure Cordelia Chase—sharp enough to draw blood—but the way her fingers found the edge of his sleeve and curled there, just holding, gave her away. She didn’t pull back. Neither did he.

The secret had swallowed them whole. Downstairs, Wesley and Gunn bitched about case files and takeout. Fred hummed equations under her breath. No one knew the visions were killing her. No one but Angel. She’d told him in the basement after the last bad one, blood trickling from her nose, voice cracking only once: Don’t you dare tell them. I’m not going out like some tragic footnote. He’d nodded, jaw tight, and that had been that. Their world narrowed to these stolen hours—rooftop, back alley after a fight, the rare locked door in the empty wing where they could pretend the hotel wasn’t listening.

Tonight the city hummed below them, distant sirens and car horns weaving into the kind of soundtrack she’d mock later. Angel’s hand slid over hers, thumb tracing the inside of her wrist like he was memorizing her pulse. “You’re getting worse,” he said. Not a question.

Cordelia turned her head, eyes meeting his in the half-dark. Brown on brown, centuries of guilt staring back at her like he expected her to flinch. She didn’t. “And you’re still brooding like it’s an Olympic event. Relax, big guy. I’m not dead yet.” Her voice softened on the last word, betraying her. She squeezed his hand instead of letting go. “Besides… who else is gonna keep you from turning into a cave-dwelling cliché? Not Wes. He’d just quote some dusty book at you.”

A low chuckle rumbled out of him—rare, rusty, real. It loosened something in her chest that had been knotted for weeks. Angel leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers, the cool of his skin a contrast that made her shiver in the warm L.A. night. “Cordy…”

“Don’t,” she whispered, but there was no bite left in it. “Don’t say it like you’re already writing the eulogy. Just… stay here. With me. Like this.”

His free hand came up, knuckles brushing her cheek, then cupping the side of her face with a reverence that made her throat ache. No words. They didn’t need them anymore. The secret had stripped everything else away—the walls, the sniping, the careful distance they’d kept since he’d come back from hell and she’d been too busy being Queen C to notice the way he looked at her. Now it was just this: his thumb sweeping across her lower lip, her breath catching, the slow tilt of her head until their mouths met.

Ever so softly. Just a press of lips that lingered, deepened by degrees—her fingers threading into his hair, his arm sliding around her waist to pull her closer on the ledge. She tasted the salt of her own unshed tears and the faint copper of old blood he carried like a second skin. When they broke apart, still within inches, Cordelia let out a shaky laugh that was half-sob.

“God, you’re terrible for my mascara. And my dignity.” She swiped at her eyes, but her hand stayed on his chest, feeling the stillness there where a heartbeat should be. “If anyone asks why I look like I’ve been crying, I’m blaming the smog.”

Angel’s eyes were dark, unreadable except for the storm she’d learned to read anyway—guilt twisting with something brighter, something that felt like peace for the first time since a certain Slayer had ripped his world apart. He pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and deliberate, like a promise he couldn’t voice. “I’ve got you,” he murmured against her hair. “Whatever comes. I’ve got you.”

She believed him. That was the terrifying part.

Below them, the Hyperion’s lights flickered on one by one as the team wrapped up another night. Up here, the world was smaller, safer, theirs. Cordelia leaned into him, letting the snark fade into the quiet press of her body against his, the way his coat draped over her shoulders when the wind picked up. They didn’t say the words. Didn’t need to. The falling was already done—quiet, inevitable, laced with the sharp edge of everything they were about to lose.

And for tonight, on this stupid rooftop under a smog-choked sky, it was enough.

~ NEXT CHAPTER ~

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