She didn’t know what to think. She didn’t ask though, she just let things happen, almost as if she was hoping to try and figure it out.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to explain. He was scared of telling her he loved her because he knew then it would come out in a dark torrent, telling her how he had almost died when he had thought he had lost her, how he had never left her side, stayed with her, urging her to stay alive, pleading that he knew the truth.
The truth was he couldn’t live without her. The truth was that in his dreams, she was the woman in his bed, she was the one that drove him crazy, made him happy.
She was the woman of his dreams.
He could feel her tension when his fingers caressed her skin, when he held her, when he kissed her forehead. The words she had told him the night she was attacked were always fresh in his mind.
She loved him. The woman he loved, his other half, his reason for living, loved him. And he had almost lost her because he had been stubborn. Because he had acted like a baby. He hadn’t known what he wanted.
He knew now. He wanted her, but he couldn’t tell her, because it meant so much from her. It meant danger, it meant asking for his faith that he would always love her, even when she was old, and ragged and he was still young and strong.
It would mean sacrifice, and change. He couldn’t ask that of her, not yet. Not before she knew for sure that he loved her.
So he tried to show her. Everytime he changed her bandage, everytime he fed her, everytime he carried her to the bath and then in nothing but a bra and underwear, he would bathe her tenderly, never taking advantage, only being there as a friend, not yet as a lover.
She was getting better every day. She was stronger, she was healing, and pretty soon she was complaining, loudly, that she didn’t want to be stuck in bed all day, that she could do work, that she wanted to go home.
Now that he would NOT allow. Maybe it was the fear of losing her again, or the joy of being able to wake up and walk into his room and see her first thing, or just the calming presence she had on him, but he knew that there was no way she was leaving his apartment. She belonged with him.
He had even begun to bring her stuff in with him, he and Doyle began moving her clothes, then her toiletries, then her odds and ends.
She was still weak, and he hid most of her stuff in the guestroom, aware she wouldn’t take it too well to see everything was already moved in.
He still didn’t tell her in the days that followed. Before he told her, there was still one more thing he had to do, one more loose end to take care of.
He made Doyle stay and care for her, and he went out on his own, carrying something he never used, never thought he had to. He was carrying a gun.
It was different now. He was hunting a killer.
*****
Doyle was drowsing when the door opened. He looked up curiously and his jaw almost dropped when he saw a torn and bloody Angel stumble into the doorway.
“What the hell? What did you do?"
Angel gave him a triumphant scowl. “Jora’s dead." He spat the name with hatred, and Doyle recoiled. Angel was carrying a scarf, and Doyle immediately recognized it as Cordelia’s.
“She had it?"
Angel nodded. “She was wearing it. She was actually wearing it." He shook his head, swallowing. “She’s not gonna hurt Cordy again."
“I believe you." Doyle murmured, shaking his head.
Angel looked toward the door. “How is she?"
“You’ve got a hell cat on your hands. She found her stuff today, started walking around. And she’s ready to kill you. At least she was, right up until she went to sleep. But to let you know, it was all your fault. That’s what I told her."
Angel rolled his eyes. “Thanks." He started to move to the bedroom.
Doyle pulled on his jacket, smiling with amusement when he called out, “Wash your face at least, you’re gonna give her a heart attack lookin’ like that." Angel paid him no heed, and Doyle merely chuckled, heading out the doorway.
***************************
She was still asleep when he opened the door. He was quiet, almost reverently still as he leaned forward to trepidly sit on the edge of the bed. She stirred then, her beautiful face lifting from the pillow, her bruises visible even in the soft light.
He didn't move, watching as her eyes fluttered open, registering him. her mouth quivered into a soft smile, then froze when she got a better look at him.
"Angel?" she whispered, her throat husky with sleep, sitting up to stare in wonder and concern at his bruised face.
He swallowed, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a familiar red scarf.
"I got this back for you." he said, putting it in her lap. She looked down at it in bewilderment, then back up to his face, her eyes clouded.
"Angel, you killed her?"
He nodded, his throat full, his hands in his lap.
"It wasn't for you." He said quickly, when her mouth opened. She closed it, her cheeks flushing as she looked away.
"Thanks." She said sarcastically.
His throat dry, he continued. "It was for me. I couldn't stand that thing being alive, not after what it did to you."
Her eyes rose to meet his then, and her gaze not wavering, she lifted one trembling hand to his face. His eyes closed at her touch, the sensation of her silken fingertip against his bruises and cuts made him go still, made him forget everything and everyone but the feel of her.
His eyes darkened as he gazed at her, his eyes wide open now, as he leaned up and captured her hand in his, threading his fingers through hers.
"I love you." The words came out before he knew they had, and yet, he didn't regret them, his dark gaze only reaffirming what he said.
Her face didn't change then, but her eyes slowly grew moist, clouding the hazel behind them with soft spots of moisture.
So slowly it was almost imperceptible, he leaned forward, cupping her face with the broad palm of one hand.
She smiled, her lips quivering ever so slightly. "Men are so easy." She whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. "I only had to almost die to get you to admit it."
His grin was only slightly discernible before he gently placed his lips on hers. They opened immediately, her mouth slanting under his, a soft moan escaping her as he tasted her intimately. He shuddered at the sound of her voice sliding a hand possessively around her neck, bending it so he could kiss her more deeply.
Her lips pulled at his, tenderly clinging to his, then releasing for breath, only to come back to meet his in a moist, endearing kiss.
Warmness filled his cold heart, as she slowly pulled away, sighing ever so softly. She took a breath to recover, leaning her forehead against him, so that her breath fell on his neck in light, feathery puffs.
He pulled her close, planting a soft kiss on her crown, too shaky to speak. She had made him weak. His precious crazy vixen.
She looked up at him then, her eyes moist. "Come here." she whispered huskily, pulling his body up on the bed with her.
His eyes narrowed, his voice choked as he felt his body react immediately. "Cord... we can't." He whispered.
She rolled her eyes in response. "And yet again the soul guy thinks I'm an idiot." She swatted him, for a moment regressing into her normal tone of voice before it went softer. "We aren't you dolt. Like I would be able to right now anyways. I just want you to hold me. "
He smiled then, half in relief, the other half in sad disappointment, and yet contentment flooded his heart as he gathered her closely to him, inhaling the scent of her hair, feeling her heart beat against his chest.
They were still then, the pair holding each other as if they were born for it. They said nothing for a long time, right then, they knew, words were not necessary.