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Cordelia Chase had been on her knees for two days straight. Scrubbing the floors at the Hyperion wasn't normally her leisure activity of choice. But after she came back from her mystical coma, nothing besides a few breaks to help Angel with the baby could distract her from the war on demon grime.
They kept telling her that she didn't need to do it: "Go home, Cordelia. You've been through a lot, Cordelia. Get some rest, Cordelia." Of course, they were all concerned for her well-being; also, slightly freaked out by her new habits of random levitation, and glowing.
But she told them she had never felt better. And it was true – physically, at least. She didn't know exactly what was involved in becoming part demon, but wow. Not only were the headaches all gone; every centimeter of her body felt thoroughly, completely, electrically alive and. . .that had to be about the demon-thing. Right?
She could have gone home. She could get her mind around the idea of taking a day off to soak in the tub, get a little loofa action from Phantom Dennis. Then she could eat bon-bons, watch a Notting Hill - Lost Boys double feature and maybe look up some of those Shakespeare sonnets on the Internet. . . . but, no. She was going to stay right here. On her knees. She would prove to them that she didn't think, just because she could maybe levitate and glow, that she was too good to crawl around the hotel with an ugly-ass bandana on her head, in grubby sweatpants and cotton underwear with the elastic coming out. Besides, when she was dressed like that and had dirt under her fingernails, it was a lot harder to think about sex. And about Wesley. About creative, steaming hot, absolutely mind-blowing alternate dimension sex with Wesley.
Fortunately, Wesley wasn't around much. He left most of the scrubbing to her and Fred and Gunn. All right, he had been doing that anyway, before. He did have a talent for avoiding the dirty-fingernails kind of work, and they all kind of wanted to kick his ass over it. But now he seemed to have an excuse. When he came in the morning after her birthday, he went straight to his office and started on a pile of books. And then there were scrolls and artifacts and more books, and pacing and muttering. They all knew this was the way he acted when he was on to something. He walked by Gunn and Cordelia without seeming to see them. He didn't even turn his head when he passed Fred, all bent over in a tank top. Yeah, that had to be bad, Cordelia realized, and. . . God, when did he start wearing jeans to the office? When did he start looking that good in jeans? How long had she known Wesley, and when was the last time she really looked at him? Well – the last time before that? And, oh God, now that she knew what Wesley could do to her with one hand, did she even want to think about two of them?
She was doing her best not to look at him now. And then what? You'll work here without ever looking at your boss again? Maybe this office environment was getting a little uncomfortable. Maybe she should find another job. Good thinking, Cordy. Find another job, helping another ensouled vampire champion who needed a direct line to the Powers that Be. Except, oh yeah. You can't. This was where she was supposed to be. That was the point of Skip's whole It's a Craptastic Life mojo, wasn't it?
But she had always known her place was here, didn't need any vision to figure it out. Did the Powers have to screw with her head in the process? Her head and – well, other parts. Parts she had always thought were damn near invulnerable to that kind of thing. At least, in this dimension. So it turns out you have a heart, Cordelia Chase. And now it's messed with. Except the man who made the mess didn't even really do it; he doesn't even know. Cordelia had to do something about this. She had never been one to avoid confrontation. Except that right at this moment, she seemed to be avoiding. And avoiding, and avoiding.
Now Wesley – this reality's Wesley -- was one to avoid confrontation if there ever was such an animal. Except that now she was the one scrubbing the floor, and he was the one standing over her. She saw his scuffed shoes, and looked up at his loose jeans, and his – oh, that was a nice sweater, that went with his eyes and those glasses actually looked pretty good on him, but maybe if he went with contacts, it would draw more attention to that glowering brow, and. . . "Cordelia," he said. "We need to talk."
"What?" she stammered, looking at the floor again. "Here? Now? I'm scrubbing."
"Yes, you've been in quite the scrubbing zone. So much so that you don't seem to have noticed that everyone has gone for the evening."
"Everyone?" She stood up and brushed her hands against the truly hideous unicorn-print yoga pants that Harmony had left in her apartment a year ago; they fit funny and she had picked these out just for the dress-like-a-homeless-person occasion. Nope, she couldn't have felt less sexy. So why was Wesley looking at her like that? "Wow, then, look at the time?" She got to her feet hastily and went to the desk to start gather her things. Gathering her things, she said, " I guess I'd better be getting home, or Phantom Dennis gets really worried."
"Cordelia," Wesley said, "I need to talk to you in my capacity as a researcher. And as your boss."
That got her attention, because he pulled that card exactly never. Her resolve not to look at him gave way to instinct and she leveled a gaze at him. "'Scuse me?"
"Fine then," he sighed. "As your friend. I need you to tell me about what happened on your birthday. About your vision."
"That's all taken care of. I told you, we saved the girl."
"I don't mean that vision. I mean the dream-vision. While you were in coma, unless I'm very much mistaken, you saw a world that contained very different versions of Angel, Gunn, and me."
Cordelia stopped packing up, and dropped her bag on the desk. "How did you -?"
"Just please, come in my office and look at something."
As always, Wesley's desk was a showcase of methodical clutter. He had at least four different books open, but found the correct one right away, and pointed to a picture. As she bent down to look at it, he leaned close to her, and she stiffened. Wesley quickly backed away, and picked up a cup of tea in his left hand, but kept pointing at the book. "Is this the demon you saw?
I told you," said Cordy. "Skip. I thought you already identified him. Angel said he knew. . ."
"Angel knew Skip in a far different capacity, as a guard in the hell dimension where Billy Blim was held. You, on the other hand, seemed to have experienced a George Bailey Phenomenon."
"Whazza who?" she said. "Like Jimmy Stewart, 'Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls,' cheesy movie we watched at my place last Christmas?"
"Well, of course, the film is sentimental garbage. . . although it does represent a certain admirable if antiquated view of the power of the individual. . ."
"It's OK, Wesley. Everybody cries over Zuzu's petals, it wasn't just you."
"I told you, I had something in my eye."
"Sure you did. Also? We were all stoned." Cordelia found herself smiling in spite of herself. Well, why not? Why was she thinking about sex like it was this dire thing? People laughed and smiled around the people they were having sex with, all the time. It was supposed to be part of life. Not so much part of her life, so far, but why not? Was it so hard to think she could fall in love with a friend? Why the hell didn't she just tell him? "So what," she frowned. "Are you saying Skip is my guardian angel? Because I kind of already have one of those."
"Not an angel," Wesley scowled. "Maybe far from it, in fact. The film may be melodramatic tripe –"
"With petals."
"With petals," he conceded. "But it does reflect an observed mystical phenomenon. There are several recorded instances of individuals receiving visitations that purported to show how the world would appear if the individual's path had gone differently. Drawing on the subject's concerns, anxieties, and desires, the spirit guide would show what a vision of what the lives of their loved-ones would be without them."
"So did this start before or after the movie came out?"
He set down his tea, leaned back in his chair and gave her a superior smile. She used to want to slap that smile off of him, but now she could think of other ways to deal with it, and she sort of wished she couldn't. At least, not so vividly. She braced her hands against the wall and leaned back to steady herself, while he said, "Cordelia. I really don't think that the Powers that Be would turn to Hollywood for inspiration."
"That's because you've never met a Power who quoted The Matrix."
Wesley did that puzzled squinty thing that she had never realized was so adorable. "Skip saw The Matrix?"
"You don't want to know," Cordelia assured him, and then it hit her, something that nagged her in Wesley's speech. "Purport. You said the visions purport to show what their lives would be like. That means. . ."
"Allege. Claim. Assert. Contend."
"I know what the word means, Wesley. I'm just. . ." Reeling a little bit. "You're saying that what I saw wasn't an actual different reality. It was only. . ."
". . . based on a construct of your past experiences. Hopes and fears, desires and anxieties. Rather a bizarre marriage of nightmare and wish-fulfillment, hopelessly intertwined. Whatever version you saw of. . ." He hesitated. "Angel. It probably didn't even represent Angel. It might have stood for someone else entirely. You see, part of every person wants to believe that their loved ones could get on without them, and another part wants to believe that he or she is essential. That if she fell out of the world, everything would go to hell."
"So," she said, staring at Wesley, trying to connect what he was telling her to her memories – her false memories? -- of someone she had absolutely believed to be him. "It was all a lie?"
"More like an extremely vivid and convincing dream."
She shook her head slowly, trying to make sense of it. "Why?"
"Well," he looked down at his desk, and Cordelia groaned.
"That's not a good face, Wes. Just give it to me straight."
"As far as I can tell, the purpose of such manifestations is to convince the subject to agree to something that they would never under normal circumstances. . ."
"Like becoming part demon," Cordelia said slowly.
"According to all of my research, the kind of transformation you have experienced can only occur with the subject's consent. Clearly someone, whether it's the Powers or someone who wants you to think they represent the Powers, used this situation to manipulate you."
"Are you saying that I shouldn't have. . .that I should have died?"
"Of course I'm not saying that," he said, eyes widening in horror. "It's the last thing I would think. But we still need to understand why. . ."
". . .they didn't just say, become a demon or die? Because, seriously Wes, it probably would have worked. The pointless noble sacrifice is pretty much an English thing. I'm from Sunnydale."
"So that's the puzzle," Wesley agreed. "And it would help me enormously if we could discuss what you saw in the vision."
"No!" Cordelia said, reeling back. "No no no no no no no!"
Wesley sighed and lowered his head into his hand, ruffling his messy curls in the process. God, she could just touch that hair and. . . "You won't discuss it with me, you mean. Now, Cordelia, I have been accused of paranoia. But I have a theory. Do correct me if I'm wrong. You saw me in the vision, and I did things. . .or said things that disturbed you."
"Why would you think. . .? I told you, I saw all of you." She winced. "I mean, all three of you."
He looked at her oddly. "Yes, but your reactions to Angel and Gunn haven't changed. You've been avoiding my eyes for two days. Besides, it would fit the theme for the year. Due to circumstances entirely beyond his control, Wesley does ghastly things to women he cares for. In my defense, such is it, I will remind you that if I didn't actually try to kill you with an axe, you have points on Fred."
"That was a spell, Wesley," she said, watching the pain on his face, wanting to. . .well, never mind what she wanted to do. "Nobody blames you for that. I mean, hey . . . Angel tried to kill Buffy and all her friends when he was evil. And we still had to practically pry her off of him with a crowbar."
Jokes about Buffy and Angel could almost always be counted on to distract him, but now he just shook his head. "It wasn't the axe part. Well, all right that didn't help. But you weren't there. You don't know. I said things. And they didn't come out of the atmosphere. They were things that. . . at least, they weren't entirely different from things that have been in my mind. At various times." He shook his head. "You couldn't possibly understand."
"Let me take a shot," she said, thinking, didn't we have a conversation like this? In my so-called dream? "You said, I want you. I can't have you, you're a whore. Roxanne, Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight." He looked up at her in surprise, and she said, "Male jealousy, not exactly an original theme. And not just men, either. You should have heard some of the things I said about Xander Harris after I found him. . ."
Wesley held up a hand to stop her. "Actually, I did. Hear them. When we first met in Sunnydale, you were quite eloquent on the theme of Xander Harris's betrayals." He managed a real smile.
"So maybe I wasn't quite over him." She stepped closer to him, and leaned down across his desk. "You're a smart guy. There's a lot of books and plays and stuff in your brain. All that demented Renaissance strangle-your-impure-lover crap, to say nothing of those Best of the Police compilations you try to hide in your Mozart CD cases. Wesley, just because something happens to be in your brain doesn't mean it's something that you believe." He looked up at her, cautiously, like he had never really considered this before. Just like the other night in his bedroom – but it hadn't happened, right? It had been a subconscious construction thingummy. But it still felt so real, and, ike that night, she wanted to give him permission not to hate himself. "Fred doesn't blame you and you shouldn't blame yourself. You're wrong about that, and you're wrong about my vision too. I did meet you, but it wasn't bad. You were nice to me." She smiled. "You were sweet."
He let out a breath. "Oh, thank God. See?" He pointed at himself. "Paranoid. Thessalac was right."
"OK, Wes? You are officially the only man on earth who could get paranoid about being accused of paranoia by a paranoia demon."
"Do you think so?" he asked earnestly. Then he started laughing at himself, and Cordelia joined in until something he had said struck her.
"You care for me?" He looked up. "You just said you were forced to do bad things to women you cared for. Me and Fred."
"Well, of course! If anything were to happen to you. I mean, anything more than has already, anything with permanent consequences. I don't even know what Angel and I would do."
"But you don't care for me the way you care for Fred?"
"All right." He spread his hands. "I know what this is about."
"Oh," she said, "I really really doubt it."
"Yes." He stood and started pacing. "You're sick of hearing me go on about Fred, so from this point, I'll do something about it, or I'll shut up. You can stop harassing me now."
"Asking if you like me is harassment?"
"Well," he said, "When it comes from a woman who once told her ghost-in-residence that, and I quote, 'Hell will freeze over before I. . .'" He stopped and looked at her.
"Before I what?" she asked, honestly curious. "I don't remember."
"No, of course you don't," he sighed. "You wouldn't. Well, I'm not going to repeat it."
"But you used to care for me like that," Cordelia persisted. She perched on the side of his desk and started playing with a Tower of London paperweight. "In fact, you might once have thought of me as, I don't know, The sunshine in my days, my meteors at night. . .." Before she could get any further, he whirled around, folded his arms against the wall, and hid his face. "Tranquility in my play"
"Of," he corrected involuntarily, and mumbled into the wall, "Bloody hell, did I say that to you?" After a moment, he turned, and she nodded. Letting out a deep breath, Wesley said, "All things considered, I might have preferred the axe."
"Wesley," she said, tilting her head to smile at him, thinking all along It's true, it's true, it's true. She didn't know how it was possible, but it couldn't have been a dream. She couldn't have pulled that poem out of her own subconscious, so in some way that she couldn't begin to understand, the world she had visited was real. It had been him. "It's all right, Wesley."
"Yes," he started to nod, then looked up suddenly and said, "No! No, it is not all right. And do you know why? Because there is, somewhere in the tangle of the multiverse – I have this on very good authority – a world composed entirely of prawns."
It took a moment to process, and then she said, "Shrimp?" He nodded, then didn't seem inclined to go on, so she said, "Shrimp world is important because. . .?"
"Because if that universe can exist, then there must be some kind of dimension. Or alternate reality, or dream state or. . .or some place, in which, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. . ." He held up one finger, and counted off, "Is cool." Then a second, "And gets the girl."
Cordelia covered her mouth and started to shake with laughter.
"What?" he demanded, indignant for a moment, then bent over laughing himself. "I'm sorry," he managed to say. "I don't know what came over me."
She waved him toward her. "You come here." Scooting back on the desk, she took her feet off the floor. His brow was furrowed and his hair in the classic research rumple, shirt collar open. God he was adorable. Maybe not a bad-ass demon hunter. But hey, two arms. I can't do anything about the cool, she admitted to herself. But getting the girl, now. . .. After hours in the boss's office, on the desk, Cordelia Chase, you are a naughty girl, and she didn't mind the thought at all.
When he reached her, she put a hand on his left upper arm, feeling comfort in its solidness. "Admit it, Wes," she said. "You ever think about that poem in this reality?"
"Of course," he sighed. "What do you think? Every time I look at her."
"Her, Fred?" Cordy asked, thinking, Scrawny little titless space cadet freak. . .see, I was right. Jealousy's an instinct. And I'm not even possessed. "Why that poem which, if you forgive me, blows?"
"That it does," Wesley agreed. He stretched, pulled absently away from her hand, and sat on the desk beside her. "All the Shakespeare I've studied, the Keats and the Yeats and the German Romantics? The only thing that comes into my mind when I see her is that beastly little quatrain. Whether she's building something insane out of junk she found in the basement, or eating that ghastly Spanish food she likes, or scrubbing the bloody floor. It doesn't matter. It just takes a look and she makes me remember what it's like to be fourteen and head over heels with no bloody idea what to do about it."
And just like that, the air went out Cordelia's dream universe. It was hardly two days ago, in her own private time, that he had said almost the same words about her. "Didn't you ever feel that about anyone else?"
"Well, of course," he said. "I wrote the thing about the bloody headmaster's wife. . .Don't look at me like that, she was quite young and hot. But. . . not recently. Not for a long time, really."
"Not me?"
He let out a snort of laughter. "Well, Fred hasn't given me the 'Hell will freeze over first,' speech. Yet. Most likely just because I haven't given her the opportunity, but. . ."
"Wesley. . .why do you do that?" She patted his hand. "She'd have to be crazy not to want you. And. . ." She couldn't help adding. "Fred is almost entirely over that." But, she persisted, leaning closer to him. "You felt that way about me for a while."
"Yes," he said, standing up, looking her with eyes that couldn't conceive of this as anything but playful harassment.
Which, at this point, it pretty much was. But she had to ask him, "What changed? And don't say one bad kiss, I don't believe that. When we met me in L.A., you were ready to snog me all over again. So what happened?"
"I don't know," he said, studying her face. "I suppose I saw you every day."
Instinctively, she snapped, "You see Fred every day."
"It's not the same," he said. "And of course, I can't tell you why, but you know it's not. We figured out a long time ago that we wouldn't work, Cordelia. And I'm fine with it. Men and women need friends like that. Now," he sighed, walking back behind the desk. "Thanks to you telling me that bloody poem, I have to throw away two days worth of research and go back to the drawing board, to try to figure out where the hell you went for those hours." He picked up his tea again, smiled, and sat in the chair. "Go home, Cordy. You look dead on your feet."
"Can't I help you? With the research?"
He shook his head. "Later maybe, but I'm back to square one. And really, Fred might turn out to be the best one to consult, what with her expertise on supersymmetry and transdimensional space. Though on a personal level – I must admit that my curiosity, as well as my embarrassment, is intense. So," he smiled. "Is there anything else about me. . .in this altered reality. I mean, anything I want to know."
"Well," she said. "You were missing an arm." He looked down to the right, and she said, "The other."
"And. . .?" he prompted, reaching for his tea.
She waited until his mouth was good and full. "Also? I think you might have been sleeping with Lilah Morgan."
Once he had managed to wipe up most of the tea off of his shirtfront, he gasped, "Now I know you're talking about an impossible reality."
It wasn't entirely a joke, though, when she asked, "You're not, are you?"
"Sleeping with Lilah? I truly believe the shrimp dimension is more plausible."
"Good," she said. "Because she was mean to you. And if I had stuck around in that world any longer? I might just have had to kick her ass."
"I must say." Wesley tried to bite back a smile, but lost the battle. "There are quite a few men who would pay for the privilege of watching that." He paused and added, "Lesbians too."*
"You have a dirty streak hiding in there, buddy. You try to hide it, but I know." She picked up her keys, but stopped at the door and turned. She looked at him and thought, Me, it's me. I'm the one. Cordelia Chase, only finds love in an alternate universe. And then, she thought, Wow. That would make a hell of a movie.. "I don't suppose you have the urge," she said, "to watch a double feature of Notting Hill and The Lost Boys?"
The distaste on his face was instant and unmistakable. "I think I'd sooner have the urge to cut off my foot, take it down to Santa Monica pier, and go fishing for sharks. But thank you for the offer." He nodded at his desk. "I need to hit the books."
Cordelia smiled. "Some things never change." Then instead of walking out, she went to him, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. The heat rose in his skin, and she said. "Don't you ever." Then she walked to the door, turned, and said. "Change, I mean. Promise me you'll always be Wesley."
"Yes, Cordelia," he smiled, glasses in place, hand holding the pages of a book. "I think I can almost just manage that."